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A Legacy in Blood - Printable Version

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RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 04-17-2014

A Moment’s Respite





Roen sat at the edge of the cliff, her eyes looking out to the water. It shimmered under the night sky, the moon’s reflection a dancing white pool in the rippling dark sea. Her grey eyes followed a distant shooting star that streaked the dark canvas above, and as she watched it fade into the distance, she could not help but remember the last time she watched a shooting star. It was when she was ten, over the skies of Garlemald. She had managed to get herself onto the roof of her home -- after much coaxing since she was not fond of great heights -- and had spotted one: a streak of silver across the eastern sky. How beautiful she thought the sky was then. And it was under those stars that she declared that her path would be to knighthood.

How naive had she been? Striving for knighthood within the Empire meant she would do all she could to protect the citizens of Garlemald, and through that, the world, for the Empire sought to protect the world in its ever-expanding embrace. 

But her ideals and patriotism were shattered like the lesser moon Dalamud that descended from another dark sky, its angry fire seeming to burn the heavens themselves. When she ran away from Carteneau that day, she also ran away from her beliefs, and all that she held dear. She lost her home and her beliefs.

But when this day dawned, Roen had been prepared to go back. She was meeting with a Garlean agent who was to arrange for her transport back to the Empire in exchange for the safe return of Brenden Deneith. 

It did not go as intended. The members of the Ala Mhigan Resistance somehow learned of the Garlean spy within Thalanan and had interrupted their meeting. The man she had come with had come prepared, however, and had made his escape.

Roen had not. She was knocked unconscious, and when she had come to, she was greeted with pains and aches... and a familiar voice. 

Gharen, her Master in Arms loomed over her. The face that she was often most eager to see was the one she least wanted to gaze upon now. But before she could explain why she was there, other members of the Resistance demanded to interrogate her. Gharen refused to turn her over. A fight ensued, despite her best efforts to stop them from doing so. After all, he knew nothing about her adoptive father being kidnapped, nor her intention to trade herself for his release. She did not want him turning against those he had allied himself with because of her mistake.

But when the fight came to an end and tempers calmed, they finally listened to her -- even the young Highlander girl who had been brought to unconsciousness by the hand of Master Gharen. The girl, Daena, woke up furious, but held her tongue long enough to hear Roen’s plea for her father. Roen learned that the girl's father was Ruva Ghurn, the man who had fallen from the bridge at Nanawa Mines. Roen also learned that while the Resistance was ambushing the Garlean agent she was meeting with, an assassin had come and killed Ruva Ghurn at Lost Hope.

The members of the Resistance who were there -- Hroch, Shaelen and Daena -- all remained suspicious of her, but… when she explained the events, and with Gharen Wolfsong’s support, they seemed to believe her story. And they agreed to help her rescue her father, who they guessed from the location he went missing that he may be in the Castrum in Western Thalanan. Daena even extended her hand to Roen at the end, and offered to help rescue him, in exchange for Roen’s help in whatever the Resistance needed. Desperate to help her father, Roen agreed.

And now Roen sat by the cliffs on the Northern end of the Black Shroud, looking out to the sea, while her Master at Arms worked behind her to set up camp. He had brought her to one of his remote campsites to stay under the Garlean’s notice while the woman named Shaelen worked to obtain schematics and plans to Castrum Marinum. Since the exchange never happened, Roen was still a wanted woman by them. Perhaps by staying hidden, she could buy some time for Brenden Deneith, if they thought she was captured as well by the Resistance. Unless they assumed that the ambush was a planned treachery on her part…

Roen lowered her head over her arms and rested against bent knees, finding the crushing weight of worry and dread for Brenden Deneith too heavy to bear. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out all of the events that had happened. Just yesterday she was standing in the ravine in Western Thalanan with Natalie...

“What are ye thinkin’ lass?” Gharen broke the silence that had fallen.

Roen glanced up behind her to her Master at Arms who had come to stand just behind her. A campfire was crackling behind them. She sighed. “I … passed.” She looked up at him wistfully. “I passed the Trials.”

“For?” He arched a brow.

“Sultansworn. I passed all the Trials. Yesterday was the last one.” She looked out to the dark sea forlornly. “I suppose that does not matter now.”

"Why? Ye think they would nae accept ye?" He settled to a seat next to her.

Roen blinked, looking at him. “Not after they learn where I was born.”

"Who say's they're te know.” He shrugged. “An' worse case if'n they dinnae accept ye, tha' such a bad thing? Tis a title. An' one tha' binds ye at tha'."

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then gazed back out to the water. "I will gladly give up any title if it meant saving my family." She nodded to herself . "I still have my Oath. I can still serve."

"Good, ye'd be a poor Sultansworn otherwise. 'Sides, no harm in bein' a lowly free paladin." Roen could hear a hint of sarcasm. "Able te serve all people rather than jus' those o' Ul'dah."

Roen paused and looked back at him. “You are a free paladin.” He was the one who taught her some of her skills after all.

“Aye. As part o' my training as a weaponsmaster, I follow tha' path." He nodded. “I think ye’d make a fine Sultansworn. But th' title carries with it many things, an oath tha' binds ye te th' word o' th' Sultana's fer one.”

She sighed and rested her head on her arms again. “I will be lucky if I do not end up in the gaols. But after tonight, my future is the furthest thing from my mind, Master Gharen. Safety of those I care for takes priority. It is the reason I wanted to be Sultansworn in the first place.” She frowned, growing more sullen. “But instead I brought danger to their doorstep. Perhaps starting anew, was never meant to be. Perhaps you cannot run from your past.”

"Oh come on now. Tis nae so bad. We'll wrestle yer da out from under them soon enough. An ye don' need some fancy title like Sultansworn te do tha'."

Roen blinked, looking back at her mentor, some of her darkness fading. "If you say we will, then I will believe in that. He saved my life. I will do the same."

He grinned back at her, lightening the mood. "Good. Sides how many o' th' stuffed n' shiny armor wearing folks in there can say they raided a Castrum an’ walked away? T'will be fine."

Roen’s lip twitched, suppressing a smile. "Aye." She nodded, as if to herself.

"Alrigh' then. We best get yer sword and armor ready.” He stood, extending her a hand. “Cannae send ye in there jus' armed with harsh language."

Roen blinked again, accepting his hand in getting to her feet. “I… would wield that poorly, I imagine.”

She could see amused lines appearing around the corner of his eyes as the fire crackled beside them. "Aye, t'would be entertain'n te behold I bet."

Roen almost chuckled. After a pause, she met his eyes squarely. “Thank you,” she murmured, for all the things she could not say.

He regarded her thoughtfully. "I can understan' why ye dinnae say anythin' but I really wish ye had told me." When she furrowed her brows in shame, he gave her a look of reassurance. “Jus, no more surprises fer th' time bein' okay?”

Roen nodded, lowering her gaze. They walked back to the campfire, and as he readied the tents, she attended to her armor and sword that she had retrieved from Ul’dah. She laid the cobalt winglet across her lap as she held the whetstone in her hand, and studied the reflection of the fire against the finely crafted sword. “This is a fine blade, Master Gharen. I thank you.”

"Yer welcome lass. If anythin' ye deserve it." Gharen looked over his shoulder as he propped up a canvas of tanned leather for shelter.

“I did nothing to deserve it.” She shook her head. “I only seem to bring trouble to those I care for.”

"...Ye worry too much lass. Ye know tha?"

Roen blinked. “Do I?”

Gharen continued to set up the tent, hammering spikes into the ground to anchor some ropes. “Aye. There are some things ye cannae do anythin' about. Where yer born is one o' those things, what matters is what ye decide te make o' it and what ye do with yer life.”

She pondered that for a moment. “And what do you want to do with your life, Master Gharen?” she asked, paused in her task, watching him.

"Used te be simple.” He shrugged. “Get by day te day, an' become a greater Ala Mhigan weaponsmaster than my Guardian claimed te be." He tugged on the rope to test the tension, the tanned leather canvas held aloft above their heads. He turned back to her. "Now? Tha's nae quite so important. Bein' a good an decent individual's th' goal."

A smile rose to her lips. “That is a worthy goal.” She began to work the whetstone against the blade, sharpening the edges.

"Strivin' fer tha, was my trainin' te become a paladin. Nae always easy, but bein' decent an' good te others certainly helps." He tied the last corner of the canvas, the rope winding around a trunk of a thick tree.

"But other than the ways of a shield and sword, being a paladin is..." She paused. "It is a path. And not an easy one. I am still struggling with it.”

"Aye, one ye ultimately decide te walk on yer own. Was nae easy, if'n tha's what ye think.” Gharen sat down next to her and reached into a pouch to pull out a light blue soul stone. “When I received this, I had nae prayed te th' twelve in many cycles. Afterwards? I cannae count how many times or how many rivers I almost threw this inte."

Roen blinked. “It was given to you?”

Gharen continued to study the small stone in his hand, rubbing his thumb over it. He was quiet for a moment before speaking. “Before we’d  met, a friend o’ mine had gotten ill, and I left lookin’ fer a cure in Coerthas. I was wounded after fightin’ a pack o’ wolves one night and was stranded in a cave by a blizzard. I thought I was goin’ to die there, so in th’ dirt o’ the cavern floor, I made symbols of Halone and Azyema and said a prayer fer my friend.” He glanced to the campfire, where the flames were dancing against the wind.

“I passed out after tha’ and sometime later I woke te find a fire started an’ my wound mended. A man was there, he asked me who I’d prayed for, an I told him. Cannae recall much else… but I passed back out soon enough. When I came to, he was gone an’ had left this behind.” He held out the stone as if to show her.

Roen blinked, staring at him then the stone. “He was a paladin then.”

"Mayhaps, although there be no sign o’ him the day after. Fer a time I wondered if'n I was crazy an dreamed it all.” He let out a chuckle. "It took a lot o' lookin' inside myself an more'n a few visits te th' Sanctum o' th' Twelve to find th’ path. But in order te walk the path o’ th’ Dragoon and th’ Paladin, I needed to find th’ acceptable balance. ” He tucked the stone away. "It has nae been... easy te say th' least."

“I see…” she pondered. “If anyone has the will and strength to find peace and balance, I would trust that would be you, Master Gharen."

"Well, I thank ye lass.” He glanced up at the drumming of heavy raindrops against the leather shelter above them. “Places like this help… when o' course it's nae droppin' a torrent o' rain upon ye."

And as he predicted, the raindrops quickly turned into a stormy downpour, the stars having escaped behind thick black clouds. Roen closed her eyes and breathed in the wet air, listening to the rainfall. She always could take some measure of comfort in the rain, heavier the better.

“I like the rain,” she said quietly. “It reminds me of her.”

“O’ who?”

“My mother,” Roen stared out into the rainstorm. “She smelled of lavender, and sung me lullabies when it rained.” A wistful sigh escaped her lips. “Not all Garleans are monsters,” she added, and looked back at her mentor.

His gaze upon her was warm. "Course, if'n I thought that I'd nae have started a fight back in th' cave. Problem is perception.”

“Aye.” Roen nodded, and offered him a meek smile."I did not want to cause trouble for you. I am glad they listened. Eventually.”

"Tis fine. Though I'd prefer next time I'm tryin' te defend ye," he grinned. “Don' turn yourself over."

Roen frowned ruefully. “I thought that would stop them from attacking you.” She rubbed at the side of her head where that ache had returned with the cold.

Gharen narrowed his eyes, then stood, setting out a bedroll near the fire. “Ye’d best try and get some sleep lass. That’s goin’ te be a hell of a knot when ye awake.” He then crouched by the campfire to stoke the flames. “Go on, sleep. We got a big day ahead o’ us tomorrow.”

Roen set her sword aside and curled into the bedroll set out her for. Her eyelids were growing heavy as soon as she laid her head upon the ground. She had not realized how exhausted she was.

“Sleep well, lass,” she heard him say, as sleep took her.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 05-18-2014

(( With thanks and some apology to the lovely Xydane Vale. <3 ))

Hroch expected little enough of his expedition. He set off from their hideout in Lost Hope with the intention of combing Ul'dah one more time for any sign of the prodigal Aylard Greyarm but his mood was grim and his prospects sour. As the suns came and went (the number of which he stopped counting if only to soften that particular anguish) he came to understand just how far out of his depth he was. Aylard was a wise man and an excellent teacher but it was often said that he was too soft on his boy, the boy who should have been the man to take control and lead their group to better times.

He was lost and without direction and it showed. The looks Shaelen gave him were sharp and he could almost taste the disappointment every time they met, for he was his father's son by blood and nothing more. Brynnalia seemed even less impressed and there were times when he worried Daena felt the same as well though she was always kind despite her father's obvious disapproval.

Hroch shook his head as to clear his thoughts. His footsteps were slow and measured as he marched the road south out of Black Brush. He had his goals and his hopes to heart and one way or another he intended to deliver upon them. As long as his people were to stay in Thanalan, he would have to do what he could else risk more harm upon those who would trust in him.

The road dipped low into a dusty basin where a tavern of some sort had been built into the foot of a crag. He and his father both had passed this location many times before in their walks between Ul'dah and wherever location they were needed, but today it was noisy and raucous. A crowd was parked out on the porch of it, many sporting drinks and some even foodstuffs, and people in red uniforms were greeting anyone and everyone who would approach the doors. It did not strike Hroch as some place his father would stay for the crowd was much too thick but as he strode past he could only remind himself that he had next to nothing left to go on.

A pretty miqo'te woman welcomed him as his boot steps brought him through the door. The tavern was crawling with all manner of people, all races mingling over mugs of drink and loud chatter. The setting immediately set Hroch on edge, having not the stomach for crowds. Carefully he edged his way towards the bar, scuttling between free-floating pairs and groups of strangers that hovered in any and all of the open spaces between the occupied tables. The bar itself was a little less crowded: a blue-haired elezen woman at the far end looked about with boredom in her eyes, and a black-haired hyur man watched the crowd with a mug in his hands. As Hroch approached he quickly noted that the hyur's attention shifted square to him. 

"Would you care for a drink, sir?" An elezen in red piped up from behind the bar, bowing politely to the highlander who had settled in before her. Her attire was like that of the miqo'te at the door and of several others who were milling about the crowd. 

Not wanting to seem rude, Hroch flashed to her a faint smile. It gave him reason to ignore the hyur man who was still staring, besides, his silver eyes sharp even in Hroch's peripheral vision. "Uh, sure. What do you recommend?"

"We've a fine chamomile tea, perfect for soothing frayed nerves," chirped the elezen helpfully. Her smile was professional and courteous but it could not be said whether or not there a hint of amusement there as well.

Hroch could feel his cheeks reddening slightly. Was it that obvious...? "Tea? Well... Yeah, that'd be good. I'll have one of those, then, if that's okay."

"Certainly, sir. Pray give me a moment, please."

Hroch nodded and snuck a glance down the bar. The other hyur was still staring and so caught him looking his way. There was something about the man that struck Hroch as odd but, given only brief glances, he could not pinpoint what. That feeling only grew more potent when the man raised a hand and gestured for him to come nearer, to take some space at the counter beside him. "There aren't any tables," he said over the din of the tavern. "You can come stand over here if you like."

A quiet clunk on the counter in front of him drew Hroch's attention away. A fine and earthy smell touched his nose even before he realized that there was a stout mug of gently steaming tea set before him with a beaming elezen behind it. "Here you are, sir. Please enjoy and have a lovely evening." As Hroch nodded his thanks to her she favored him with a friendly wink and turned her attention to the next attendant shuffling up to the bar.

He noted the dark haired hyur was still looking him expectantly. There was nothing malicious in his eyes, at least insofar as Hroch could tell: it was his father who was better judge of character, able to sniff out suspicions and doubts with the best of them. Hroch's wary gaze lingered before he finally opted to scoot over, dragging his tea along with him until he had come to the stranger's side. "Dunno how I never noticed this before," he started, picking up some small talk to give him some time to size the man up. "Seems kinda... nice, though, doesn't it?"

He was a midlander, this other man, built more compactly than he but still bearing an air of someone who knew his way about a fight. He leaned over the bar like a man well familiar with the surroundings, or at least more than confident enough to be comfortable in them. A sword was sheathed at his hip and though he wore a simple woven tunic, below the counter he could make out the dull sheen of armored greaves. In his hand was a mug of something that smelled sweet, and he sipped at it before responding to his new company. "The drinks are free under the tavern's owner, Quarimar Baenund. It's his generosity."

"Can't be cheap being generous to all these people." As if to illustrate his point, Hroch glance around again to a crowd that only seemed to be growing. "Seems like it's a rare thing these days..."

"He offers sanctuary for weary travellers," replied the stranger. "You look like someone who has... gone a few steps yourself."

Hroch eyed him a moment while he took a sip of his tea. "I guess I have. Not so much as others, though. It hasn't been..." He paused as if to search for words, cautious as to just how much he should say to an suspicious unknown in a crowd of unknowns. "Well, I guess it hasn't been good for any of us really."

The stranger kept himself turned to face the bar while he nursed his drink, silvered eyes studying Hroch sidelong. The feeling of being inspected as such made the hairs at the back of his neck stand. "You have a look of concern on  you," the midlander said at length. "What's your name?"

"I'm... name's Hroch."

"Hroch? Heh. Good name." The last of his beverage downed, the midlander then turned to face Hroch fully, making it even more obvious that he was studying the larger man to every minute detail he could see. He couldn't see himself, of course, but his eyes were darkened with sleep or stress or possibly even both, and though he kept his clothing in decent shape he wore them uncomfortably, as though the cloth were constantly itching against his skin.

Absently, Hroch spun his mug between his fingers while he turned his head to peer elsewhere in the tavern. Near the center of the room a bard seemed to be setting himself up for a performance and there was a steady stream of faces coming and going through the swinging doors. "Ya think so...? I like it. But I guess it isn't very common, uh, 'round these parts."

"I know it isn't." A quick smile touched on the hyur's thin lips. "You looking for someone?"

"Aye, sort of. Uh, was gonna have another look around Ul'dah again but... then I saw all the people here. Thought maybe he might have..." Hroch frowned to himself, trailing off his words. He would find himself looking to the other in surprise when next he spoke.

"I'm Xydane, by the way. You're new to this place aren't you?" It was a question gently asked, one which seemed to amuse the shorter man. "I could tell you were lost the moment you walked inside this building."

It unnerved Hroch, the casual way to which it was asked and ease with which his manner was being picked apart. Warily he grinned at his companion, thankful at least that he could hide his expression behind a quick sip of tea. "Is... is it that obvious?"

"Only to some." Again, Xydane grinned. "Relax, man, I'm not going to do you any harm. Ease up a bit and enjoy that drink." He inclined his head towards the mug which Hroch had stopped spinning and, unconsciously, started squeezing.

"S-sorry. Just... things haven't been so good is all." That was an understatement if there ever was one: bit by bit, their group was being weathered down and before too long he worried there would be little enough left to save. He muttered after another gulp, "I'm sure you're a decent fella."

"You need help with anything? Perhaps I can help you look for... whoever it is that you're searching for?"

Hroch balked at that, his suspicions sharpening. It may very well have been the case that Xydane was indeed being friendly and offering genuine aid, but he almost seemed over-eager. "Sorry, friend. I can't really be... It's something I gotta do myself, you know what I mean?"

Xydane easily picked up on his suspicions, just as he had easily picked up on his nerves. "Listen. Your business and your story are none of my concern. There is, however, nothing wrong with seeking help every so often."

"I know, I know. It's just that... I can't help but wonder if that's what might have got us in trouble in the first place?"

"You looked lost and I am merely lending out a hand. If you don't take it, it's all on you and you can keep looking lost and confused." Xydane shrugged and tilted his head towards the young highlander. "If you take it, however, you may not be in the situation you're finding yourself in. All on you."

Hroch took one last gulp from his still-warm mug and set it down with a heavy sigh. The elezen that was attending the bar gave him a questioning glance but he shook his head at her. "I know it's all on me. I know that," he said, failing to hide the frustration in his voice. "I just don't know what to do about it. I got nothin' to go on."

It was several moments before Xydane spoke again. He was watching Hroch closely, studying the emotions shifting across his face. "Listen... If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. Like I said, it's none of my business. If there's something on your mind, just know that there are some people in this world who have been in your same shoes. And sometimes, we all just need the right people to point us in the right direction."

Hroch's jaw set as he listened and considered the midlander's words, his advice. It occured to him then that he couldn't have been much younger than Xydane: the man was a little more weathered about his face but he was obviously still young. At length he turned to face Xydane and spoke in hushed tones. "... I got... people missing. People hurt. Spirits are broken, an' it's up to me to fix it somehow. What do you think I should do...?"

The desperation in the highlander's voice was plain, especially to Xydane. A slow sigh heaved its way out of his nostrils and briefly he closed his eyes, pondering. "Know that it's sometimes a problem one person can't fix. There is nothing wrong with seeking aid especially when you aren't equipped with the exact tools and mindset for confrontation. Stay calm and remember every single detail about where you were and whom you've met. Think to yourself how a person, place or thing can relate to a situation. It's a puzzle and your job is to fit the pieces together. Retrace your steps but do not tire yourself out when doing so. Take a moment to breathe and slowly assess your situation."

"Problem is... I didn't get to meetin' everyone. And I can't find his contacts. He didn't keep them written down anywhere. Old man had a me--" Hroch frowned as he quickly corrected himself. "Has... a memory like a hawk."

Steel-colored eyes fixed themselves back on Hroch. "This... 'old man'. Is he your relative?"

Hroch paused once more. It's a big risk he was taking, babbling on like that to a stranger who could very well have been working for the wrong sort of people. There are people asking questions, Aylard told them once. Asking after father and son. He had little else to go on. "Aye... Aye, he is. My da... been missing for many a sun now."

"A soldier assess every single scenario possible. You have to think of all ends. Perhaps he was injured on a trip? Maybe he has lost his way? Perhaps he was kidnapped?" Xydane spoke calmly even as he broached on the thought no one wished to entertain, casually brushing a hand back through his hair. "We are in Thanalan after all and kidnapping for ransom isn't uncommon here. Trust me when I say I know."

"He's old but he's tough. If he was injured... no he would have found his way back to us by now. And no way he'd let himself get lost, not with everything on the line... Aye. It's a dangerous place around here. We found that out quick."

Xydane's expression grew intense as he peered at him."Lost for a couple of days without anyone knowing where he went. Think carefully about that."

On the other end of that gaze, Hroch struggled not to falter. The notion had crossed several of their minds many time before but no one wanted to speak too heavily upon, as if doing so might make it even more true. Yet what signs they could discern all seemed to be pointing at that terrifying conclusion. He thought of a room that looked as if it had been abandoned; a whetstone and an unmade bed. "... I don't wanna believe it. I really don't."

"In life, you meet the wrong people and sometimes... you meet the right people. Hroch, you've just met the right person. One of the things I do for a living is that I search for the missing." He was not boasting but there was still pride in his voice. The sword made a little more sense then, for the man was plainly not an everyday citizen. "Just know that you can't do everything by yourself. It takes a man to finish a job but it takes a bigger man to ask for aid. Don't be ashamed. I've been down your path a long time ago."

"Now," he continued, reaching into a pouch on his belt to retrieve a gil piece which he then left atop the counter. "We can either stand here and talk about it or we can do something about it. When it comes to the missing, time is everything."

His gaze turned to Hroch, fiercely determined, and Hroch could not help but feel his own spirit lift. There was no doubt that he was still taking an enormous risk bringing an outsider into their affairs: the man was without a doubt not of Ala Mhigo, but he got the distinct impression that that was not an issue. His words felt genuine and the quiet fire in his voice was, in a way, comforting. Just briefly, the man called Xydane reminded him of his father.

"Alright," Hroch conceded at last. Sometimes, we all just need the right people to point us in the right direction. He turned away from the counter and cast one last look around at the patrons in the tavern. It did not surprise him that the greyed, rough face of his father was not among them. Hroch expected little enough of this expedition but a new ally was as good a lead as he could have hoped for. "Alright. Do you think we might... talk somewhere a little less...?"

Xydane's grin came easily, as open as though they had been friends for years. He raised a hand to wave his goodbyes to the bartender and some of the other red-garbed figures in the crowd, all of whom seemed delighted enough to bow and nod his way in return. "As you wish, my friend. Now, lead the way!"

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 05-18-2014

(( With apologies and love to the even more lovely Daena Ghurn. <3 ))


Suns later.

This is all wrong. It was Aylard's voice in his head grumbling low like gravel on gravel, disembodied and all the more disappointed for it. Hroch could almost see the weathered old man standing there beside them with his face set into a stony scowl. Look at it, boy. Look at it. Where's the song? Where's the drink? 'Tis a man fought proud all his life. Where's the fire to send him home?

Gharen and the Garlean took off for the night despite Hroch's protests. Though it took some talking, even Hroch began to understand Wolfsong's concerns: he had actually dared attack Wolfsong for protecting the woman, after all. He hardly remembered it but the bruises and scrapes were there from when he was tossed around the cave like the fool he was and Daena had actually been rendered unconscious thanks to Gharen's choke hold. There was no chance he nor Daena could have taken on a warrior like Gharen Wolfsong yet they tried anyway. Ruva had lain murdered after they'd gone to catch the Garlean and they were left seeing red.

In the end, it changed nothing. Gharen got his way, the Garlean (Roen as she was called) was left uncut, Xydane offered his condolences before leaving to sniff out possibilities, and Shaelen eventually stormed off hunt down maps and schematics. Hroch and Daena were alone in their cave hidden at the back of a place known to be called Lost Hope and so the task of grieving fell to them.

The pyre was small and clumsily built. Both of the youths had seen their fair share but those were built by men and women who had seen and built hundred more. Every body they wrapped and mounted upon the flames made the motions all the more familiar. They were not children by age but by inexperience, for the lives spent fighting for the Resistance were measured not with years but with the number of friends they had laid to rest.

Daena wept in silence when she wept at all, angry lines that came down her cheeks in waves she seemed desperate to ignore. Hroch stood by her side while the flames eventually licked up and embraced the body offered to it. It occurred to him at one point that there were songs to be sung but he did not know Ruva, and he did not know how to sing besides. Now and again he noticed Daena's lips moving but she was ever silent and he assumed she did not know, either. He did not think to ask and eventually decided that she might not hear him even if he did.

So Hroch Greyarm stood at her side and watched the fabric char and crumble, watched the body of his father's most trusted friend turn to ash. And even as the moon ran its course arcing through the stars overhead, Hroch waited and watched. She stood as the warrior she was groomed to be, proud and defiant against sorrow and weariness. Strong and beautiful and perfect, a true daughter of Ala Mhigo.

After the scuffle had died down and everyone had come to their senses, Roen was given an opportunity to explain herself. She did not deny being a Garlean nor plotting with a Garlean but it was not as they had thought. Wolfsong was right all along: the woman was, in her own way, a victim though Hroch would never admit to such aloud. In the end it all boiled down to family and while his father was missing and Daena's was dead, hers was being held like an animal in the nearby Castrum. Just as she had unwittingly ruined their plans to retrieve the ceruleum, they had interrupted negotiations to see her father freed safely and if they did not act it could very well cost an innocent man his life.

The thought of infiltrating a Castrum did not sit well with Hroch. There were too many things that could go wrong with the handful of them marching into a Garlean stronghold and that was assuming it was not a trap to begin with. The woman spoke earnestly and there was great sorrow and desperation in voice and eyes alike; Wolfsong was quick to vouch for her and guarded her fiercely, and for that there must have been a reason. Yet Daena, for all the rage she held towards the woman, came to offer her help as well. A consensus was made even if Hroch did not approve; the Resistance would take on Castrum Marinum and, if the Gods were willing, save Brenden Deneith's life.

The sun was already high when Hroch bothered to look and Daena was still standing still as stone. He was not certain if he had slept on his feet through what had remained of the night but they ached; the whole of him ached in a way he had not felt since the night his mother was put to the fire. The flame had gone out at some point and left behind a broad mound of ash still gently smoking beneath the Thanalan sun.

"We should go," he said eventually. The words did little enough to please her, of course, for she still stared long and hard at the shape that was once her father. The lines in her arms tensed and her fists balled into fists but, after a time, she nodded.

"Aye," croaked Daena Ghurn, only daughter of Ruva. "Aye, we should."

==================================

The others were waiting for them in Vesper Bay, chatting up strategy and schemes. The Castrum would not be easy to approach, much less break in to. Wolfsong had managed to procure disguises for himself and Roen but the rest of the would have to keep back, follow along when the path was cleared. Xydane had been tasked in taking up the rear for while Hroch and Daena were capable in their own ways, they could likely not stand for long against Garlean weaponry. Even from below the cliffside that coiled up into Garlean territory, they could hear the hum and grind of magitek machinations stomping about the grounds.

Not to mention the sounds of combat. Disguised as they were, there was little hope that Gharen nor Roen could make it very far without someone being alerted to their presence. He huddled beneath the stone overhang, listening to the clang of swords and the strangled cries of men being cut. Daena fidgeted beside him, seeming a little more energetic than before. He could not imagine she had allowed herself any rest throughout the night but he was, after all, a child of Ruva: with the task at hand she would never allow herself to appear weak nor weary. She paced, flinging the occasional glance up to where Xydane was awaiting the signal to proceed.

At least, that was what she had been doing up until she sighed in frustration and stepped up beside Hroch. He did a double take when she looked his way, startled by the odd intensity in her eyes. They had been friends since the first time they met on that sunny day weeks ago, beating down slimy orobon in the river to the tune of Ruva's barking and howling. More often than not that barking had been directed at Hroch, ever paranoid that the older boy would make a move on his firey-haired daughter despite his obvious apprehension.

He could hear him then, that hoarse bear growl of a voice: Sixteen summers, ya shirtless dog! Iff'n ye so much as think to put yer worthless mitts on her, Rhalgr save ye, I'll have 'em stuffed 'n mounted fer all t'see!

It was not Ruva who was speaking, however. Daena was still staring at him strangely, her brows knit tight as if in concentration. She was not looking at his eyes though, no; she was looking at his lips, at his mouth that was slowly growing agape at the growing panic in his heart.

"Iff'n this ends up bein' the last thing we do," she was muttering. "C'mere, you."

They did not hear Xydane calling for them from above.

Show Content


RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 05-21-2014

Castrum.

It was the most impressive thing she had ever seen.

The dark metallic walls rose up before her, towering into the sky, its smooth surface seeming infallible and unassailable. Uniformed guards stood at every entryway, though many of them gave the little girl of ten years no mind as she walked past them, her grey eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

Or perhaps it was her taller companion she was following that invited their gaze instead. Fenn's stride was long and confident; the pale-haired hyur youth did not pause for any guard, and the flash of his keycard got him through any door he wanted. Roen had to quicken her pace to keep up, but she often found her head turned, gawking at whatever presented itself when she rounded a new corner. Some magitek creations seemed to even look at her way as she passed, glowing eye watchful.

"What do you think, Roen? Beautiful, aren't they?" she heard Fenn say too late. She crashed into him before she could see that he had stopped to wait for her. She would have bounced right off of him onto the floor if it wasn't for his hands on her shoulders to steady her. She peered sheepishly up into his light blue eyes. He smiled at her.

"The technology behind them is more intricate than you can imagine just by looking at them," Fenn said as he approached one of the dark machines, Roen following tentatively behind. When she came to stand by him, he took her hand and laid it flat against the dark metal surface, lightly pressing down with the weight of his own. "Feel that pulsing hum?"

Roen blinked as she watched a web of faint light appear beneath her fingertips as if to respond to her touch. "Is it alive?"

The pale-haired youth let out a laugh, full of mirth and amusement. "Well, no. It isn't. But it is sophisticated enough to fool you sometimes." His hand left hers to open a small panel on the side, displaying an array of controls within. "You just have to know how to tell it what you want. Magitek is powerful, and it can be can be very dangerous in the hands of someone who knows what it is capable of.”

He took her hand again, guiding her to a nearest terminal. His use of the keyboard was quick and efficient, and within a few clicks the monitor displayed the schematics of the floor they were on. Fenn tapped his finger against the screen. "We are here, and..." he clicked on the keyboard again. And a blinking light appeared on the other side of the screen. "And there is Ferah."

Roen squinted at the blinking light. Ferah was Fenn’s serious older sister, but she never had any mean words for her. "And Sera? She is with Ferah?" She knew Fenn’s younger sister was usually not far from her siblings. Sera was Roen’s age, and was often prone to fits of temper or dark moods. Roen always thought something made her unhappy, much like her own father, and Roen often took it as a silent dare to try and find something to bring cheer to the fickle girl. When Fenn gave Roen a knowing look as an answer, she smiled and studied the floorplan, anticipating what he was going to say next. He always did love games.

Fenn grinned back at her. "Let's see who can get to them first." He clicked the terminal once more, turning off the monitor. He turned to her, giving her his keycard, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You can use my keycard, and take any route you want, but you can't be seen by the guards. If you are not with me, they will likely question you.”

Roen took his keycard with wide eyes, she did not have one of her own, despite the fact that she knew her father to be a very important man in this building. He had never seen it fit to bring her to a Castrum, nor allow her any access to where he spent the most of his days. It was Fenn who had brought her here on a whim, declaring that day he was going to give her an impromptu tour of one of the proud paragons of the Empire. She closed her small hands around the keycard, holding it carefully as not to lose it.

"And you? You do not need a keycard?" She peered up back at Fenn.

He winked back at her, confidence clear in his gleaming smile. "I will have to maneuver without. That's my challenge." He nodded to her. “Are you ready to play, Roen?”

Roen grinned wide at him and nodded.





“What… is that..??”

Hroch’s question was high pitched, betraying his bewilderment and utter confusion. He was staring at the screen over Roen’s shoulder, as she worked on the terminal to bring up the floor plans.

Prisoner: Brenden Deneith. Eorzean. Floor 24. Section 5.

A blinking light appeared on the screen within a grid. Roen scanned it quickly, as she was taught to do as part of a game when she was a child. She silently thanked Fenn in that moment, even though ironically he would be opposing her if he were here this day. Had her life taken a different course, Roen could have been in this facility working against the Resistance now as they worked to free her adoptive father. The brief reflection of herself in a Garlean uniform as she turned off the screen, only seemed to punctuate this twist of fate.

Donning uniforms from a few Garlean soldiers that Gharen had ambushed the night before, it had made sneaking into the Castrum and taking out a few more guards much easier. And while her mentor dispatched the guards with quiet efficiency, Roen preferred to take on some of the Vanguards that patrolled the area instead, finding faceless magiteks easier to swing her blade against than living breathing guards. Those she did have to face however, she left them wounded and unconscious, but still breathing. Eventually the two had cleared the way enough for Xydane, Hroch, and Daena to join them within the walls. And while Gharen and Xydane took to dealing with more patrols, Hroch and Daena followed Roen as they searched for her father. She knew of ways to get around some of the security measures, as she was familiar with the layout of the Castrum, but even with disguises in place, they could not rely on subterfuge for too long. Roen knew they had to hurry and find Brenden Deneith before all of Castrum Marinum was alerted to their presence.  

“Found him,” she said as she snatched up the keycard she had confiscated from one of the guards. If her mentor noticed earlier that she had left them alive, he did not make it known. Hroch and Daena now accompanied her, and their fists delivered hard blows to knock out any other guards they came upon as well. She tossed another keycard at Hroch who caught it in midair, then stared at it with a befuddled eyes.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Roen flashed him a nervous grin and answered with the toss of her head toward the hallway. “Follow me.”

Floor 24. Section 5.

Roen flashed her keycard for Hroch and Daena, then slid it in into the slot by the door. It hissed open but was empty. Roen motioned them down one hallway and pivoted towards the other. She could hear the sounds of steel against steel outside the bunker, and more yelling and shouts that were quickly muffled. Their luck was holding out in that alarm had not gone off yet. But Roen knew it could not last for long.

Her heart raced as she ran from door to door, sliding the keycard and waiting for that glimpse into the room. It was the third door before she saw a familiar face within, an older man that raised his hand in front of his eyes to shield it from the bright light that flooded the darkened cell. Roen smile widely as she stepped in.

“Aren’t you a little short to be a Garlean trooper?” He muttered, slowly rising to a seat from his prone position.

“Hm? Oh the mask,” Roen pulled off the mask and the helm. “I am here to rescue you!”

Brenden Deneith blinked. “Roen..?”

Roen rushed forward to take the man in a fierce embrace, her grasp tight with overwhelming relief. Her chest sunk just a little to find his form more frail than she had remembered. Even in the two days he had gone missing, it was already obvious he had received beatings, and likely little to no sustenance. “Can you stand? We need to get you out of here.”

Brenden Deneith nodded as he began to rise, although Roen could see he was moving slower. She slid her arm under his to support him. He reassured her with a weak smile. “Aye, I can manage.”

Soon they were moving with as much speed as they could manage as they made their way out of Castrum Marinum, with her Master at Arms heading up the front, Daena and Hroch guarding their sides, and Xydane covering the rear. Roen tried not to notice the mercenary’s axe that was stained and dripping darkly red.

As the final guard fell before Gharen Wolfsong’s feet, Hroch and Daena rushed out past, with Brenden Deneith managing to follow closely behind. Roen paused at the gate, turning around to wait for Xydane. He had dispatched another guard behind them and trotted up, his eyes lit with a fire she had not seen before. She nodded to him as she turned, giving a look to her mentor as well. But as Gharen and Roen made their exit, she heard Xydane’s footsteps heading away, running back into the Castrum.

“What are you doing??” Roen called out after him, eyes wide.

Xydane shot her a wicked grin and a small salute. “I am going to make sure no one follows.” He spun away and disappeared around the corner.

“He knows wha’ he’s doin’ lass,” Gharen put a hand on her shoulder.

Roen glanced up at him, nodded, and trotted after Brenden Deneith.  She would see him to safety. It was not long after that she heard the screeching alarm sound through the Castrum walls.






Roen watched him sleep as she sat on the edge of the bed, the man who saved her over five cycles ago, the one who took that delirious wandering girl as if she were one of his own, and loved her as he did his own two children. That same strong man seemed so gaunt and weak now.

“They will both be fine,” Gharen Wolfsong’s voice broke the listless silence, turning both Roen and Hroch’s gaze toward him. Her Master at Arms was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.

Hroch was sitting across from her on the edge of the second bed in the room in Vesper Bay, next to Daena who was tossing and turning in her sleep. Roen glanced to the young Highlander girl as well, her eyes narrowing at the beads of sweat that were on the girl’s brows. She had been bitten by a yarzon during their escape from Castrum Marium, and had collapsed just as they arrived in Vesper Bay. They had given her a dose of an antidote, and Roen had used conjury to help her body fight off the toxin and mend her from within. She reassured Hroch that the girl just needed to rest through the night to allow her body to recover, but the young man hovered near Daena still, clear worry in his bent brows.

Roen would be forever grateful to them, for helping her rescue Brenden Deneith. She would forever owe them for this. She had already given her promise of aid to Daena and Hroch, for whatever they would ask of her in the future. She was indebted to this Xydane Vale as well, although the quiet warrior asked for nothing in return. And then of course, her Master at Arms. She did not know how to repay them all.

But her thoughts did not linger there. She had to get the Deneiths to safety. The eyes of the Empire would seek them out again, and because of their association with her, they were no longer allowed to return to their previous lives. Roen would see them to some semblance of normalcy and safety. This she vowed.  

Brenden Deneith had always wanted to see Limsa Lominsa, and to fish off the coasts of La Noscea. Perhaps she would make arrangements to move them there. She knew Nazeru had connections with the Maelstorm, and Dandaroun had a farm in Summerford. She would return to Ul’Dah in the middle of the night to retrieve Anna and the children, and leave with Brenden from Vesper Bay for Limsa in secrecy.

Still. What of after? The Empire still sought her out. This entire ordeal was orchestrated with the purpose of returning her back to her Garlean home. Even with her family safe, could she return to her life as before? Would they dare try again while she walked amongst the people of Ul’Dah? And trained amongst the Sultansworns? And what of the Resistance who helped her rescue her adoptive father? Roen sighed quietly and returned her gaze back to Brenden, absently tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

“Even if I get my family to safety, they would still be searching for you all,” Roen said quietly, giving Hroch and Gharen a sidelong glance.

“Aye. I say we start figurin’ out how Aylard disappeared, and see who is on who’s side.” Gharen uncrossed his arms, as he pushed off from the wall. “I intend tae track down an’ start tailin’ Miss Delial. I think she be our strongest lead yet.”

Roen frowned a little at the thought, but did not offer an argument as he made his way toward the door. “Take care o’ yerself lass, and yer kin, ye hear?” he said as he paused at the door.

“Stay well, Master Gharen,” Roen answered with a nod. As she always did at their parting.

She did not know that that would be the last time she would see him as he was.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 05-24-2014

[sub]((This post follows the events from this post and this post))[/sub]





Bonds and Secrets







Roen twisted her wrist, testing the manacles. The cold band of steel that wrapped around her wrists and ankles were heavy and tight. All she could do was to sit on the chair she had been pushed onto, with her hands bound behind her, her feet also restrained. Roen pulled at her shackles again, only to realize her efforts were futile. The irons were unrelenting, as much as the stare of the woman who had put her in them.

Roen glared back at Natalie who was seated near her reclining against a sofa. The Sultansworn’s green eyes were cold and ungiving.




Kage was only trying to help. Roen knew this; Kage always had the best intentions. The lalafell paladin-in-training had come seeking her out after she was dismissed by Natalie, to try and understand why.

Roen was not surprised. She had not given Natalie a good enough reason, only that her family was in danger and her choices had been solely driven for their safety. Natalie dismissing her so quickly... did that surprise her? Perhaps. But Roen could not blame her mentor. She had left before, to make gil for Brenden Deneith’s medicines. And now she had done so again, without a word to Natalie, who had given her a second chance. She was just few suns away from being sworn in, and instead had disappeared without warning. Could Roen blame Natalie for her anger? How foolish was she when she thought to return to Ul’Dah, in hopes of returning to her duties as before? That perhaps amongst the Sultansworns she would find her haven, her safety, and her new home?

Roen had told her Master at Arms that her future was the furthest thing from her mind when she made the decision to do this on her own with the Resistance. But that did not make Natalie’s dismissal of her any less devastating. Perhaps she had hoped for too much. But she had never intended to get Natalie or any of the other Sultansworns involved from the start. How could she? Too many questions would inevitably lead to the reasons why her family was taken, and that would lead to her own heritage as a Garlean.

This she could never share with Natalie. Roen knew Natalie’s hatred for Garleans all too well.

So when Kage asked why, Roen did not answer. But she still needed help. She had snuck her family away to Limsa Lominsa, and had desperately asked Dandoroun to hide them in his farm at Summerford. But they could not stay there forever, they needed papers, a new identity. They needed to be hidden away from the reach of the Empire. So she had returned to Ul’Dah to ask for Kayah’s help and that was when she ran into Kage, a fellow Sultansworn in training.

Kage was so earnest about his concern and his desire to help, so when he offered his aid, even without knowing the reasons why, Roen believed he would. She followed him to the Mist where he said he could find Kayah.

And that was when she ran into Natalie again. She too had come to find Kayah, for he was attending to an injured friend. But her regard of Roen was cold and distant, her words clipped. Roen met it stoically. She had already accepted that Natalie’s anger and being barred from the order was a kinder fate than telling her she was a Garlean. And possibly facing execution at her hands.

But she was never given the opportunity to speak with Kayah. After a short exchange of words with Kage, Natalie stepped up behind her while she was talking with Kayah, and locked her wrists in manacles without a word. And now she sat on the chair in the Night Blades headquarters, with her hands and feet in chains.

“Natalie... why are you doing this?!" Her voice still shook with disbelief.

“Roen, you're willing to let me hate you, is that correct?" Natalie crossed her arms. "You'd rather face that than tell me what I want to know? Because if Kage is right, and you are telling the truth about your family… that's the only possibility."

When Roen refused to answer, Natalie sighed, tapping a finger against her cheek. "I must admit, I was rather disappointed in you. But certain meddling people convinced me to think about the situation differently.” She leaned back, hooking her arms against the sofa cushions behind her. “So, you'd rather let me dismiss you than speak of what happened? I'd rather face your hate than not know. So it seems we are at an impasse.”

Roen narrowed her eyes on the smug grin that Natalie flashed her way. She turned away from it, instead looking to Kage bitterly. He who had brought her here with words of trust and reassurance. He stood on the other side of the room, but his head was bent, his gaze unwilling to meet hers.

“How long do you mean to keep me in manacles then, Natalie?” Roen asked quietly.

"Until you tell me what I want to know". The Sultansworn shrugged. "I'm convinced you're in danger, and I mean to help whether you want it or not. So get comfortable." She kicked her feet up onto the table in front of her.

Roen's chest sank as all the air left her. She closed her eyes. "Natalie, please. I cannot," she pleaded. "I cannot tell you."

"Alright," Natalie sighed, tapping her chin again. She changed tact. "Let me ask you a theoretical question. Back when I took that somnus, did you wish you had stopped me?"

Roen blinked. That was moons ago. When she was trying to figure out who had sent an assassin after her, one posed as a beggar that then stabbed her in the middle of the street in Ul’Dah. That investigation had come to a dead end only after finding out that the one who hired the assassin was also distributing a mysterious drug in form of a licorice. Natalie had boldly tried the licorice herself, to discover that it was somnus. She had done so against Roen’s advice.

"Then? Right as you did so? Aye."

"Because you knew I was doing something dangerous, something foolish." Natalie pushed off from the cushions, leaning forward. "In fact, I could have died, had the dose been slightly more concentrated. So, knowing all that, why didn't you?"

Roen turned her gaze back to Natalie, her words still coated with bitterness. "I trusted your judgement. Your reckless and unpredictable judgement. Natalie, can you not do the same, and allow me to do what I need to do?" Her voice was beginning to shake. “I trust you with my life! And giving up your friendship was not easy!"

"I know.” Natalie calmly answered. It only fueled Roen’s indignation more.

"But I had to do it. And I would do so again, Natalie. As much as that would kill me to do it, I would!"

"That's why I'm doing this.” Natalie’s words continued to be cool, though her green eyes were intent upon her. “The other day… I let my anger rule my judgment. But not now. I'm not giving up on you, Roen. Even if you curse me for it all your life."

Roen closed her eyes again, bowing her head. Her red locks fell around her face, hiding her pained expression. “Natalie, please. Just let me do this.”

“What did I tell you before, Roen. I’m always on your side. For twelve’s sake, we slew a primal together. Whatever this is, I won’t let you face it alone.” Natalie pounded an armored fist onto her thigh. “I can’t. I will not.”

When Roen looked back to Natalie, her vision was already blurring with emotion. “Natalie. I cannot. I cannot tell you. Please do not ask it of me.” She had to make her understand that what she was asking would only make things worse.

Natalie seemed moved for an instant, gnawing her lip. Her expression softened as she closed her eyes and exhaled. "I am asking it, Roen.” She opened her eyes again. “I am.”

Roen met the miqo’te’s eyes for a long silent moment, as what little hope she had left her. She finally lowered her gaze, resignation and sadness falling upon her like a shadow.

"Can't we help her without asking for the why?" Kage finally turned from his self-imposed exile, earnestly pleading to Natalie as well. His voice was heavily weighed with guilt. “We can still help her family, keep them safe! And Kayah can have their names changed!”

Natalie answered him with silence. She only kept her eyes on Roen, her gaze unrelenting.

"I wish for their safety above all," Roen whispered, staring at the manacles around her ankles. If she told the truth, those manacles would never come off. But did she have a choice now? At least her family was safe. "What happens to me does not matter,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She resigned herself to tell them the truth. Perhaps she owed that to Natalie.

Roen did not look up when she heard Natalie’s gauntlets drop to the floor. But she did as she heard the miqo'te's armored footsteps approach, only to have her head snap to the side as Natalie struck her hard across the face. Her cheek began to burn immediately.

"Don't you ever fucking say that, Roen!" Natalie growled, her chest heaving. “Don’t you dare.”

Roen ignored the stinging in her face, looking back to Natalie with defiance and anger. “It is my life, Natalie! I know its worth!”

It took only an instant, but Roen saw Natalie’s fist curl and rise, next to those angry green eyes. She shut her own and flinched when she heard the violent slam just next to her ear, as Natalie’s knuckles cracked the wall. Roen could feel the woman’s breath just above her cheek as her own chest rose and fell. Then she felt a wet drop on her face.

Roen opened her eyes just as the miqo’te spun away from her. She only caught a hint of glistening on  her cheek. “Just… just sit there then,” she croaked. “Until you’re ready to talk.” The Sultansworn quickly rounded the corner of the room, walking into the office next door.

Roen turned from where Natalie had retreated to the sound of the main door opening as the towering figure of a Roegadyn entered the room. It was Dennthota Ahtahrmwyn, one of the members of the Night Blades. The purple haired Roe wore a smile on her face, but it soon dissipated when she spotted Roen.

“What... what the hell is going on here?” The woman’s eyes went to the shackles. In two long steps she was towering over the red-headed hyur. Roen saw her large hands extend towards her. “Give me your hands, child.”

Natalie quickly rounded the corner, her eyes bloodshot. “Get out of here,” she growled as she stepped in between Dennthotoa and her prisoner.

“You didn't put her in these, did you?” The Roegadyn woman paused.

"What's it to you.”

“I ain't here to start no trouble with you.” Dennthota eyed the Sultansworn. “But you simply can't take away the freedom of another. It’s not right.” She straightened, as if to use her looming figure to punctuate her next words. “Now move so I can get her out of those.”

"You have no idea what you're walking into, Denn,” Natalie lowered herself slightly, in a ready stance. “Taking off those cuffs would likely be the same as killing her myself, now." She snarled through gritted teeth. "Leave us be."

Dennthota narrowed her eyes. “You tryin' to get somethin' out of her, ain't ya?”

"I am."

“I thought as much,” Denn shook her head. “Some secrets are best left untouched, Natalie. Remi did the same to me once, and it ruined our relationship. People hide things for a reason. You need to respect that.”

"No," Natalie spat back. "I don't. Some bonds run thicker than others, Denn.” She glanced over her shoulder to Roen. “Even if people don't realize it. The bond of a sister in arms is stronger than you could know."

Roegadyn’s eyes became slitted. “Well you're a bloody idiot then. I'm going to ask you one more time to move, else I'm putting that hard ass head of yours into the wall.”

“You can try.” Natalie did not budge; her voice was laced with steel.

Denn flashed her a grin. “I was hoping you would say that.”

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 05-25-2014

“Natalie, stop! Just let me leave!”

Roen struggled to stand, leaning against the wall next to her for balance. But her precarious stance did not last long as she was roughly shoved down again by the miqo’te Sultansworn.

Natalie’s eyes only grazed her for a moment, before it returned to the towering form of Dennthota looming over her, but Roen could see the unwavering stubbornness in her gaze.

“No, Roen. You do not believe in your own worth. This is what you’re worth.” Natalie crouched in a defensive stance.

Dennthota’s only warning was a subtle tensing of her jaw before she reached out and tried to snatch Natalie’s sword from her sheath.  Their close proximity had brought it within easy reach. Natalie did not stop Denn from grabbing her sword, instead she yanked on her arm to pull her down even further, ramming her armored pauldron against the Roegadyn’s head.

Dennthota reeled back from the impact, but she still managed to grab the Sultansworn’s sword from Natalie’s hip. She shook her head to clear her senses, then spun the sword in her hand. “Well then, shall we get serious?”

“Natalie! Do not do this!” Roen shouted, struggling to right herself in the chair.

“If you’re worth nothing, then neither am I,” Natalie growled. She was not going to budge against an armed opponent.

“What the hells?” Another voice broke the tension as three more figures entered the room: Stanzie, Siben, and Remi stood at the entrance of the headquarters, looking stunned. Stanzie, who had spoken, and Siben... those two Roen knew well enough; the miqo’te woman and the hyur male had helped her in the past. The third, a miqo'te female, Roen had met briefly before. Remi belonged to an alliance company to the Night Blades called Grim Echo.

“What’s going on here?” Siben Farnesworth stepped up next to Stanzie. He was frowning openly, although his attention was mostly directed towards the Roegadyn bearing a sword. The Roegadyn and he exchanged an uneasy look between them.

“Nothing. This does not concern any of you, save Roen, Kage and I.” Natalie glared at all of them. “Now leave us be, and take that one with you.” She jutted her chin towards the Roegadyn. Dennthota had paused as well, perhaps hesitant to attack with company about.

“As a ranking officer within our own building, it does concern me.” Siben’s eyes finally went to Roen and the manacles. “Why is Roen chained up?”

“Because I did it.” Natalie said stubbornly.

“On whose authority?” Siben arched a brow.

“Mine.”

“In an official capacity?”

“No.” The Sultansworn’s tone was getting more recalcitrant.

“Because I say so?” Remi snorted. “Definitely takin’ the attitude of the city in that ‘Sworn uniforum I see.”

Siben crossed his arms, meeting Natalie’s gaze squarely. “So start talking.”

“I will not.” Natalie snarled.

Stanzie, whom Roen has always known to be patient and amiable miqo’te, stepped up to Natalie and Roen, her voice in a low growl. “You will all tell me what is going on.”

“I will not.” Natalie met Stanzie’s intensity with one of her own.

"I'm sorry, Roen.” Kage pleaded, stepping in between them, his cheeks red and his eyes glistening with tears. “I know you hate me for this. I messed up. But please! You can't expect me to let this go when you think you’re not of any worth or that your life may be forfeit! How do you expect us to take this?"

Roen looked to Kage with sympathy, and in that short moment did not see the yellow vial that Siben withdrew from his coat. But she saw when he hurled it at the double main doors. It shattered with a pop, creating a large sticky splatter that spanned the width of the doorway.  

“Well, now no one is going anywhere. That glue is not going to dissolve for awhile.” He said nonchalantly, turning back to the rest of the group. “So we have plenty of time to figure out what’s going on.”

Stanzie looked alarmed by Kage’s words, staring back at Roen. “Why are you trying to convince us that you are worthless and deserving to die?"

Roen shook her head. Her words were starting to be spun out of control. “No! I… I just meant... I just have matters that I must deal with, that I cannot speak of. Natalie, Kage, Kayah… they want to help, but I do not want it! I can take care of this. I do not need to involve any of you.”

“There seems to be mounting evidence to the contrary, Roen.” Siben crossed his arms again.

"How can you expect Natalie and I to not get involved when you're willing to give up being Sultansworn forever?" Kage had tears streaking down his face.

“Because I made my choice, Kage.” Roen said soothingly, trying to comfort Kage with some semblance of reassurance. “I will live by it.”

Stanzie stepped up closer to her, her expression easing. “Too late for that now. You have people that care.” She glanced to Natalie, Kage, and the rest. “You can’t expect them not to help.”

“Nat, will you unbind her?” Siben pulled out a chair and took a seat. “She's not getting out that door for a while, we can offer her some modicum of decency until we get this sorted out.”

Natalie seemed to relent as well, as she studied Siben. “You promise to keep her from leaving? Until this is all… resolved?”

Siben thumbed towards the door. “That isn’t going away for at least another bell at least.”

Natalie nodded and came to stand in front of her with the keyring in hand, her gaze locking the hyur’s. “Now, Roen. The secret must come out.”

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 05-26-2014

"I am ... a runaway." Roen shook her head. "My home is not here."

All eyes were on her. Dennthota leaned against the wall, her massively muscled arms crossed, her expression dark. She had stayed to listen to her story, despite the fact that her disapproval of Natalie’s methods were clear and she still held her belief that some secrets need not be told.

Perhaps Denn was right. But as Roen looked to the rest of the faces that were staring back at her, Siben, Stanzie, Remi, C’Kayah, Kage and Natalie, she could not see any other choice.

"The people who took my ... adoptive parents. They were working for my real father." She sighed, her gaze going to her balled hands on her lap. "Their condition for my step father's safe return was for me to return home."

“Which would be where exactly?” Siben asked.

Roen felt that constriction around her chest tighten. She forced out her next word. "...Garlemald."

Silence fell across the room. “Oh, gods… that would be it.” Stanzie finally sighed.

Then suddenly Natalie began to laugh out loud. It grew in volume maniacally, and the miqo’te nearly doubled over in her seat.

“Natalie…” Siben began worriedly.

“Roen…” Natalie sighed loudly, wiping a tear from her eye, a strange smile lingering. Roen stared at her oddly, not knowing what to make of the bewildered look that the miqo’te wore. “Is that really all it was?”  

When Roen sat there stunned still, Natalie continued, sitting up. “I was tempered by a Primal for godsake, Roen. And you didn’t abandon me then. Do you think I would abandon you over something so little as your blood?” She shook her head chidingly.

Roen stared at her still, blinking. She was still trying to believe the words that were spoken. Was… Natalie accepting her heritage? Without anger? Or hatred?

“I have to agree with Natalie.” Kage piped up as well, relief clear in his demeanor. “You thought  that would make things worse?”

Remi shrugged nonchalantly. “So you're from Garlemald. It's not like you're charging at Limsa on a magitek walker screaming Death to Eorzeans!".

"We don't judge you on 'what' you are, but on 'who' you are." Stanzie added softly, laying her hand on top of Roen’s.

Roen glanced from one face to another. They were all offering her words of acceptance. She was struggling to believe her ears. "I... I joined the Garlean forces, Nael van Darnus' army at Carteneau." she heard herself say, once she admitted to one truth, the rest seemed to come easier.

"And are you still with them?" Natalie tapped her jaw.

“Does it matter?” Dennthota shot the Sultansworn a look. “I mean, you said the bond of "sisters in arms" was strong. It shouldn’t matter.”

"I ran away from the war,” Roen shook her head.

Siben gave a pointed look to Denn. "It could matter, though at least half of us here have no moral high ground to stand on in that regard."

Natalie rose from her seat, and came to kneel in front of Roen. Her hands wrapped around the hyur’s and squeezed lightly. “Roen, everything you told me in our time together… your goals, your hopes and dreams, your desire to help. Was that all true?"

"I did not lie. Not about any of that." Roen met Natalie’s gaze steadily. "I only did not speak of my past."

Kage chuckled, grinning from ear to ear, as he looked to Kayah. “Thank the Twelve. Because I bet my oath, my sword and my shield on everything Roen saying to be the truth."

Natalie nodded to Roen then stood. “Applicant Deneith!” She shouted, her words crisp. “Front and center!”

Roen bolted to a stand, her back rigid.

Natalie curled a small smile. "You will report tomorrow for your normal duties, in preparation for your oath swearing. Is that understood?”

Roen blinked. “I am… reinstated?”

Natalie pulled out a folded document from her pocket and extended it her way. "Your leave was approved after all.” She rolled her shoulders in a shrug, her grin lingering. "It's understandable you'd want to visit your family before the ceremony.”

"Aye. I - I will.” Roen nodded quickly. “I will return to my normal duties in the morn."

Natalie smiled at her warmly for a moment longer before returning to Kayah’s side to whisper something in his ear. Roen stood there for a few more minutes, glancing about the room. She watched as the rest of the Night Blades who had heard her story simply went about their business as if nothing had happened. They did not care that she was Garlean. There were no strange stares at her way, no air of suspicion that hung after her admission. Stanzie was exchanging some business details with Siben, and Remi and Dennthota were leaning close to each other exchanging quiet words.

Roen inhaled. She felt lighter somehow. She stood in silence as she continue to watch everyone, as a slow grin lifted her lips. As the room was beginning to clear as the rest went about their tasks, Natalie approached her again, coughing into her hand.

"I won't say I regret doing that,” Natalie looked a bit sheepish. It was a look Roen had never seen before. But under that veneer, there was still that hint of stubborn mischief. ”But do you think you can ever forgive me for it?"

"There is nothing to forgive." Roen smiled.

Natalie blinked, her brows raised. “I… I don't deserve that.” She curled a sheepish grin. "But thanks."

"Reckless. Unpredictable." Roen chuckled. "That is your way." She eyed the miqo’te, holding her gaze. “I still trust you."

"It always makes sense in my head..." Natalie muttered before nodding to Roen. “And I you.” She extended a hand. “And let it never fade."

Roen took her hand and shook it with a firm grip. "Aye. Shield to shield.”

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 06-05-2014

Delial Grimsong counted the bells as they rolled by. The previous day she had spent a whole four bells walking back and forth along the market stalls much to the annoyed eyes of the merchants who tended them. Her steps were slow and deliberate and her frame, however slight for her race, was still larger than most who dwelled in Ul'dah. She loomed over stall and merchandise dismissively and on several occasions instilled upon potential customers the notion that they should be dismissive as well. Yet it was not for their sake that she walked and snubbed all manner of goods.

Their last conversation was more a battle than anything. Gharen Wolfsong was no fool: he suggested little and confessed even less, sparing only the most obvious details of his experience with the Resistance. His expression was solid and he wisely kept opposite from her in the small alleyway in which he had found her, giving little room and little opportunity to get too close. He watched her sharp-eyed even if his features were neutral, never missing his cue to grin or frown or, more often than not, remain guarded.

He may not have looked like much more than a battle-worn warrior, but he was certainly not a fool. Unlike his dear protege, sadly.

Bells in the markets revealed nothing to her. The suspicion was there, shared between his hazel gaze and hers oddly matched. Neither trusted the other so far as they could spit and if she could have told anything of Gharen Wolfsong from what he had shared during heir meeting or from what dear Roen Deneith had given to her, it was that he was a cautious, goodly man. The sort of man who would wonder after Aylard Greymane's fate. The sort of man who would not trust the matter to bumbling Sultansworn.

The morning found her optimistic and she spent far too long luxuriating in the Quicksand over a cup of spiced tea and some form of local breakfast pastry. She ignored the chatter around her, the gossip over who was sleeping with whom and which one of Ul'dah's desirable bachelors were eating from the hands of the Syndicate. Rarely would she ever hear words pertaining to the world outside the city, and briefly she caught herself wondering if that was why the starving masses were, for the most part, kept clinging outside the walls.

When she finished she left more gil than her meal was worth and, noting an absence, left. She wore supple soft-soled boots instead of her usual heeled ones and they made quiet sounds on the stones as she strutted through the streets, making for the dusty road driving into Western Thanalan. The gate yawned overhead as she passed back into the sunlight and there she made careful show of peering this way and that, left and right and most obviously behind her. And when she was contented that she was not being followed she made show of nodding to herself and, turning upon a heel, began to walk.

Her pace was hasty enough to suggest she was in a hurry but not too much of a hurry and within a bell's time the gates of the Silver Bazaar welcomed her. She made a beeline towards the small dock at the bottom of the hill, taking care to pause once more as she handed the ferryman his fee to peer pointedly behind her. There was, of course, nothing to be seen. It did not stop her from grinning as she carefully stepped aboard the small boat. 

Crescent Cove was quiet as the ferry pulled in to dock. The few that were attending to racks of fish and nets in need of mending did not so much as spare the highlander woman a glance. Working so near to the shadow of the Castrum came with a multitude of benefits, discretion being chief among them. The door to the small house beneath the cliff side was unlocked as she had left it, its interior undisturbed. Those who attended to the Cove understood the nature of that house as well as the intent of the woman who returned to it.

The house was as dark as ever but she knew it like the back of her hand. What furniture there was stood dusty and disheveled, arranged haphazardly along the walls as if by blind men. Only one piece stood with purpose, occupying the center of the rear half of the house: an enormous armoire set against the center of the far wall, perfectly visible from the door at the other end. It was to this that Delial strode, her boots making hardly a sound as she glided over the floorboards. She could not help the smile that crept over her face.

"Hello again, sweetling," she said to the cold figure of Aylard Greyarm. "Just one last thing..."

---

It was at least two bells before the door creaked open with agonizing slowness. Delial had assumed it would take one at the very least to follow her trail, give or take another one or two account for his cautious nature. A column of sunlight stretched across the floor, piercing into deepest dark of the house. Wolfsong's shadow nearly obscured the sight he was meant to see and she was convinced he had missed it until she heard the low growling intake of a breath.

She heard rather than saw the hasty steps he made towards the back of the house. He could not see her either as he passed, could not see her as she silently slipped out from where she had been hiding. The light at his feet flickered as her form placed itself between him and his exit and as he started to spin around to face her, Delial delighted in imagining she could see the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

All it took was a touch. Her hand reached out to him, her palm outstretched to graze over the nape of his neck. The configuration of her fingers was just right to trigger the ring she wore, an ingenious little thing an old ally had managed to scramble up for her on remarkably short notice. A tiny needle withdrew from its surface and as it pierced the flesh of his neck, another twitch of her fingers released it as well as its payload.

Wolfsong raised a hand to swat hers away but it was already too late. She stepped back as he turned around to face her fully. "Honestly," she sighed as she lazily pulled the poison ring from her finger. It made small, hollow sounds as it bounced and rolled into silence somewhere beneath a dresser. "It took you long enough."

He touched upon the thin bead of blood welling around the needle's tip, his expression dark and his tone even darker. "So it was ye," he growled. His hand balled into a fist as realization settled in.

"Yes, yes, and aren't you a clever boy for having figured it out." Arms crossed as she began to count off seconds in her head. The poison would be kicking in soon enough. "And how very fortunate for me that the last son of Wolfsong would happen right into my hands! It must be fate."

Gharen swayed on his feet, the anger in his eyes steadily clouding over. His teeth clenched as he lurched forward to swing his fist at her but it was obvious he was quickly losing his battle against the toxin in his veins. The strength in his body left him like the breath in his lungs and he crashed into a heap on the floor while the other highlander stepped out of his way.

"Now, now," she chuckled. "Do not stress yourself, shhh." Delial dropped low to kneel beside him, studying him as a jackal might carrion. "You already know what is coming. But worry not - there are plans for you, much unlike him." Her mismatched gaze rose up to the sight that had so adequately lured Wolfsong in to the house in the first place. Greyarm had been left chained to the armoire just as when the last of his life bled out of him, seeping out into a broad and inky swell that stretched around his body like a shadow that had forgotten its shape. His skin was greying and sunken; his belly was hollow.

She lowered an icy smile at Wolfsong while he strained and gasped upon the floor. She reached down to cup his cheek, taking a moment to admire his features up close. It could not be said that he was not handsome for a man who should have been dead. The thought curled a corner of her lip even more tightly. "Embrace the dark, Gharen Wolfsong. Your friends will fall soon enough. The boy, his girl, and the rest. Aylard came to be very generous, but... ah. What of little Roen?" Her head tilted, pausing just long enough to hear another growl gurgle from his throat. "I wonder. We'll just have to see, won't we?"

Unfocused as his eyes were, she could still feel the flare of anger that rose in them even as his consciousness slipped away. She was already stepping over Wolfsong's body when his head thudded loud upon the floor, already rolling the sleeves of her favored robes up her arms. There was no telling how long the poison would keep him down and she still had a corpse to dispose of. Delial smiled to herself as she began to work free the chains that held Greyarm in place. "How very like you," she crooned. "All too easy."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - cuideag - 06-09-2014

A mere sun had passed before the white-haired woman arrived. Raelisanne Banurein had first approached Delial out of the blue in Limsa Lominsa and spoke of promises and shared interests. Delial found herself thinking back on that first meeting now and again in the idle moments between assignments; that the woman had known her name, her true name, should have been an indicator. That she also knew of Delial's work was another; few ever spoke favorably of her nor her predecessors nor of the odd art they indulged in. Banurein was not a woman of much emotion, no, but that she was actually interested in her methods...

It seemed a silly notion to worry of a woman who did not balk of the thought of blood and sacrifice, considering she herself indulged from time to time. True, it had been a while - Aylard was the first in many moons, and that was largely given to a need for discretion. There were few who knew of her allegiance but there was no telling when a wrong move might throw her into the spotlight.

The highlander had been awaiting outside the house beneath the cliff-side when Banurein arrived at long last. A aether portal glimmered into being just over the rickety bridge that separated Delial's hideout from the others and from it the smaller woman stepped. She was but a midlander, this Raelisanne, and she made little effort to hold herself as anything more. Her posture was rigid and her bearing was proud in a less glaring way than Delial's own, as if she was content with the cold airs about her going on unnoticed, as if she preferred it as such. Her attire was modest as ever, a long robe of white and blue that played off her elegantly worn hair. Different from usual was an odd mask which seemed to hide her eyes from light. Upon its forehead, a single blue gem glittered.

Banurein took a moment to scan her surroundings before she turned to approach the awaiting Delial. Her boots knocked softly over the old wooden planks as she crossed over the bridge to stand before the woman she had come to see. Delial never knew Banurein to he expressive but the mask did well enough to inhibit all but her voice, and even that was almost always cold and flat, not quite a monotone but still sapped of anything to betray her emotions. "Miss Delial," the midlander spoke in her usual even tone. The mask's pitted black eyes seemed to be directed at her company.

Their first meeting left her perplexed but Delial did not quite understand the woman then. It could not be said she understood her any more now, and somewhere along the line she had inherited an unconscious feeling of dread whenever the woman was nearby. When they had met in Limsa Lominsa, Delial laughed and mused over her tiny employer. Now she simply nodded, regarding Banurein's precise stride and the shock of icy white hair as warning signs. The missive she had sent was brief and to the point, just as Banurein liked. That she would have come so quickly, however, surprised her. "You came," Delial said. "Good."

Banurein gave a single nod. "You have something for me." Somehow, the woman sounded pleased.

"I do. Come, come," Delial spoke with a smile, gesturing for the other to follow. Together they rounded the small dirt lawn and up the porch steps. Delial fiddled with the door a moment before she swung it open, going so far as to bow herself towards the smaller girl. "Let us not keep him waiting, hmm? I expect he will be very cross by now."

The air inside the house reeked of blood and viscera. Delial had become quite used to it by then but if it bothered Banurein, she showed no sign of it. When she had nothing to say, the mask pointed straight ahead of her as it did then. From the door she could see her prize slumped upon the floor. Gharen Wolfsong stirred, rattling the chains that bound him just as they did the prey that had come before. A single lamp glowed far above his head, bathing him in soft yellow light. The floorboards beneath him were still stained dark even without his shadow pooled over them. He wore nothing but his small clothes and tiny red pinpricks lined up the length of his arm hinted at how and why he was able to be kept in so dull a state. Even with the scant toxin still in his veins, he was able to give Delial a glare so vile and full of rage that she knew if he had even the slightest of purchase upon freedom, she would likely not remain alive and breathing for very long. That glare fixed upon the masked woman, a stranger to him, and he growled low in his throat.

"May I present to you," continued Delial, "The one and only Gharen Wolfsong."

Banurein's rhythmic footsteps continued along the floor, halting only when she came close enough to be just beyond his reach. "So, this is he," she said curtly. Pitted black eyes contrasted sharply against the pristine white she wore, empty and cold and sterile. There was a pause as she appraised the man as well as the stains upon which he rested. "Mister Wolfsong. You will be my finest specimen yet."

"The pride of the Resistance," Delial chimed in. She chose to maintain her distance, settling into a relaxed stance with her arms folded near the open doorway that separated the rear of the house from the fore room. She flashed a predatory smile at Gharen, the points of her canines gleaming.

"Miss Delial. What happened to Aylard Greyarm." There was no question in her voice, as if stating it were a mere formality. It was entirely possible she did not even care.

"I kept him as long as I could but, alas, he was an old man and that did him no favors. He has been disposed of." Delial's own voice turned flat. She may as well have been talking about the garbage. "The crows have had their feast. I did keep a little something, though. A gift for our friends."

Banurein made a small noise of dismissal, a disinterested hum. The gem on her mask glimmered in the relative darkness of the space, a glow faintly mirrored deep in her pitted eyes. "I see no marks on this one yet. I would require your special skills."

"I did not wish to spoil him before you had a look," replied Delial. 

It was as if to respond that Gharen tested and strained against his restraints. His hands had been bound firmly behind his back, pinned between himself and the front of the ancient armoire. Another low growl rose from him as the masked woman lowered herself to a kneel as if to look upon him closely, examining him bit by bit as though he were a mere lab rat. "Mister Wolfsong. You are undoubtedly strong. Physically." Her voice was even and smooth. "I wonder... How strong are you within. Let us test that. Shall we?" She spoke without venom in her voice, almost as if she were offering him tea or cake. It was almost pleasant.

Gloved fingers rose and plucked the gem from the face of her mask and even in doing so it continued to glimmer by its own volition. Her arms moved in careful, delicate motions as she leaned closer and reached out to place the gem upon Wolfsong's forehead. As soon as the gem made contact with his skin, it flared into a darker hue, tendrils of smoke appearing at its edges. Those tendrils groped and fumbled over his flesh before, seemingly contended, they abruptly and soundlessly snapped rigid. Gharen's teeth clenched and his jaw tightened as if in pain, and it was not long before Delial came to realize why. The gem itself was somehow burrowing itself into his flesh.

Wolfsong shook in pain and rage but he did not scream. Hateful eyes fixed on Banurein and his voice rose as a snarl. "I'm... goin'... te kill ye  both."

From over Banurein's shoulder Delial continued to stare, her mild confusion at the events unfolding before her  betrayed only by the squinting of her eyes. She stared at the dark gem that sunk inside Gharen, quivering violently. Banurein had her ways, and it was not Delial's place to question it.

"Mm. Rage." The blue glow from within the black of her mask flickered. "It is an easy emotion. Let us work on that." Banurein rose to her feet and turned to stride towards Delial. "You know the man? Can you elicit more rage?" She spoke quietly in words clearly not meant for the squirming man upon the floor. "Provoke what you will. I would study him for a bit."

Delial's perplexed look was shaken off just as quickly as she looked to the masked woman. "Your... pet," she chuckled. "He is quite fond of your pet. The Sultansworn?" She pressed on as Banurein made an unimpressed sound and turned to look back towards Gharen. "Shall I fetch her? Oh, this boy has warned her against me. But we are thick as thieves, she and I."

"This will not do," replied Banurein. Her voice was cool and Delial suspected she could hear just the faintest hint of impatience. "I would like to see him angry, Miss Delial. He is trying to compose himself. Discipline the sensations."

Looking upon Gharen, she could see her meaning. The man shivered as he gave the two a dark look, obviously pained by whatever the gemstone was doing do him. Delial snorted and set her hands to her hips. Slow, lazy strides brought her further into the room, closer towards Wolfsong. Her heels clicked loud and cold in the otherwise quiet house. Gharen Wolfsong was a cautious man but since she had cornered him, he had made little attempt to hide the rage that burned in his heart. He wore it plainly then, and it lit the otherwise warm hazel of his eyes into something bestial.

"Master Gharen, she calls you," Delial began. Where others fought with blade and spell, her preferred weapon was her tongue. Thus far it had earned her the trust of a Sultansworn in perfect connection to the Resistance, as well as the head of the cell's leader. Gharen had little enough to hide behind then. A smirk settled on her lips as she picked through words like one may blades. "Such a sweet thing, so pure of heart. Yet I wonder what you know of her, Master Gharen? You taught the girl. You very nearly fought her. Broke her precious little heart."

In her peripheral vision she saw Raelisanne situate herself a few fulms away with a tome opening in her hands. An eerie blue glimmer flickered over her eyes and she could vaguely make out symbols appearing upon the pages of said tome. Gharen himself curled his lip into a slight snarl. He was struggling uselessly, testing his bindings as though persistence would reward him with anything more than wrists rubbed raw.

As he worked away, Delial's hand slipped beneath a fold of her robe and she withdrew a drawing. The artistry was fine and of slightly uncommon skill, its subject wrought out elegantly: a pair of highlander women, one old and one young. One of the most striking things about it was the older woman's hair: a vivid mane of red that contrasted sharply with that of her daughter's. Delial sighed wistfully as she held it out for Gharen to see, for he would see none other but the face of his own mother smiling back at him.

"The old man had this," she said, careful to inject a note of regret into her voice. It was diffficult; sorrow was difficult to fake, after all. "Faces I'd not seen in years, not since my youth. Of course, they never looked like this when I saw them. They were... much more pained. It was a good hunt. You must have been young." She studied the man as he glared darkly up at her. He worked even more fiercely against his binds, shuddering at the pain it brought. The gem in his skin had turned almost jet black, and the tendrils that stretched out from it seemed to be growing thicker. 

"The seed of dissidents could not be tolerated, you see, and would that we had not let you escape. Look at you now: parading about as if you actually cared about the struggles of Ala Mhigo." Genuine disgust seeped into her voice, a contempt that rose up her throat like bile. "Insulting. Ah, but we were speaking of Roen, were we not?" She dropped the drawing and it fluttered down, down, down, landing upon the floor between them. Aline Wolfsong and her red haired mother continued to smile up at their wayward descendant. "You must have wondered whatever happened to that squealing little thing that was with you."

A mask tilted off to her side. Before her, Gharen Wolfsong began to growl in warning.

Delial smiled in a sad way, completely fake. "How blind you must be to your own clan that you could not recognize the blood of your traitorous ancestors walking about before your very eyes. Learning under you, yearning for your companionship. Pleading your forgiveness." She resisted the desire to click her tongue, settling instead with but a slow, disappointed shake of her head. "It is a fortunate thing, then, that she ceased to be yours that night. The Empire takes care of those it desires. The Empire loves its own. You are a cruel thing, Gharen Wolfsong. Roen deserves a better family than you."

Gharen's reaction was explosive and had he not been bound, Delial was certain it would have been violent as well. "Ye LIE!" he barked, his eyes drawing wide with shock and rage. The tendrils that snaked over his forehead pulsed, new branches of smokey black stretching out towards his cheek.

"Ah!" A hand fluttered to Delial's chest in mock surprise. "Did you not know...? Oh, dear. The secrets we keep from those we love. I would say that you should ask her, but... I wonder if you shall ever see the poor thing again. Indeed, I understand that her father - ah, her... proper father, not that corpse we left in Ala Mhigo... I hear he has been awaiting his dearest princess."

Wolfsong was shuddering before her, his powerful frame straining so hard against the chains that held him that for the briefest moment Delial actually worried that they might break. There was no mistaking the sheer hatred in the way he stared at her, nor was there mistaking the way the gem and the magic that seeped from it pulsed and grew as if being fed by the raw emotions burning in his body. "I'm goin'," he snarled, "Te tear yer... lyin' throat out."

Banurein remained silent as she observed, turning her masked gaze to Delial but for a brief moment. The blue of her gaze flashed and flickered more intensely, and the pages upon her tome mirrored the pattern of illumination as they flared to life.

"It was a mercy," Delial continued. She edged forward another step to kneel and lean close, dangerous close, to the bound man. "Could you have protected your darling little sister then? Could you protect her now? She should have been cut like the rest of your house. Who do you think handed her to the empire." Eyes narrowed and she smiled - no, sneered - at Gharen. "You should be thanking me."

The low, persistent growl that had been rumbling out of his throat turned into a vicious snarl and with little enough warning, Gharen Wolfsong lunged hard against his restraints. The heavy armoire groaned and scraped against the floor as it shuffled along with him, chains snapping between flesh and splintering wood. He should  not have been able to gain any purchase but had Delial not the sense to back away with a hiss of breath and the scraping of her heels, she would have found herself with the wolf's teeth in her throat. She had little time to consider the anguish that colored his outburst and as she stepped back out of a wider lunging rage, she cast a look towards Raenlisanne.

The white-haired woman was regarding her tome intensely, or at least Delial had the impression of intensity. The blue lights flickering over her eyes and upon the pages were unnaturally bright and flaring brighter still as even more of those shadow-tendrils sprouted and sunk into Gharen's skin. After a pause she gave Delial a measured nod. "Excellent." Then she muttered something beneath her breath, turning to regard as three new aether portals appeared beside her, each leaving behind a single featureless cube.

A puzzled feeling returns to Delial but she pays it little mind. The woman was a scientist and one well connected within the Empire; the extent of her capabilities were not hers to consider, so she turned back upon the nearly prone figure of Gharen Wolfsong. He continued to growl but it appeared he was more in the throes of a deep and unbearable pain. "All it would have taken," she said softly, "Was for you to say, no. Alas, the poor choices we make."

Banurein had set her tome aside and was attending to the cubes. Daintily she held them in her palms, and just as daintily she set them down near Wolfsong. He cast his glare towards her but she does not seem to notice it; rather, she occupied herself with opening each of the three cubes. Then she stepped back to merely watch. From the depth of the cubes slither dark things, nightmarish forms of shadowy black. They moved as spiders did, skittering on dark legs not unlike the tendrils that bound the gem to Gharen's body. A faint purple vapor surrounded what could be made out of their bodies, and the very sight of them evoked memories of whispers of voidsent. "This will hurt, Mister Wolfsong," she heard Banurein say. It was a statement,  blunt and cold, moreso than a warning.
 
What occurred next was beyond Delial's understanding though she could imagine in some small way what the man was going through. Those spindly little creatures skittered towards Wolfsong's form and, upon nearing him, sprung to latch onto his flesh. What appeared as near ephemeral limbs sharpened somehow, losing their whispy quality as they seemed to nail themselves into the flesh of his hand and his chest. Oddly, there was no blood spilled; Gharen himself was silent though his lips quivered peeled back from his teeth. Delial hardly noticed that Banurein was speaking low: "Rage will be your undoing, Mister Wolfsong. It is what will break you." Her voice was frigid and precise and with every word those odd, glimmering blue eyes imposed over the strange mask she wore pulsed. "And break you I will. But for now... sleep. We have a journey ahead of us."
 
A silence befell the room as Wolfsong's battle against the pain wore out. He slumped upon the floor with his breath drawn ragged, and though he slept he did not look peaceful. The ugly black veins that had sprouted from the gem upon his forehead reached around to his ears and stained his skin with a sickly pallor wherever it touched. At last Banurein gave a near invisible nod. "He will make... a resilient specimen," she said.
 
Delial's eye could hardly leave the strange creatures that had affixed themselves upon his body. "I knew you'd like him."
 
"Do you believe in souls, Miss Delial?"
 
Such was a question Delial did not anticipate, and it was enough to draw her gaze to the masked woman. She stared at the midlander with as neutral an expression she could muster. "I... Yes. I do."
 
It was as if Raelisanne Banurein was making small-talk, but she was not the sort to do so without purpose. The blue glimmer that had flickered so vividly over sunken, pitch dark eyes were gone and so she regarded Delial with a face blank and cold as the shadows she had released on Wolfsong. "What is a soul?"
 
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Where is she going with this...? "It... is a spark, of sorts," Delial said. "A flame, that which makes life more than just... life."
 
Banurein turned her attention back down to the unconscious highlander. Delial had not yet decided whether or not she liked being unable to see her face, nor her expression. "I believe that spark you speak of, it is nourished by many things. And... it can be undone," she said thoughtfully, "By many things."
 
An odd sensation was tickling at the back of Delial's thoughts. "Is that your aim?"
 
"I want to undo them. And remake them as I wish."
 
"Remake a soul?" The incredulity in Delial's voice was impossible to mask, but Banurein seemed to take no notice of it. If she did, it could very well have been that she did not care about her highlander companion's disbelief. It was unlike a Garlean to hold such matters sacred, a fact Delial often forgot about the people who had made claim of her homeland.
 
"Perhaps. Or perhaps undo it, and see what remains. What is a man with a broken soul, Miss Delial?"
 
"No man at all." That odd sensation was quickly turning into a chilled feeling, a twisting sensation at the pit of her stomach. "A husk. A ghost."
 
"This one," replied Banurein, her unnaturally even voice somehow sounding pleased, "Will be a beast."
 
He had snapped at her like an animal. Had she not retreated, had she blinked, her throat would likely have been torn to shreds. Delial paused to stare down at the unconscious form of Gharen Wolfsong. Had he not recruited himself into the Resistance, she could very well have gone the rest of her life oblivious to his continued existence. When their home was sacked and set to the torch they knew the boy, son of Gregor, was not dead among the embers. It had not been until she had come to Ul'dah on the hunt for Greyarm that the name Wolfsong had even come to her mind. A mercy unkind, she thought. He should have died that night. "I expect he will make an excellent specimen," she said flatly.
 
Banurein knelt beside the man and produced from her person a second crystal which she gingerly affixed at the center of his bare chest. "Let us go, Mister Wolfsong. My lab awaits. The aetheryte crystal in your possession should also bring you to the lab," Banurein added over her shoulder, only half glancing at the other woman. "But I believe you have a delivery to make."
 
Delial nodded and twisted her lips into a smile, though she did not quite look at Banurein herself. "Indeed I do. I shall... attend this one, as you require it. He should be much easier to keep alive than Greyarm." Even as she said it, however, her stomach twisted again. The creatures latched upon his body were unknown to her and she had no idea what it was they were actually doing to him. If they truly were of the void then she had little doubt his life was indeed forfeit to Banurein's experiment.
 
"I will need you to join me soon. I wish to put your... skills, your magic, in addition to my voidlings. I think the two would compliment each other." She waited while the new crystal, a cold blue like the light of her eyes, attached itself to its new host. Then she rose rigidly to her feet and daintily brushed her hands as if offended more by dust or dirt than by the foul things she had held. "Once your spells are in place, you are free to do as you wish. He will serve as better bait, I predict, than the girl's adoptive father."
 
The girl was, of course, Roen Deneith. Delial's initial order had been to watch her and ensure that she would be ready to be returned to her father, a man to whom Raelisanne Banurein wished to gain favor. A man who, Banurein promised, would assist in returning Delial to Ala Mhigo so that she might return into the good graces of the Empire. The Sultansworn seemed little more than a source of annoyance yet it was made made very clear that Deneith was to remain unharmed. "She surprised me," Banurein continued,  her tone suddenly icy, "With that attack on the Castrum."
 
Delial raised her brows. Mere suns before she had heard the sound of explosions even from the house in Crescent Cove. Castrum Marinum was mere malms away, a towering shard of steel and light that stood off of Thanalan's coast. "Was that what that was...?"
 
"Her and the Resistance. I vastly underestimated their... resourcefulness." Just as soon as it had come, the emotion in her voice vanished, as if it were something she would switch on and off. Her voice went smooth again, cold in its own way. "I leave you to inform them of this one's capture. If they do not figure it out on their own soon enough. After my experiments are done, they are welcomed to free him as now I expect them to do."
 
"Ah," sighed Delial. Implications were adding up into an unpleasant picture. He had snapped like an animal. "Give them back the... beast, then."
 
"How else will I know my experiment is a success?" Slim shoulders rose as Banurein shrugged at Delial. "They came for the girl's father, who was no one. They will certainly come for this one." She turned back to Gharen Wolfsong, looking down at his collapsed form through that expressionless mask. He breathed oddly as if his lungs had found a distaste for air. "They will come for their champion. The one they placed their hopes on."
 
"Quite so." Aylard Greyarm had been persistent in recruiting the young traitor, stubborn even if Wolfsong, as far as Delial could tell, had done nothing to alleviate the struggles in their shared homeland. Old blood meant little if they were unwilling to spill it. A slow grin set to her face and she shook her head. Greyarm would never appreciate what it was he died for. "You are a terror, my little dove. Woe upon me should I ever find myself in your sights. Now, I should make my delivery. It would be uncharitable of me not to handle it personally, I think. I shall be along as soon as I am able."
 
"Indeed, Miss Delial. Your work has been... very satisfactory so far. The Empire will be pleased." The masked face gave her a single slow nod, a dismissal without so  many words. Banurein was fiddling with something at her wrist, a gleam of crystal to match that set to Gharen's chest.
 
A small bow bent Delial towards Banurein and in rising she turned as if to leave. Yet her gaze lingered upon Gharen Wolfsong a moment longer, studying him even as the aether whisked he and his new master away to whatever lab she had set aside for him. She found herself pondering once more if it was indeed a mercy to let the boy he had been run off into the night. "Matters not," she chided herself beneath her breath. The sharp click of her heels returned her to the present, returned her mind to the task at hand. In the other room, innocuously set upon a table, was a wooden box. She collected it, held it delicately in both her hands, as she strode out of the dark, shadowed house. "Still work to be done. I shall see you soon, my dear."

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 07-08-2014

Drybone





Roen,

I’ve need of you. Please forgive my silence. Please forgive me.

Meet with me in Drybone. It is safer there.

Please.

D.


Roen approached the cliffs overlooking Drybone with a tightness in her chest that she could not dismiss. Dark clouds gathered above, the desert sun quickly giving way to the thick press of humid air and ominous shadows. It mirrored the dread that choked her breath and weighed her thoughts.

She had never heard such grim tidings from the Highlander before, the dark-skinned woman always ready with words of wit or comfort. Delial had been Roen’s confidant in her times of need since their meeting in Little Ala Mhigo; she had been there after the conflict at the Nanawa Mines, to lend a sympathetic ear to Roen’s distressed thoughts regarding her two mentors. Roen had despaired over her seeming betrayal of her Master at Arms, and the near deadly confrontation between her Sultansworn mentor and the Resistance.

Delial had reassured her that both mentors would come to believe her innocence in the matter, and the misunderstanding would work itself out. And she was right, Master Gharen did forgive her, and Natalie had decided not to pursue the Resistance in favor of tracking down the Rose.

But now this letter came for her, written in Delial’s hand. Roen did not know what to think. Even when Master Gharen warned her of Delial, and then decided to tail the Highlander for clues, Roen did not want to believe that she had anything to do with Aylard’s disappearance. But now…

She was not so certain. She had not heard from Master Gharen in suns. But if he was tailing her, and she was to meet Delial, perhaps there was hope that she could see that he was well. Surely he would give her some sign, or perhaps even tell her that he had found nothing on Miss Delial to support his suspicions.

So why was she finding it harder to believe it as she approached the lone Highlander overlooking Drybone?

Delial waited alone in silence, a palpable heaviness in the air as Roen approached. Perhaps it was the woman’s posture: her head was lowered, eyes closed, and her lips coiled into a sharp frown. This was not the usual coy and confident Highlander Roen had come to know. Stranger still was the wooden box that rested at her feet.

Roen approached, though even as she did so, her grey eyes darted about, looking for any other figures in the area. There was a part of her that hoped to catch just a glimpse.

“You came,” Delial broke the silence, her eyes opening.

“Your missive was alarming.”

“My apologies. I did not know what to say.” Delial turned to face her, although her gaze did not rise to meet her. Indeed, there was an uncharacteristic uncertainly drawing tension to the woman’s jaw.

“Something is wrong,” Roen tried to ignore the sudden dryness in her throat.

"I've... I've come to learn a great deal these past suns. Thinking I might take the initiative, I..." Delial frowned deeply as she paused. "I must apologise. I am so very sorry, my dearest Roen. I had to..." She drew her breath and looked down to the box at her feet. “I had no choice. I…”

Roen blinked quickly, her eyes shooting to the box. “What is… what is this?”

"It is probably better not to see. I needed to deliver it. She wouldn't… If it was not done, she would know. She knows everything."

Roen’s gaze darted between Delial and the box, dread drawing her brows low. "What is in the box, Miss Delial?"

Delial Grimsong closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. "I believe he is ...was... called Greyarm."

Roen felt all her breath leave her then. She darted forward, falling to her knees, her hands going to the box.

“Roen, don’t--” was the only warning that was offered before the lid was opened. And soon as it was given air, an overwhelming stench of decay erupted from the box. The severed head inside wore a furious and pained expression even in death, his grey skin taut and dried, eyes sunken and shrivelled into dark black things. Roen staggered back from the parcel, her hand rising to her lips to stave off the wave of nausea that rose.

"Do you know who -- no -- what it is that hunts us, Roen?" Delial asked, her eyes turned away from the grisly content of the package. "A monstrous woman. A Garlean. She seemed so…” Delial paused, shaking her head as if to correct herself. “I thought I might learn something. I didn't think she'd..."

Roen was still staring at the severed head, its mouth opened in a silent scream. The face was screaming at her even in death. “She… she did this?”  She could not pry her eyes from the dead man’s face.

There was a long pause before Delial answered, as she wrapped her arms around herself. “No. I… I’m so sorry. I had no choice.” Her voice was strained whisper.

“You…? You did this?!” Roen turned to Delial in horror.

Heavy raindrops began to fall then, drumming against box and streaking the gruesome countenance. Roen’s hand trembled as she slowly closed the lid over it, as if giving it shelter would give it some reprieve from the violence that was visited upon it.

"She knew everything. Aylard, Hroch. Shael and Ruva." Delial hesitated a moment as she leveled her gaze at Roen. "And... Gharen."

Roen felt a chill run down her spine, and she stiffened. She met the woman’s gaze with dread. “Miss Delial." Her voice shook. "Have you seen... Master Gharen?"

The Highlander nodded slowly. "He's alive. He is." Her eyes dropped down to the box, the closed with a frown. "She's had me watching him. I had to... prove myself. She wanted proof that I could be trusted."

The rain and wind were pelting the two women now, tossing their hair and robes haphazardly about them. “...Alive..??” Roen stared at her eyes wide with fear.

"I don't know what she means to do with him. Kill him, probably. Take what information she can from  him, as she did with Greyarm...."

"No... no!" Roen bolted to her feet, stepping towards the woman. "Where? Where is he?"

"I-- I'm so... so sorry, dear Roen, please believe me. I can't... tell you. I can't. You must understand."

Her thoughts whirled even as distant thunder rumbled above. She felt her panic give way to something else, her hands curling into a fist at her side. "Miss Delial, you did not call me here to apologize for his impending death." She gritted her teeth. "You called me here, because you knew I cannot let that be. You need to give me something."

"No. I... You must understand. You... your friends... You stormed a Castrum, did you not? They're on edge now. That I even told you is a risk. They have ears and eyes all over Thanalan. Everywhere. It is safer here , but... If they know that you know..." Delial grimaced. "I know it is not what you want to  hear. But... please. Give me time."

“Give you time? For what?”

"I swore that I would help you. Let me protect Gharen. I ... I think I can find a way. He is the key to everything. I must..."

Roen spun away, her hands digging into her hair as panicked eyes looked to the greyness all around. A part of her was desperate to see a figure, some sign, to show her that what Delial was saying was untrue. That she would see the his face, out there, watching them. But all she saw were whirling and spinning leaves ripped from trees bent by the storm.

"I... misjudged. One forgets that not everyone is as they seem. Please, believe me when I say I thought I was working for the good of Ala Mhigo. I was wrong." The Highlander let out a heavy breath. “Call it haste, or desperation. I needed to act, to do something... and in doing so, mayhaps I sealed my own fate. I do not expect to walk away from any of this alive. But seeing what I have had to do... it would be but a fitting punishment."

Roen still stared out into the dark stark landscape, clinging to the last vestige of hope. "You said he is alive..?"

"He is. She's keeping him safe."

"Who is she, this woman you speak of?" Roen turned to face Delial, her hands trembling.

"She is called Banurein. A cold woman, heartless. I would dare say she is a voidsent in a hyur's skin, so... so empty and cruel as she is. I expect that my usefulness will run low soon, and I will likely vanish as well. Time has never been more important. So I am begging you, Roen.” Delial took a step towards her, her pale eyes pleading. “Let me help. Let me atone for my wrongdoing. Give me time to fix this."

"What will you do?” Roen narrowed her eyes, suspicion now steeling her voice.

"She's been doing something to him. Some sort of wicked magic, the likes of which I have not seen before. I need to attend to him, ensure he survives it. And when he is strong enough, I will... I will send him on his way. Break him out. I think. I don't know." Her voice lowered morosely. "I'm no hero, Roen. I'm no adventurer. But I must do what I can."

All the air left her chest and Roen felt herself grow cold. "So what are you asking me to do…?"

"Nothing. Go on as if nothing is amiss. I know it is difficult, I know it is... infuriating. But that is what you must do."

"As if nothing is amiss..?" She asked incredulously.

"This woman, she is... it is an unnatural spirit she carries about her, this knowledge of things believed secret. The Garleans are here far more entrenched than either of us could imagine. Eyes and ears all over Thanalan, and all over Ul'dah itself." Single pale amber eye stared at Roen with a warning. "One false word and she will know. And she may kill Gharen rather than risk another attack."

Roen turned her gaze back down toward Drybone, the torrential downpour now having soaked through her hair; water was running in rivulets down her face. Was Delial to be believed? Roen desperately looked about as if to search for any other option than to accept what the Highlander was telling her. If she were to arrest the woman… then what of his fate? What did the woman have to gain by telling her all this? By bringing her Greyarm’s decapitated head? Did she have any other choice than to believe the woman? To save his life?

"... I could not risk exposing this within earshot of anyone down there. There is no telling who is who. People are not as they seem, my dearest. You are with the Sultansworn, yes? Do you truly know everyone who wears the title?"

Roen Deneith twisted her lips, not liking the answer that rose from her lips. "Nay. I do not."

"Then you know I am not wrong in asking this of you."

Roen narrowed her eyes, taking a step towards the Highlander woman. “Miss Delial, perhaps I can do something. They wanted me back. They were willing to trade for a man’s life, for my return.” She pleaded desperately, her mind racing. “I will return. This time with no deceit. I need to help him. If there is anything that they want from me..!”

Delial stared back at her, certain keen intensity gathering about the woman. “I know, Roen. I understand. Believe me, I do. I can only promise you that I will come to you, and only you, if I think I may need your help.” Delial rubbed at her temple and gave her a small pitiful grin. "You are of stronger stuff than me, I expect, though I may carry myself otherwise. If there is anyone I can trust, if there is anyone I could turn to... It could only be you, naturally."

There was naught she could do. She felt her stomach twist with a pit of despair. “I will continue as if... nothing is amiss." She surrendered.

Delial stepped closer to her, clasping her hands about Roen’s shoulders. “I swear to you, Roen. If it is the last thing I do, you will see Gharen Wolfsong again. I will do whatever it takes to get him back.”

Roen struggled to remain stoic, meeting the Highlander’s gaze. “Please. Keep him alive.”

"I will keep you informed. But please. Burn the letters after." The darker woman canted her head. “We will be... strong for him. Together, yes?" her gaze drifted to the box at their feet. "Please beg the son for my forgiveness. I ... wish I could in person. It is a most painful thing I have done to him. It is not only to you whom I must atone."

"I do hope you find your atonement, Miss Delial." Roen heard her own voice, dull to her ears. She was still trying to grip with this news. Her eyes sought that of the Highlander. "I am taking you at your word. That you will do whatever you can to bring Master Gharen back."

"It will be so. Trust in me." Delial nodded once, then glanced about cautiously before she walked off into the swirling grey winds.

Roen watched her leave, her silhouette slowly swallowed by the dark storm. She turned then to the rest of the desert, desperation tightening its grip around her heart.

It was a long moment before she buried her face in her hands and wept.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 07-19-2014

A Woman In White
[sub]Part II[/sub]





Hell.

Many often invoked it, or cursed it, believing themselves to be suffering even a minute aspect of it when they encountered what they could not comprehend or endure. Some wished others' descent into it, fueled by hatred and vitriol.

But what did anyone truly know of hell or any of its seven incarnations?

Raelisanne Banurein had often wondered. Was hell a state of physical suffering, or one of the mind? It was likely both. Could it be of one's own making? Could hell exist amongst the living? She believed it so. If hell was something that one suffered, enough suffering could be manifested anywhere to create the worst nightmares.

It was not the darkness or the perversity of the concept that drew her attention. She had no interest in causing or watching the torment of others. Far from it.

It was what came of such perdition. Some say the journey is the thing, and not the destination, yet do we all not strive toward them regardless? A journey was nothing without some form of destination. The more the better, perhaps.

Transformation is both journey and destination. It was one of her core beliefs.

What was the product of a broken soul? Was man still man, or was something new made in his place? Or did a broken soul equate to a broken man?

These questions she has asked many times and over many corpses. Trying to break someone down to their essence often resulted in insanity or violent death brought on by lunacy. She had yet to find the perfect subject, much less the answers that she sought.

"What is a soul?" she had asked Delial Grimsong.

"It is... a spark of sorts," the Highlander had responded, trying her best to hide her puzzlement; her hesitation gave her away, however. "It is a flame, that which makes life more than just... life.”

"What is a man without a soul?"

"A husk. A ghost."

"This one..." Raelisanne had turned from Delial even though the taller woman would not see the barest hint of a smile behind the mask. "This one will be a beast."

Raelisanne watched through the thick glass window that overlooked the metal cell below, her violet eyes intent upon the single occupant that sat hunched within. Gharen Wolfsong was leaning against the wall, his wrists bound in heavy iron shackles. She could already spot the raw flesh where he had continuously tested the limits of his bindings over the many suns that he had worn them. His bare torso was marred with old and new wounds; the ones that bore freshly dried blood coming at the courtesy of Delial Grimsong.

The Highlander woman’s skills in the art of blood sacrifice was impressive, as Raelisanne had previously noted. Delial made circular geometric incisions upon Wolfsong’s flesh, while the man was held immobile, bound bodily to a metal table and heavily drugged. But screams came even in that altered state, as each wound was treated with alchemic powder that made them smoke, bubble and sizzle. As blood magic and alchemy coursed through his veins, Raelisanne added her own augmentations--that of the voidlings, her own specialty.

Sanguine fluid turned from a crimson hue to something darker and more unnatural, and Raelisanne watched it snake through him with quiet anticipation. This was the beginning. A part of her wondered if the slight quickening of her pulse was akin to delight, or even the hint of disquiet. She had not felt anything that would approximate true emotion in cycles; she had almost forgotten what that felt like.

But there was anticipation. She wanted success. Wolfsong had been a resilient specimen. And with the numerous scars upon his body, along with clear evidence of previously broken bones... the things she had learned of his history…

He was perfect. Just what she needed. He had survived the physical augmentations so far, and with Delial’s aid, the infusion process had been more efficient and complete. But the silver-haired woman knew breaking him was not about just affecting the body. There was still the mind. And his spirit. The things that made him who he was.

He had endured savage beatings, sun after sun after sun. He would then be left to try and rest, but just as his pulse slowed and his eyes began to drift closed, the door to the metal cell hissed open with a high pitched alarm. Uniformed guards would enter brandishing long rods that sparked and spat with electricity or thick blunt wooden batons. Wolfsong had even dislocated his thumb to liberate one hand from his bindings, surprising the first set of guards and killing a few of them with just one hand free. Astounding strength and force of will, she had marveled at the news, lips pursed to hide her delight.

But she had more. And he was but one man, drugged and poisoned. His limbs moved slower and more sluggish than before, as if an anchor had been strapped to them. She knew sooner or later the fight would be beaten out of him physically. Each time he pushed past his fatigue and pain to fight back, she knew his strength would fail him faster. His fist would lose its tightness, his legs buckling without warning. She did not bother to count the suns until his body gave in; it happened as she predicted, the Highlander eventually just lay still when guards entered his chamber.

Raelisanne watched as he only attempted to mitigate the worst of the blows. Her lips pressed primly. He is ready.

When the cell door hissed open again, it was Raelisanne's own shadow that fell over him. The guards parted to make way for her, and she approached the bruised and beaten Highlander. Her white coat was pristine as were her gloves. Her mask was in place--an enchanted article that gave her a constant scrolling reading of his vitals, as well as allowed her to see the aura of void energies that coursed through his body’s aether.

She kneeled beside him, her voice low and even behind the mask. “Your strength leaves you, Mister Wolfsong.”

He looked at her with one eye now swollen shut. The other seemed to want to shut due to the weight of exhaustion, which was expected. Raelisanne could still see see a flash of defiance behind his hazel gaze, and his bruised jaw tensed with unspoken words.

Her hand came to lightly rest against his arm, his skin slick with sweat and blood. "And now your aether turns on you as well." She clucked her tongue and canted her head slowly; she could see the glowing blue eyes of her mask reflected in his one open eye. "Why the defiance, Mister Wolfsong? Why do you hold on to this idea that you should fight? Aren't we all simply creatures seeking survival? If you give yourself to me, this will be easier. And I promise, you will survive this."

His breathing remained heavy as he shifted slightly to turn his head fully to her, a low growl rumbling from his chest. He spat out some blood on the floor, murder in his gaze. "Best get on with killin' me then. Cause if'n I get out of here? I'm comin' fer ye." Despite his resistance, his voice was strained and tired.

Raelisanne shook her head. "Is this that spark? The thing that makes you more than a mere beast? That thing that makes us think that we are more than just particles of aether, fibers of muscle, and connections of nerves?" Her gloved fingers trace his arm, down to the manacles. Her attention lingered on the streak of crimson that marred her white glove. "What happens when your aether runs black? Your muscles no longer obey you and your thoughts betray you?"

She turned her masked gaze back towards Wolfsong. "We are all nothing but beasts within. Beasts with basic instincts that urge us to survive. We will kill our neighbors when threatened. We will eat our young when starved."

She felt the muscles in his arms slack a little, and he flashed her an uncharacteristic toothy smile that spread wickedly across his face, "Pretty well certain I've burned yer image inte my brain, an I'll be comin fer ye regardless."

First rage. Now malice. He is ready.

Raelisanne felt her own pulse quicken just slightly. "Very good then, Mister Wolfsong." She said, her voice never faltering.

She lifted her hand, a single fingertip glowing blue. It reflected the cold shimmering hue within the mask’s orbits. She reached out and lightly touched his forehead.

“Let us begin.”

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Gharen - 08-11-2014

How long has it been? Suns? Moons? Time had turned into a blur, it meant nothing here.
 
Gharen remembered being bound in that dimly lit cabin. Then blackness fell. He drifted in and out of consciousness, drugs? Poison? He could not tell.
 
He remembered being strapped down to a cold flat metal surface and he could not move. It was almost a dream, this memory, as the two women stood over him. Dark skinned one, Delial, she had something sharp in her hand.  And she was tracing his body, no she was cutting him, in slow precise circular motions. A searing burn followed each line, each curve. It made his visions blur, it slowed his thoughts, sending them into a dizzying spin. It made him unable to focus.
 
Then the black things were placed on his body again. And as they attached, they bit into his flesh. From their fangs he could feel their venom slowly swim into his veins, like snakes, slithering through his body.  His muscles twitched in protest, not of his own volition. White fanged smile split the dark woman’s face, she smiled at him as if proud of what she had done.
 
Then there was the masked woman, and her glowing blue eyes. And as the eerie light pulsed, so did his veins, as if the black vipers that ran through them suddenly writhed in pain as if on fire. Gharen could not remember if he screamed, he did not stay conscious long.
 
When he woke again, he was no longer bound to that cold metal thing, he was lying in a dark cell.  He could feel the smooth cold steel chill his skin. On his bare chest he could feel the dried blood that traced geometric symbols that had been carved into his flesh.
 
Sleep attempted to claim him, but each time uniformed Garlean soldiers entered the cell heralded by a painfully loud alarm.  As the door opened, they filed in wielding batons, some of them crackling with electricity. Gharen didn't need an explanation; he had enough scars that marked the majority of his body to know what was coming. His heart rate quickened and he took several deep breaths in preparation. He jerked his body to one side attempting to partly shield himself, as the savage beating began.
 
What the guards did not hear was the sickening pop of Gharen's left thumb as it was dislocated, giving him allowance to slide his left hand through the manacle. He swung back viciously, perhaps desperately, but he received more punishing blows than he could return in kind.
 
In the end, while some of those guards did not walk out of that cell, he was but a man in a losing battle, fueled by anger and rage. Whatever they did to him while had been bound previously, he could feel its lingering effects, that blackness that gave heaviness his limbs.
 
Bell after bell, sun after sun, how long had he been here? In the blackness of this cell, time didn’t seem to exist anymore. His strength was failing him now, and his will to fight back was beginning to wane. Eventually the best he could hope to do was to mitigate the worst of the blows. It was then she came.
 
A thousand threats swirled through his mind as she spoke, but he said nothing. His remaining act of defiance was refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of a response. The more this woman talked the more he wanted to kill her. Her words elicited a growl to well up from within him, he had noticed himself doing that. How often did he do that? He'd never taken conscious notice of it before. But when he looked back at the masked woman, he felt a burning within him and he wanted nothing more than to throttle the life out of her.
 
But as she continued, Gharen started to feel numb and an overwhelming feeling of detachment settled upon him as if his consciousness were no longer in control of his body. Was it the poison running through his veins that fogged his thoughts? He was fairly certain he’d said something in return to the woman, a threat maybe, but he couldn’t make out his own words. It was then that she said something; the eyes of her mask glimmered blue as she touched his forehead.
 
All went white.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Gharen - 08-11-2014

At first, there was a feeling of relief that washed over him as he finally felt the call of sleep tugging at him. But then a realization hit him. Why? Why was she giving him what he wanted suddenly? No, this was all wrong! Indeed, the thought came too late; his body had already given way to exhaustion. The aether that flowed in him wanted to obey her whims. In that moment of relief, it let her in, and his mind went blank.
 
When he opened his eyes, it was a clear day. The autumn air was thin and cold within the mountains where his father hunted. He would bring his son to some of the hunting trips, and Gharen remembered how tall his father seemed then, with a long thin spear strapped to his back.
 
Gharen was tall for his age, at five winters at almost four fulms, "Almost." his mother would say, even though he barely passed three fulms in spring. But with her smile reassuring him, Gharen could not argue. Something tugged at the back of his mind, as if to say something was out of place, but... he could not quite remember what. But this, this was a relief beyond measure. To be hunting by his father side, his mother waiting for him at home. What else could a boy want?
 
A breeze blew past them as he and his father lay in the tall grass. The leaves of the surrounding trees swayed with each other to mark the passing of an autumn wind, even though it all looked like something out of a painting as the colors ran together in his memory. The child did not care.
 
His father had been tracking a buck all morning, and in doing so teaching his son how to read the signs of the wilds. Together they watched as the buck entered their line of sight, his father muttering quiet words of wisdom to the boy. A part of Gharen wondered why he couldn’t hear his father’s voice, nor could he remember what it sounded like. But the boy knew what was expected of him. As his father got up quietly to attempt to get within striking distance of the animal, Gharen watched as he had been instructed.
 
In what felt like an eternity passing as he watched and waited, a chill ran over the boy and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Moments passed as they watched the buck, but then something happened that seemed odd. Suddenly his father was next to him, thrusting the spear into young Gharen's hand.
 
Gregor nodded to him, his deep set eyes expectant. He looked from the young boy to the full grown buck ahead of them.
 
Gharen took his father’s spear in hand, his jaw agape that his father wanted him to make the kill. Curling his small hands tightly around the shaft of the spear, he tried to get up without making a sound and approach the buck as he’d seen father do previously. His heart raced now as was close enough to see the buck grazing; he was within throwing distance. He glanced back to his expectant father who nodded. But as Gharen turned back to focus his aim, he could not shake the feeling that just beyond the edges of his vision there was something there watching him.
 
The young boy was careful. He was taught well by his father. And yet there was a slight blurriness to the ground he stepped on, and his foot cracked on a dry pine cone, shattering it to pieces and breaking the careful silence. The buck turned in an instant, and spotting the boy with the spear in hand, it stomped the ground once. Gharen thought that it may attack in panic, but then he heard the footsteps of his father behind him, and the buck spun and bolted into the woods.
 
Gharen was not given the moment to consider or even react. Soon as he turned, his head snapped to the side with a hard backhanded slap from his father. The boy fell onto his back, as his hand reached up to his cheek that was now burning.

”Yer a worthless sod!” he heard his father say. And yet… something in the back of his mind said this was not his father’s voice. It was someone else. Someone else that he should not have yet known. Gregor stood over him, angry, sneering, and with a bottle in his hand. When did the bottle get there?
 
"I... I'm." Gharen started to stammer as tears started to well in his eyes. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t focus on it beyond the pounding in his chest. He wiped his eyes to clear the moisture there, and for a moment he glanced to a lingering darkness behind his father. He could swear for an instant he saw the flash of yellow-green eyes and heard a distant growl.
 
His attention returned to the towering man before him who was now seething with anger. Gharen tried to stammer out an apology, but was cut off as Gregor spun from him. The man was never one for many words, this he remembered. He snatched up the spear in one hand and walked away from him in long quick strides. "Home!" he barked. "There be no meat fer ye this eve."
 
As he pushed himself up off the ground, Gharen rubbed his cheek and watched his father’s back. He looked down to the ground and followed his father quietly, afraid that anything he might say would set the man off again.  And yet, as he followed, he was sure of it. The feeling of being watched. He glanced to his left and right, and occasionally he'd catch a glimpse of something else, perhaps someone else just outside of the periphery of his vision.
 
They walked back in silence, Gregor’s stride angry and long, swaying with drunkenness. Gharen had not remembered him this way, but he saw it now as clear as day.  His mother waited outside their home, as usual, waiting for their return. Her hazel eyes were warm, and she always had a smile for young Gharen. She would welcome him with open arms. But when she saw the dark look on Gregor’s eyes, her smile gave way to a frown. “What happened?” Again, Gharen could not remember the sound of his mother’s voice, and like his father, this was someone else that he should not have yet known.
 
“Th’ uselessh boy shcared off th’ buck we’d been huntin’ all day. It looks like he’s goin’ tae go hungry.” Gregor’s speech was slurred with anger and alcohol.
 
Aline clucked her tongue, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “My oldest and only son. Gharen m’dear, sweetling. When will you be of use?” Her voice was sweet as honey. One eye seemed to have gone somewhat pale.
 
The boy’s shoulders drooped as he looked to the floorboards, "I... I'm sorry." He had no excuses, he had indeed failed to bring down the buck, scared it away. There was a cold feeling within his chest as if an icy hand slowly gripped his heart and began to squeeze. Then the cry came from within the house. That of an infant babe. The young thing was wailing, her cry echoing into the woods around them.
 
“Shut that thing up!” Gregor bellowed. He was becoming angrier. Gharen recognized it easily enough. He knew what would happen when … his guardian, no his father, became angry. It would not go well for him. Or any target of his temper.
 
“She’s hungry, my dear husband.” Aline shrugged, shaking her head with a sad pitying look to Gharen. “But since we have no meat for the dinner table, we shall all go hungry, I’m afraid.” Gregor kicked back a wooden chair on the porch. He threw his empty bottle away, letting it shatter against a tree, and snatched up another one near the door. “If she doesn’t shut up, I will shut ‘er up.” He stormed inside the house.
 
Realizing what was about to happen, Gharen rushed to the doorway after his father. "It was my fault, I'm sorry!” That brought Gregor to spin around, easily redirecting his anger at something or someone else. He gave Gharen's chest a hard kick, knocking the air from him and sending the young boy to the ground. There was a painful crack at the impact, and his chest burned. And still the baby wailed behind them, now screaming in fear.
 
"I said.. shut up!" Gregor yelled angrily, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand.  He spun back towards the cradle on the other side of the room. Gharen clutched at his broken ribs as tears rolled down his face. Somewhere in the forest beyond, he heard the growl again, louder now, though it didn't seem to register to his family. He pushed himself up to his knees and looked to his mother pleadingly, but her indifference was clear. This was all wrong, none of it felt right.
 
The thought of Ortolf harming his sister made Gharen’s blood boil. "Leave her alone!" he shouted after his father. Gregor -- no Ortolf -- Gharen could see both men standing there. His memory transposed the face of his abusive guardian, whose voice he did remember, over his father's visage. The images began to flit back and forth. And both... were furious. He ceased to advance towards the cradle, instead he stomped back towards young Gharen and brought his booted heel down on his hand hard. The bones of his fingers cracked. “I dinnae tell ye te get up boy!”  Another drunken angry sneer. A fist flew at him, landing a hard impact to one side of the boy’s head.
 
As the pain in his hand shot up his arm, young Gharen called out in agony, and the force of the man's punch bounced his head off the floor. A gashing wound began to pour blood and clouded his vision, and Gharen felt his body going into shock. But as his vision blurred as unconsciousness began to take hold of him, the angry growl of the wolf rang in his ear.
 
"Let the beast out, Mister Wolfsong." A soft distant voice echoed from the darkness he had spotted earlier. Who was that? The boy could not place the voice. But she sounded familiar. Calm. Yet forceful. "Or you will die... as will she."
 
Aline seemed not to hear it, she stood there, her arms crossed. She wore a sad expression. Completely fake. Gregor -- Ortolf? -- no Gregor, squatted in front of him, sneering. He set the bottle on the floor next to Gharen. "Ye be a good little boy... and stay right there while I shut 'er up. Then ye will be next." His father stood, and Gharen blinked through his blurry vision to see his booted feet walking away, towards the cradle. The wailing was now deafening. The babe was terrified.
 
Panic. That was the only thing Gharen felt now, he saw movement and looked to the door of their home. There stood a great grey wolf, snarling at his father’s back. The beast was easily taller than the five year old boy. The snarling animal and the boy shared a look for but a moment before Gharen reached out to touch the animal.
 
Gharen watched as the great wolf disappeared into dark wisps of smoke, just before he slipped into unconsciousness and his muscles went slack. The growl was coming from him now as the wolf pushed them up off the ground and reached for the bottle set next to him. He felt his muscles coil with bloodlust and breaking the bottom of the bottle agaist the floor, he lunged at his father, at Ortolf. The jagged edge of the glass cut deep into the man’s heel severing the achilles tendon causing his prey to fall while screaming in agony.
 
As soon as Ortolf hit the ground, the wolf went for the throat, hand wrapping about his father's windpipe. He felt the flesh squeezing beneath his grip as the glass in the other gouged a deep wound in the man’s neck. The wolf tore the ragged flesh free as his father lay there gurgling helplessly.
 
The wolf rose as the cries from the crib drew its attention. But the babe was not a threat, not prey. Its gaze then fell to Gharen's mother still standing in the door way uncaring. Blood began to boil again, and the wolf lunged. Aline let out an ear piercing scream, but it was short lived.
 
The memory faded into a blur of red, and a new one began. One by one the memories of people he loved were visited and defiled, Qaeli, Miss Jara, Miss Brynhilde, all ended the same, in some form of betrayal. Each time, the wolf was present, and each time it took control more easily than the last. And each dear friend and loved one that fell to its fury left a deep wound upon his soul.

Then finally he found himself within Ul’dah. He could recognize the entrance to the Quicksand, but before he could remember why he was there, he saw Obsidian Hornet standing before him. He recalled this memory with some hesitation, for it was the day she left him. She had told him goodbye and that she was going to help people and bring balance to her life. But as it did with the rest of his memories, an icy hand gripped at his heart again as they exchanged farewells.
 
"But not only that," Hornet said, her voice turning cool, "I am leaving YOU, Gharen. You're not the man I thought you were going to be." He felt that tightness in his chest constrict. He looked to the ground between them attempting to remain stoic in the face of what she was now telling him.
 
"You're..."  Hornet paused, searching for the right blade, "too weak.  I realize that I was blinded by what you could have been but you're just not that man.  You're this man."  She makes a gesture towards him. "Weak and ugly.  The scars were novel I suppose, but why would I want to spend a life with something so hideous?  You understand of course." The words weren't delivered with malice exactly. Instead they were delivered with a cool, uncaring dispassion. As if she were talking to a dog.
 
This was what he'd always expected to hear, he'd wondered why she'd shown such interest in him from the start. He continued to look to the ground between them for he was certain that if he looked upon her, the facade of his stoicism would crumble away. He nodded in understanding and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "...Aye."
 
That meek response seemed to infuriate her and she sneered, venom seeping into her words. "See? This is what I'm talking about. You're nothing! A man would have fought for me! You're no man! You're barely a dog! Sniveling and shrinking. Disgusting."
 
He could hear the Wolf's growl again, its pitch changing to that of a vicious snarl.That voice echoed amidst the streets. "Even she betrays you Mister Wolfsong." Hornet and the faceless citizens that passed did not seem to hear or react to it. "Give in, and the pain will end." Hornet said something else that Gharen could no longer understand, but the look of disgust on her face was clear as she started to turn away. There was a sudden feeling of numbing disconnect, it was a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar. The wolf took control easier than ever.
 
The faceless citizens did not react to the attack, instead the colors of the memory became that of a painting smeared. The only clarity was that of the Wolf and Hornet. Before she could fully turn away, it lashed out at her, a closed fist striking her in the throat. She collapsed to her knees gasping desperately for a breath that would not come, her hand rising in front of her to try and  hold off the rest of the wolf’s assault. Somewhere, a part of Gharen cried out for it stop, as he watched another loved one destroyed by the wolf’s rage.
 
“Well done," came the voice from the shadows, even as the dark crimson pool grew on the floor, flowing and expanding out over the stone.
 
Then there was that familiar high pitched hiss, the door was opening to his cell. His senses were waking, brought back to the world by the blinding light that flooded his room. Silhouette of guards stood at the door way, rods in their hands. Gharen knew this sight well. Except this time... his hand was not bound. Nor were his ankles. Manacles were gone.
 
"Let the beast out, Mister Wolfsong." That voice rang in his head again. The silhouette eclipsed the light of the door as figures entered his room. There was little to no goading required, this time the wolf was in control now. The beast heard the hated female’s voice and a deep, angry, feral growl rumbled from the man's chest as he rose. The wolf grabbed its dislocated left thumb and pulled it back into place with a sickening pop. Its upper lip quivered as it bared its teeth at the guards entering the room. The wolf remembered these ones as they approached, with weapons at the ready. All were threats, and none were leaving this cage alive.
 
The wolf lunged at the first guard, going straight for the man's throat. In a sudden tackle, Gharen's hand crushed the young man’s windpipe as teeth came down on to flesh breaking skin. Repeated strikes from batons were leveled onto as it killed the first of its prey, and the blows it suffered only angered it further. It snatched up the dead corpse’s weapon, as the wolf spun around and attacked two more.
 
All wore the Garlean masks and the uniforms. All held the rods that had prodded and beaten him before. All screamed as they met their death, those that did not have their windpipes crushed and ripped. And one by one, they dropped, and the dark red pool of blood grew at his feet. And the cell door hissed closed behind the grisly scene, even as blood splattered the walls.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 09-04-2014

((the following is written with much thanks and collaboration with the player of Jameson Taeros))



The Night Life



"Oh Jameson, must you go so soon?"

Jameson Taeros curled a charming smile to the Miqo'te dancer who wiggled on his lap. "Alas, beautiful. Business does not wait." He gently uncoiled her pink tail from around his leg, feigning an apologetic frown for the girl's benefit. He had not bothered to learn her name; she and two others served well as a distraction for the guests he entertained that evening at the Golden Bazaar. The transactions went as predicted. He knew his employers would be pleased with the profitable agreements that were made this eve.

Gently setting the pouting dancer to the side, he rose and nodded to those still indulging in the company and the fine wine at the table. They mumbled some semblance of thanks as he bid them farewell, and James noted their glazed eyes and flushed faces. This was a good thing; clouded minds became negligent of the details in favor of pleasures after all, and he attributed more than a few successes to lascivious loins. The men paid him no mind as he bowed, for they saw him as a mere subordinate to the heads of the Syndicate. It was his employer they sought to gain favors with, not him. That suited Jameson just fine. He only paused at the door to retrieve his cloak, for the desert skies looked to drench the travelers venturing into the roads that night.

Stepping outside, he wrapped the cloak about him. Leaves and fliers were tossed haphazardly throughout the bazaar by the stormy winds. His mind was already going over the meetings that would await him in Ul'dah later that evening; his Monetarist employers had a couple of new hires for his perusal.

Alabrous Tane, a man skilled at forgery and obtaining the right papers from the right people for the wrong reasons, definitely could be of use. Tane was grudgingly recommended to him by a Highlander bard named Callae, who had just won the favor of one of his employers with her charms and swaying hips. (As well as her skill with whips; training chocobos was only one of her talents in that regard.) Despite her sordid connections with the Ala Mhigan Resistance--a fact that Jameson discovered when he vetted her--his employer elected to forgive such inconvenient details when given the right incentive. In Callae's case, she provided just the right amount of leg, sass, and smile. James reminded himself to keep a careful eye on her from the moment she was hired.

But the bard had already provided something useful. If it wasn't for her, James wondered if Tane would have been considered at all. The man wore his lewd nature upon him like a gaudy piece of jewelry, and his proclivity towards losing large sums of money whilst gambling made him somewhat of a risky investment. Still, knowing the right people could carry a man far in the Jewel, and Tane at least seemed to have that going for him--even if he too had somewhat of a distant past with the Ala Mhigan Resistance. But even more than Callae, Tane seemed eager deny that that part of his past ever existed.

Then there was the matter of his other employer. James often thought of her when subjects like the Resistance rose in his mind. But he had not heard from the silver-haired woman in almost a cycle. She had always preferred to keep their connection out of the public eye. He had known the woman since before the Calamity, years ago when she escaped from her home and her family to find a new haven and a new purpose within the Empire. Jameson marveled at how their positions had reversed since that day, that now he answered to her. He no longer saw the darkness in her violet eyes--those short glimpses of the shattered woman she had been beneath the surface.

Now all that remained was a cold and calculating scientist, one whose interests lay in manipulating people’s thoughts, their will...their very being.

Communication with her had gone silent, as it sometimes tended to, but it had now been over a cycle--the longest span of silence yet. She never did call upon him often, granted, and a part of him preferred it that way. He had his own life and business to conduct, after all, far away from whatever she wanted. Or the Empire. Serving Lolorito and the interest of the Syndicate had given him a new path in life, one that he did not expect when it all began, and now he thrived in this many-faceted role.

Would he prefer that she never contact him at all? He had pondered that on nights where he found himself restless. But he did not wonder for too long; there were things to get done, and far too many pieces to move on the board. The Syndicate’s work was never done. The cog of the wheel that turned beneath Ul’dah never stopped for anyone.

Drawing the hood over his head, Jameson began to make his way across the courtyard. It was mostly deserted. The rainy gusts would usually have the vendors scrambling to cover their wares with protective canvas, but none were at their stands. Even the chocobo stables were closed. Odd...

He narrowed his eyes, spotting a singular figure walking toward him, with a beggar tray in hand. The man had a tattered hood about him, and mumbled something about food and gil.

“I have nothing to spare, dear man.” Jameson maintained his casual stance, waving the man off. But his attention never left him.

The beggar continued to advance toward him, holding out his bowl. “Just a gil to spare.” As he extended his hand, Jameson noted the empty bowl, but the hand that held it was free of grime and dirt, and his fingernails were well trimmed.

Jameson stepped back once as the bowl was thrust toward his chest. The beggar’s other hand had disappeared into the tattered robe, so it was no surprise when it shot back out, jabbing a sharp blade intended for Jameson's abdomen.

What he did not expect was two more shadowy figures peeling away from the building behind him.

RE: A Legacy in Blood - Roen - 09-04-2014

The jab of the knife was thrust aside as James struck the attacker’s wrists, first the one holding the knife then the other with the bowl, which went bouncing across the muddy ground as the assailant lunged again with his knife. James dodged to the side and grabbed the arm holding it, pulling his assailant in closer. Two quick strikes with the elbow to the man’s throat sent him staggering back, choking for breath. James noted the man’s eyes as the tattered hood was tossed back with the wind. They shot to his flank.

More assassins.

His hand slipped within his cloak to draw out three small throwing knives hidden beneath his doublet. Two figures wearing dark leather to make them blend in with the night approached him from either side, the glint of steel in their hands. They wore masks, only their eyes visible. Jameson did not need to know who any of them were, but their purpose was clear.

The beggar was a decoy.

The assassin to the right flicked his wrist, sending a deadly projectile Jameson's way. Fast and accurate. James shifted his weight slightly to lean to the left, and the throwing dagger sailed past his head only an ilm away. He heard the rush of footsteps from the opposite side of him, the rain lending even the quickest and quietest footsteps a small splash in warning. Jameson afforded but a glance to both his flanks, that briefest glimpse allowing him to duck the swing of the long serrated dagger that arced for his neck.

Short blade. Close-quarters assassin. The one bearing down on him was already bringing his dagger low, wasting no time. James struck the swing aside with the side of his palm, jutting the butt of his other hand at the man’s underside of the chin. Taeros sprang up as the man’s head snapped back, affording him that precious second to coil his arm around the man’s extended hand with the dagger. His feet digging in, he pivoted at the waist, spinning the man in front of him.

Two more throwing daggers thudded into the man, one on his upper torso, the other on the nape of his neck. Quite accurate, James noted. He glanced to the second assassin over the shoulder of the man who was now gurgling blood by his ear. But overconfident. Seeing the human shield in between them, the second assassin drew a scimitar from his hip. With a slight pivot of his feet, Jameson flung his arm, sending the three knives nestled within the web of his fingers towards the assassin that was rushing him.

The assassin batted two away with his scimitar as he charged forward, though the third one found its mark just below the left collarbone. But that barely slowed him down. James pushed the bloodied human shield between them, the dying man now grasping at his neck in a futile attempt to slow the spurting of his lifeblood. The second assassin sidestepped his partner with nary a glance, his scimitar cutting rain in quick smooth arcs in front of him. Jameson hopped back out of reach of the first swing, sidestepped another, then hopped back away from the third that sought to disembowel him.

This one is quicker, he observed, and in the back of his mind he remembered that the beggar still lived; his strikes had not quite broken the trachea. But he could not spare a glance elsewhere -- the scimitar strokes came fast. He turned sideways to dodge two more swings, though one came close enough to leave a tear on his sleeve and draw blood.

Jameson backpedalled toward one of the deserted vendor tables. In their hurried escape, the merchants had left their goods strewn about. James grabbed a silver plate from the table, flinging it at his assailant. The man brought up his arm to shield his head from the oncoming objects, his advance slowing as he did so. But by the time his hand lowered, James had a brass candlestick in one hand. He turned his wrist, holding the candlestick upside down, lining up the length of the candlestick against the side of his arm.

The assassin with the scimitar advanced again, seeking quick strikes to end the fop. But this time Jameson stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The first swing of the scimitar was parried, metal of the blade scraping loudly against the brass candlestick where it should have sliced into the nobleman’s forearm. A quick and vicious swing of the elbow struck the assassin’s neck; James’ arm then uncoiled to shoot behind the attacker’s neck, grabbing and pushing him downward. James brought his knee up to meet the man’s face, an audible crack telling of shattered nose and broken cheekbone. He brought the metal candlestick down on the back of the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.

The assassin's scimitar dropped to the ground with a wet clang and the body fell away. James spotted the beggar five fulms away. But the man was already eyeing the limp body on the ground. He spun and broke into a full sprint out of the bazaar. James yanked the throwing knife that was embedded in the man at his feet, and launched it at the fleeing figure. The beggar had worn no armor as part of his disguise, which left his legs exposed. When the knife pierced his left hamstring, the man fell hard, skidding across wet gravel and mud.

Jameson straightened, looking about. Undoubtedly there were eyes behind the closed doors, peering through the cracks in the wood and the windows. But he knew none would speak of it; they all knew better than to talk of these kinds of business dealings. He checked the bleeding wound on his arm, one that was now staining his lovely doublet. Even as he strode the distance between himself and the man struggling on the ground, James gave the building he left a sidelong glance.

There was the possibility that any one of his guests within could have sent the assassins. Or that this was a gift from another member of the Syndicate. Or any of the Royalist families. These sorts of treacheries were the norm, hidden--if barely--in the underside of that faceted Jewel that was Ul'dah.

The "beggar" was desperately trying to crawl away with one good leg; the other was sliding behind in the wet dirt, useless. The man's eyes widened when the nobleman reached behind him and drew out a small but wicked looking serrated knife.

“I suppose this means I am going to be late for my meeting.” Jameson sighed. Then he smiled. "I apologize for what's to come, in advance."

Civility was still expected, of course.