corsairboon

[corsairboon]

Brunch with the Enemy

Corsa’ir Boon sat down to lunch twenty five minutes ago. He was at The Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa, and he had a BLT on rye, some coleslaw and a blueberry muffin. He had unsweetened iced tea. It was a nice breezy day with a shining sun and cloudless sky. A fine temperate day that was neither hot, nor cold but just right. Opposite Corsa’ir sat a male Hrothgar. 

Corsa’ir was of course a keeper, barely the height of a midlander even at his tallest. Of fair complexion and a naturally kept black hair with a streak of color. His lunch mate was a mat black hrothgar, easily two fulms above the height of Boon. He wore a white button down and slacks, and a pair of glasses. The hrothgar cut into a salisbury steak, took a small savored bite and then sipped his coffee. 

“So Mister Boon,” began the Hrothgar, the first words exchanged after twenty five minutes. “I feel as if we both can’t sit here in silence, otherwise there is no advantage in either of us meeting like this.”

“What’s your name?” Corsa’ir finally spoke.

“You already know it,” replied the Hrothgar. 

He did. “What did you do to Felme?” Came Boon’s second question. 

“You already know that as well,” replied the Hrothgar. 

He did. “What do you plan on doing?” Came Boon’s third question. 

“That I would be surprised if you didn’t already know,” replied the Hrothgar. 

Corsa’ir finally did something other than ask a question. “You’re planning on refining your process until it’s perfect.” Boon picked at his muffin, the slaw and sandwich long eaten. “Then sell it.” He dropped a piece of muffin for a bird pecking by the railing. 

The hrothgar at first flashed a curious stare, perhaps even a glare, then settled into an amused smile. “Now what would make you think that, Mister Boon?”

“Because,” Another tossed crumb from the keeper’s plate. “You’ve so far shown an aptitude for a wide variety of things, and a callous foolishness with other things… at least on the surface.” Corsa’ir steadied his singular gaze finally on the hrothgar. “But that’s only if I analyze you from a standard point of view. I was looking at you from the angle of some insipid world domination outfit with a shtick.” Another crumb tossed down, drawing more hungry sea fowl. “But if I look at it from th’ angle of a bunch of experimenting tek developers?” Corsa’ir paused and sipped his tea, sighing. “Makes perfect sense.”

The hrothgar settled into slowly eating his steak then, looking, to Corsa’ir at least as if he was lost in thought. Three bites then over a minute, the large black furred cat man stopping to sip his coffee. “And?” He finally said. “What do you intend to do with this theory of yours?”

Corsa’ir shrugged. “Nothing much, at least not at the moment.” There was in fact a second shrug, more muffin being thrown away. “What do you intend to do about Felme?” Was his first query after. “And my wife,” His second more casually spoke. “-and me?” His third. “Because I’ll be honest, we’re on pretty even grounds right now.” Another sip of iced tea. “And not just because I have two Maelstrom snipers trained on you, and three covert ops converging around us.”

The hrothgar chuckled. “Oh Mister Boon,” Sipping his coffee, the large cat man leaned back in his seat. “You speak like you’re the only one with operatives ready to kill and maim and cause chaos across Limsa Lominsa.” A satisfied full belly sigh. “But yes, we are currently evenly matched even if it's mildly to my annoyance. You’ve cost us two bases,”

“You nearly cost me two people being brain-fucked mind slaves. One of which,” Corsa’ir took out his lemon wedge from his tea, sucking the juice from it, “-being myself,” Boon bit back as amicably as possible sounding.

“Fair. We each have tek that the other does not, access to skills and information kept outside the sphere of the other’s understanding.” The hrothgar finished his steak’s last bite. “So let us agree, for the time to step back and let the other side… ‘prepare’ as it were.” He glowered in a smouldering grey-eyed stare back at Boon. 

A quirk of his lips, that smarmy cocksure grin spreading across Corsa’ir’s face. “What about Twenty Four then? Just gonna abandon the work you did on Felme?” Boon tossed the last of his muffin to the deck, likely not needing nor wanting it anymore. 

“You may keep her.” The hrothgar said nonchalant. “We have stripped everything we needed from that one. Everything about your ‘Cirque’ that we could get, and then some.” The cat man finished his coffee, standing then imposing and towering above Corsa’ir. “However, we will return for her, for you, and for all your people… given time.” For a towering angry feline beastial man, the hrothgar straightened his collar and fixed his sleeve cuffs. “I believe that is all the time I have allotted for my lunch, Mister Boon. I shall leave you to your day then.” Heavy footsteps with thick leather boots followed the luncheon mate, and he was gone. 

Corsa’ir sat still with his empty plate. “Ser?” A waitress stepped forward. “He didn’t…?”

“I’ll pick up the check,” Corsa’ir nodded to his waitress.

[corsairboon]

Blindspot

Corsa’ir woke up to the feeling of Katalin slapping him. She was speaking softly, plaintively. What was she saying? They were drugged…shot with tranq darts. Someone had been there at their home, watching them. Someone had been here, and… they did something? 

Something went off in his head as he was slapped awake, something new and unfamiliar. 

-CovEr YOur lEFt eYe--dO nOT ShOW aNYonE yoUR LEfT EYe--

Boon covered his eyes, groaning as he stirred awake. “W-what happened…?”

-aCt Like eVERytHIng iS nORmAL--nOTHiNG cAn beTRAy yOUr nEW pURpose-

Boon acted like everything was normal. He asked questions to Katalin of what happened, sitting his eyepatch over his left normally empty socket. Someone had been in their home, someone that Katalin had chased off. Boon sat and listened, collecting himself from a drug induced stupor. His mind raced as Katalin explained everything to him, but outwardly seemed to act like everything was just normal.

The night had gone on afterward, and Katalin had laid down to rest as the adrenaline of the intruder faded, passing off the strange interruption as a bizarre and unprofessional dump of free information for her and Boon to process. In truth, it was all a distraction. Boon stayed awake after Katalin, staring into their dresser mirror; more importantly, staring at his left eye.

It glowed ominously red, a white dot in the center where an iris would be. When Boon blinked, the glowing red machina eye blinked. It disturbed him, this new fake eye that he’d been saddled with. He reached up to it, fingers digging into his left socket to pull it out and finding pain. Pain overwhelming. Corsa’ir silently leaned over his dresser, gripping his stomach and feeling a wave of nausea and headache eat at him. 

-yOu dO nOT gET tO ReMOve tHE mORaL CoMPaSS aUgMENtaTioN tEsT dEvICE--nO oNe mAY kNOw aBoUT tHE tESt deVICe--CoVer yOUr LefT Eye--dO nOT ShOW anYONe yOUr LEfT eYE-

Boon groaned. Great, he thought. Corsa’ir turned toward the bed and Katalin, reaching an arm up. “Katalin I--” he began to whisper out. 

-yOu dO nOT gET tO ReMOve tHE mORaL CoMPaSS aUgMENtaTioN tEsT dEvICE--nO oNe mAY kNOw aBoUT tHE tESt deVICe--CoVer yOUr LefT Eye--dO nOT ShOW anYONe yOUr LEfT eYE-

Boon fell silent even before he spoke, his voice growing weak and parched for words. Lucky for the miqo’te, he was smart when it came to people trying to control him without it being outwardly noticable. Whatever this left eye was, it was controlling his ability to tell other people about it. Whatever this left eye was, it was speaking directly into his mind and somehow reacting to his thoughts even as they formed. What else could it do? Boon resolved to find out. 

The next day. 

While Katalin was at market during the day, Boon realized while sitting at home that he caught himself pondering over the value of grievously torturing people to find out where the eye came from. The more the day dragged on, the keeper realized he was indeed lacking in a sense of moral right and wrong. Not even his normal tepid but usually beneficial to others perspective, but absolutely neutral expression toward it. Therefore, Boon needed to understand just how far this new and immediate moral decay affected him. It was a matter not of how it would affect things, but of pure benefit to him, as thats all that mattered to him now.

While Katalin was still at the market during the day, Corsa’ir murdered 6 children who tricked him a few sennight earlier with a bag of wooden gil. He didn’t just kill them, he murdered them in cold and vicious matter for no other reason than he needed to test the limits of this augmentation. All six were tied to wooden chairs and those chairs kicked off a seldom visited pier. Boon watched all 6 children drown, kick and buck and scream as they drown. He felt nothing as the last breaths left them. Interesting. 

Another thing Corsa’ir had found was that when he went into the company estate, the stately ‘House of Mystery’ as it was called, was that the eye implant continued to work… that would be annoying to get around. It also meant there was no outgoing signal from it though he reasoned, meaning they weren’t listening in on him at all.

The next day. 

Boon had to resolve a plan after reflecting. So far, he was under a few specific orders. One was to act like everything was normal. He couldn’t defy that, but he also knew it would be beneficial for him to defy that. Another was that he had to cover his left eye. Not a problem as he always wore an eyepatch. In the interim, Corsa’ir found out he couldn’t allow a full body scan of himself. He also couldn’t communicate that anything was wrong. These were simple orders, but he’d have to think hard about how to circumvent them. For now? Boon had a meeting to go to. His eye had told him to. “So 52,” She said to him, and Boon just knew. He was a number now, and that number was 52. She was a miqo’te in rather plain clothes, a keeper like himself with a gray and ashy complexion. Bubbly in a pink jumper with a sunflower hat, her pigtails flitting and curling down her back. “Tell me, how is the implant working?”

Boon replied. “It's going well,” It was, he reckoned. “So far no one has noticed it's implanted nor have they questioned anything. It’s like I’m perfectly blending.” Because he was. Boon shrugged then, taking a bite of a reuben sandwich he’d ordered for himself for the meeting. “Gotta say, this is pretty amazing technology. I tried to pry it out but like, nope. Pain, lots of pain both physical and even emotional. How are you doing that?” Even without full control, Boon wanted to get as much information as he could. 

“Oh how cute, 52 wants to find out how he’s being controlled. Well sorry 52, that's not for me to know or to tell, I’m under the same restrictions as you.” The miqo’te girl bit into her cobb salad, picking at it randomly as the waiter at the Bismarck brought over a carafe of water. “How did 46 take the information I gave her? Did it distract her sufficiently?” 

Boon stared a moment dumbfounded behind his reuben bite. 46… ah, their term for Katalin. “Yeah, she thinks you were unprofessional and just appeared to dump information on us. I told her we’d check for bugs put around the house.” Another bite then, and Boon took a drink to cleanse his pallet. “But nobody checks behind this,” Boon tapped his eyepatch. “So it’s perfectly safe.”

The female miqo’te nodded, sipping her own water and diving back into her cobb salad. “Good. Oh, while you’re here… do you know how 46 got away from our underwater base? Our masters would like to know.”

Masters… that would be something that Boon would spit out with pure vitriol when he was forced to, but he knew he’d be forced to. Corsa’ir considered his options before responding, having all of seconds to do so. He was familiar with people forcing him to answer things, of being tricked and manipulated or mentally drawn to one thing or another. This wasn’t mind control though, it was mind pushing. Nothing compelled him to answer truthfully, but he wanted to… that bothered him. 

Then again…

“No,” He answered truthfully. In multiple respects, Boon really didn’t know how Calcifer, aka the House of Mystery worked. Moreover, he wasn’t there when Katalin had made her escape from them. Sure, she had told him how she got away but how was he to know if that was true? Boon had lied to Katalin, so why wouldnt Katalin sometimes lie to Boon? There were multiple work arounds for mind-swaying, and he would abuse them all. 

“A shame,” The girl miqo’te in the pink jumper said. “I guess we’ll just have to ask her when we bring her in.”

Interesting, they intended to bring her in. “Yeah?” All Boon said in reply. 

“You’re still intending to go to Thavnair right?” The girl miqo’te asked. 

Boon nodded, “Mmhm,” All Boon said in reply. 

“Good.” The miqo’te said.

The next day.

Corsa’ir stabbed an old woman who’d fleeced him on a tender 50,000 gil deal a few Moons back who had come to ask him for a loan. He hid the body in 11 different trash recepticles. 

The next day. 

Boon pondered if having his moral sense of right and wrong being stripped was so much of a bad thing. He pondered this while he flensed a middle-aged seadog who refused to give him information on ‘Faux’. The mysterious organization that had very recently stuck a fake eyeball in Boon’s normally empty eye socket was something of an interest to him lately. In the end, the seadog hadn’t talked. Maybe didn’t know anything either, but that didn’t matter to Corsa’ir. He at least had a pile of useless skin left after and another body to deposit in several locations. 

The next day. 

Corsa’ir realized he could fight against the moral compass eyeball programming that was interfering with his mind. It made him tired though, enormously tired to do so. He would have to use that strategically. Boon played cards with his friends that night, trying to think of the best way to sneak information to them about what was really happening, but each and every time he was stymied. Afterward, he had a long talk with Katalin about boat houses and getting away. His mind screamed more than a bit inwardly. How to communicate… 

The next day. 

One day away from their trip to Thavnair… they had a job to do that night, but so far it seemed like this group, Faux had no idea what Cirque really did. So far, it seemed that they knew nothing other than Cirque was a circus, and Boon was a rather easy mark test subject for their latest experiment. 

That night, Boon resolved to act. Every choice he made that counter-acted the eye made him more tired, and protecting someone other than him, if he reasoned his own mind well enough, tired him out. But at the same time, he was instructed by the mental programming of the eyeball to ‘act normally’. He could use this. 

Shield everyone and not himself. Shield Brandt from dying from giant flaming hands with weapons. Shield the target who could likely die and not have it impact Corsa’ir at all. Everything was about mental trickery, everything was about giving them a CHANCE to discover it. There was a critical flaw in the faux--- FAKE eyeball in Boon’s left eye. He wasn’t allowed to let people know about it, but if they discovered it on their own? Nothing told him there was follow-up programming to it, a critical flaw he could exploit. So shield them, fight the moral stripping at the cost of his exhaustion and the ramping overwhelming headache he was being put under.

Boon collapsed, unconscious at the end. His last thought, the one he dared have was ‘Now they’ll give me a scan back at our base of operation, now they’ll see’. No scan was done. 

After Boon awoke, he put an eyepatch on in the recuperation room, exhausted… the group was arguing about someone’s action. The eyeball went back to work, and Boon snapped. There was another option though, his last real shot. Don’t act like himself. It wasn’t exactly warning them, it was just him--

Headaches came hard and fast, but Boon persisted. He faltered sometimes that night, slipping into what felt like normal action but every chance he got, Boon tried and tried hard to act not like himself. His headaches grew…

Katalin had gotten so close… He tried so hard to spell it out for her without breaking the demands on him, the things that controlled him. Corsa’ir practically wanted to scream to her, ‘SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME’, but Katalin didn’t catch on…

The day of the Thavnair trip arrived, and Boon prepared.

[corsairboon]

Cirque Drink Menu!

[corsairboon]

House of History, Part 2

House of History Pt2

A book was found… one that told a curious tale. 

...I will record what I know of the history of this place, so that its next inheritors can use this knowledge in some way to put it to better use than we have.

...my family came across this strange yet wonderful place deep in the frozen heart nearly 9 generations ago. We are <Elezen>, and we are too few to continue. The bitter colds had destroyed our village’s ability to survive, and though many of the council demanded to remain together and seek better shelter further underground, it was my great great long great grandmother who clamored for departure and exploration. In our warmest leathers and furs, we left into the bittermost cold from the subterrain. So we went, and so we found the strange structure forty years later, or so the story was told to me. It was a miraculous thing, a structure that was entirely warm inside, if barren and dilapidated. It was small, very small… but we made it a home. The spire of light warmed us and gave us hope, despite the aversion my ancestors had for fear of a connection to the despised magicks

So 9 generations past. Each generation grew taking in just enough to survive with our ever dwindling supplies until the 6th, when my great great great grandfather took in a passing clan that warred with us and demanded our warmth. Many were lost, blood littered the doorstep, and only 6 remained, four one our clan and two of theirs. Peace was brokered, and two clans became one.

The 7th generation grew young and bright, demanding for something more. They explored, and despite the better advice of their elders against such profane things, began collecting old knowledge. ‘Books’ they were called. Tomes from before the great frost that swallowed the world eternally. I find now in my age that perhaps their fevered desire to regain the lost knowledge of the past eras may have been a curse upon us. They collected them in droves, things with what our clan deciphered were ‘words’. These words spoke of warmer climes, wisdom, knowledge, advancements in strange things called ‘science’ and how to pray to the gods for their boons. 

 Now it is now, and I am the last of the clan. We continued to collect those tomes and knowledge within those tomes ever since the 7th generation, but I am the last. All my kin are dead, and the whitefrost has grown so strong for so many years that I much doubt I shall find inheritors of this warm domain. What would I have to give them anyway? Knowledge is a taboo, ‘science’ destroyed the world, and buried it in frost. 

It was only in my 70th year that I found the tunnel. It scares me, a thing of the gods of eld that are only ever whispered of by heretics who believe in such horrible things. I have no idea what it is or how it pulses with lights. I have spent the last 30 years of my life toiling to better understand this strange and impossible tunnel. It leads down, and after two Months of descent in my better years I was still not able to find the bottom. Down a way it branched out, spreading in all cardinal and non-cardinal directions… why? I do not know. I believe it is one of the magicks of the gods, and worry that my clan has been squatting in a place for our many generations that once belonged to those ancient users of ‘sciences’ and ‘magicks’. The very thought makes my heart break.

And so I am here, on the last days of my life and laying in the bed of my grandfathers and grandmothers… and realize we have done nothing. Custodians in name only, we have benefitted from the heat and warmth, and brought only the profane words of past gods and diviners here. I die… hoping the next to inherit this place that stands the test of time can think better use of it…

[corsairboon]

The House of History Part 1

House of History: Part 1

“Calcifer?” a voice asked. The voice belonged to a figure in a robe frantically darting around an old stone brick room, the floor littered with books and tomes and encyclopedias. The robe was a fine silver with a subtle reflective sheen with a cowl that loomed over their face, cloaking their identity in shadow. “Calcifer, where are you?” The voice was feminine, though something was off about it, as if it were not entirely as naturally feminine as one would presume a voice to be, as if it could at the drop of a hat become deep and richly masculine in baritone. 

The old stone brick room was plain and of a rounded shape ending in a series of musty bookshelves. The doorway in was surrounded by a mosaic pattern of colored glass reaching to the top. Magical lanterns floated stringless above illuminating the space with a crystalline refraction of light. Books littered the floor as said, though strange machina with glowing vibrant lines of neon also collected around the floor. 

“I am here, Master.” A creature barely the size of a knee popped out behind a spiralled bookcase, notepad in hand. It’s eyes were little glass beads, its mouth and face as a general fact was cartoonish, innocent and it wore little robes to imitate the appearance of a mage of some kind. It was in essence a doll come to life. “You should be resting, you are not well.”

“I am as well as I can ever expect to be.” The robed figure walked around the room at a rapid pace and threw off her cowl. Her face was thin and gaunt, hair a voluminous billow of neat silver blond, and as her robe came off her body was thin and gaunt as well. Her body was draped in simple linens beneath the silvery robe, clean and provincial in their austerity. Sandals and footwraps, hand wraps with a few pewter rings. Far from the image of a great and powerful mage. “Calcifer, I need you to lock down the Telemetry Augur, it cannot fall into the wrong hands.”

“Master,” The animated doll nodded, scribbling on it’s toy notebook something. In doing so, a lurching THUNK was heard all around as a subtle low hum came to a stop. “Master _______,” the doll spoke through a sewn doll mouth that did not move. “What do you intend to do?”

The silvery haired gaunt woman leaned over an old near rotten wooden table, staring over a book of spells and incantations with extreme though weathered concentration. “I…” A long pause of silence, a bead of sweat dropping from the gaunt woman’s face. “I cannot let them gain access to the locator… it would be the end of everything. I must shut the house away, and cast it adrift for as long as possible.”

“And… does that mean me as well?” The doll canted its little doll head to the left, looking more than a bit sad. 

“I am sorry my little friend… but do not worry.” The tall and thin woman picked up the doll Calcifer, placing it on the wooden table and lightly caressing its little doll cowl. “You will not sleep forever. One day. One day even if I do not return, you will awaken again.”

The room was silent as the solitary silver haired woman and the doll stared at each other both through glassy eyes, though one more literal glass than the other. Then the room shook, tumultuous crashings and rumblings echoing all around them. “It is time…” patting the doll on the head one more time, the woman collected the animated creature, and kissed its forehead. “Sleep Calcifer… you have and shall always be my greatest creation.” And with that kiss, the doll’s limbs flopped, just a doll. 

One last look around her study… so many things had happened there, so much history was about to be lost. “But one day…” she thought aloud. “One day someone will resume my work.” Another shake of the structure, another rumble of the walls. “I am only sad I will not be around to see it…”

With that, the woman reached for the door surrounded by stained glass. It was not the end, not in the slightest. She knew the tale would continue one day, somewhere somewhen. “Thank you…” she said, not to the house she was forced to abandon, nor to the doll lost among the books, nor to any particular long lost ally, but... “To those whom I’ve lost, and to those who come after. Thank you.” And then, she left. Gone. 

[corsairboon]

Limit Break

“LIMIT BREAK”

Corsa’ir Boon sat on a bench, a good sturdy oak bench with lightly rusted metal supports. He had a brown paper bag, and inside the paper bag a lunch of pastrami on rye, a small glass jug of milk and some jelly candies for dessert. He sat on this bench and overlooked the ocean beyond Vylbrand, having taken a trip to the Mists to see some old stomping grounds. This bench was on a dock, and this dock was close to where a time ago the Rocinante had been docked on a more regular basis. Boon looked down at his hands, a gilded silver lighter in his palms. He was here to say goodbye.

Corsa’ir had been at his proverbial ‘limit’ before. Many times in fact, and each time he eventually came down into a more streamlined life style. Physically he’d pushed his limit before, and mentally and aetherically, he was to most a fast burning candle aflame at both ends, and had on more than one occasion been asked how he was still even alive. He sometimes wondered that too. It had occurred to him however since the other night when he’d so recklessly abused his body to vent some frustrations, that he had yet to come down from a limit he’d hit. 

The heat of the magma, the burning in his body, the overwhelming pressure from the flames and assault of the last night haunted him. The pain it had heaped on him, how he was giving literally everything he had to protect them. It was his responsibility, he was the shield to protect and be there for his friends… but in the end his shield broke. In the end everything broke. In the end he had failed. The Roci crashed, and that was it. He wanted to hate A’kata Yohko for destroying it all, but that was just her nature. Boon liked to think he knew her, or at least told himself he did so that he could justify not hating her and yet still hating her. She never felt apart of things because she didn’t understand she was. She didn’t understand her place, the place she gave herself in choosing to step up. She wasn’t a leader,but she had been at the same time. He knew that for so long and yet he had held out hope that things would change, that the promises he had made to support, protect and make sure the Rocinante and her crew endured could be kept. They hadn’t. 

So he was here to say goodbye. The old crew would never return, but something new would come of it like fresh flowers springing to life, seedlings sewn into the burned down garden, nurtured by the razed and now nutrient filled earth. Great new things were about to happen, and he would do everything he could not to be some self-important leader, but to make sure that the seeds sown by the garden sprouted up into mighty and enduring new life. He wasn’t going to be a captain, a commander or a altruistic hero king. He was going to be him, the smooth-talking negotiator. 

Boon squeezed the lighter in his hands, remembering the day A’kata stole it from him for herself, snickering to him while she did it. He remembered the day she gave it back as well. She looked so… empty when she did. One smooth motion was all he needed, not perfect aim or forethought, just a pitch, overhand. Stand, angle his hip, coil his arm back and whip as hard as he could. The lighter went sailing through the air and as it did, he saw it all just… shrink. Smaller and smaller, the past he had coveted and smouldered over. Until it was just a glint of light in the distance, until it barely made a sound plopping into the sea. *Ploop* Gone. 

Breath. Inhale, smell the salt and the wind and adventure and purpose. Now was the real start. And as Katalin had said to him; when his great work was done, when he’d told all his tales and saved every life he could on this foolish crusade to undo the horrible things in the world... he’d pass it off to the next person. The next person who could tell their tales, make their story and continue to shape the legacy. Corsa’ir wasn’t a captain, a commander or some brave leader, he was a gardener. The plants would grow on their own, all he wanted to do was help them grow into the best they could. Boon thought on that as the lighter sunk beneath the waves, and smiled. He was finally at peace. His limit was broken. 

Just then… “Corsa’ir Boon?” Five Yellow Jacket patrol gathered on the dock behind Corsa’ir’s oak and rusty bench. Three Roegadyn men, one Hyur woman and an Elezen man. They brandished axes and swords and firearm muskets openly. “You’re poking around where you shouldn’t be poking. You don’t have your Maelstrom rank anymore to protect you, so we’re going to have to remind you of your place.”

Boon turned from his bench, and made sure his brown paper lunch would be safe, before extending his arms softly at his sides. “Gentlemen,” He’d nod. “Ladies.” He’d nod again. “I will give you a chance to walk away, I’ll pay you well enough to do so.” They didn’t move, merely scowled and stepped closer, fists tightening. “Very well.”

Corsa’ir extended his arms, and breathed out. A spark of red aether trailed down his arms. Then he began. “I am the bone of my sword…”

[corsairboon]

A link to his past history, which will be shelved in lou of this new path for him and outlet. The Boondoggle will live on, but my scope for him as a character has grown.

[corsairboon]

A Dirty Little Secret...

Corsa'ir Boon, miqo’te. He sat in a house. His house, his and others house. A house that was unusual, and perhaps just a bit alive. He sat alone in the drawing room of this house, alone save for Faol, a diminutive Lalafell of little emotion. He sat in his chair, a ridiculous affair shaped like a white lion with a face to match. It was ment, for all measures to just throw people off when they visited. To either think him a baffoon for having it, or vain for having it, or perhaps both. To him, it was comfortable right now however, all pretense dropped. Faol sat kattycorner to him, on a plush couch with a cup of tea, pinkie out. "You know what you had to do, but you regret it all the same." She said, plainly. "Yes..." Corsa'ir replied. "You know I won't care if you speak on it, so do so. Let it out, you're finally at a place where you can." Faol whispered between sips of tea, not looking in Boon's direction in the slighest, more absorbed in a stack of books she was pondering reading. "Its best to let it out after all rather than let others see." "I..." Boon exhaled. "I... HATE... her." "And yet...?" Faol chirped, finally deciding on a book. "I still can't bring myself t' say I don't love her..." Corsa'ir slumped, reached forward and grabbed his Ishgardian coffee press. He cupped it in his hands, carefully, lovingly... then he hurled it at the far wall. CRASH "And why is that?" The diminutive lalafell didn't miss a beat. "Because when I make a goddamn promise I FUCKING KEEP IT---" Boon's body began to spark with cascades of red aether, burning down his frame with a searing light. "And unlike some BITCHES who ABANDONS everyone like they FUCKING PLANNED TO DO, I don't BREAK MY FUCKING PROMISES--!!" The room grew hot, boiling over as the book case glass began to glow red from excessive aether. Calcifer the strangely living house began to worry it seemed, the walls building up aetheric resistence as a result of Boon's burst. "Now now," Faol said, turning a page in her newly chosen book, voice monotone and even. "Don't want to upset the strangely living house."

Corsa'ir's aether burst like a bubble, leaving his ragged, tired, falling to his knees and slumping on the table, crying silently. All presence of energy coming off his dissipating. His breathing was heavy, livid and ominous. "You knew your plan when you went there. You knew her emotions and decision before you left to meet her at their place of power. You knew what you would do, and what would happen." Faol said in relation to a meeting with Snarling Coeurl. "I know..." Boon croaked out. "Then why are you upset?" Inquired the lavender emotionless terror. "Because if I had been there, if I had... done... ANYTHING to stop her. THIS. THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED. There wouldn't be a SHITTY FUCKING KEEPER MIMICKING MY LIFE JUST TO RUIN THE THING I LOVED MOST!" Another burst of aether. Rage. Fury. Whether justified or not, the air burned hot. The table began to singe, sear and catch flame. "So you blame yourself?" Faol chirped, keeping up. "Snarls wouldn't have left if I had created this soon, Einarr and Otto and them wouldn't be struggling if I had helped them! If I had warned them all that Kat had already talked about crashing the ship and abandoning them, if I had, if-- if--" Again, aether lost, Corsa'ir laid there on the table edge. Crying profusely now. "If and only if and only if and only if," Faol turned a page. "You keep up like this, you may be the buffoon you callously painted yourself as tonight." "I don't fucking care about a bunch of people I don't know, Faol. I care about the people that..." cutting off, If he could slump lower, he would have. "You care about the people who are left behind." The lalafell stated plainly. "That is what you have always done. That is who you will always be. That is why you are not a buffoon." Another page turned, another monotone remark. "Fuck off, Faol..." Boon slumped to his chair, wiping his tears. "I can't... this is a set back sure... but she's happy. I knew she's be happy. That's what's important."

"You are far too good to be morally neutral, Ser Boon." Faol flipped another page, and left it at that. Returning to silence and reading her book.

Corsa'ir slumped back into the chair. "I need to see it... need to let off some steam." "Are you sure that is wise?" Faol questioned, another page turned. "Do I look like I care about wise decisions right now? Give it to me. Please." Boon moaned and shuffled back to his seat. "I just need this." "..." Faol stared long and hard at Corsa'ir, finally acquiescing. "Fine." The lavender lalafell withdrew from her side satchel a small black box, and opened it. Inside was Corsa'ir's former soul crystal. That of a dark knight. Boon went across the room then, one sure step at a time and reached out, taking the stone. The effect was immediate. If there had been a voluminous billow of aether before, this time it was a living explosion of it. Boon's right arm which grasped the stone began to boil at the skin and bleed at the nails. "HNNNNGGGG---" He was in pain, whole body palpitating, burning and turning red. Faol cast upon herself a magical barrier, one that began to chip quickly away. "Remember," She said, again monotone. "One minute, thirty seconds. That is all you can spare with a soul crystal." "Right, I know. Don't need to remind me Faol." Now Boon's upper right arm was blistering, and the skin around his nails began to peel and bleed. One minute thirty. That would be all he'd need. The knowledge in full of a dark knight returned to him, as did the power. The rush. Concentrate. Focus. HER. FOCUS ON HER. An image in aether began to fulminate. A'kata Yohko formed from the mist. Corsa'irs typically golden eye glowered with a hideous red mist. His patched opposite eye seemed to seethe and smoke as if the patch now covered a boiling river of magma. The image of A'kata stood finally before Corsa'ir after a solid 20 seconds, and gloated at him. A memory. A figment. Fake. But her. A'kata's memory spoke. "I don't need them, we don't need them. I'll just leave with Aifread and disappear."

With his right hand on the stone, Corsa'ir raised his left, conjured an aetheric dagger-length blade and STABBED the projection through the neck, causing it to burst like a sack of blood that quickly fell apart into mist along the ground. Corsa'ir dropped the stone then... empty of both aether and feelings. He heaved, then vomited, his whole right side to his middle and up to Boon's neck a mess of boils, red skin and bleeding long old scars ripped open. Faol climbed down off her sofa seat with effort, closed her book and nodded. "I shall prepare a bath in recuperation for you. Please do make your way there." It was then the lalafell retrieved the stone, returned it to its box and walked away. Corsa'ir Boon lay there, leaning on the table, muttering long to himself. "Its my fault... I could have done something, and now they're all gone..." All he could do was build something new. So he did. Corsa'ir got up, brushed off the feeling of searing pain (he was rather accustomed to it) and finally went to the recuperation room. _____ Hours later after the incident in the house where he let off his anger, Corsa'ir emerged from Recuperation, recuperated, a towel draped around him. Fresh as a daisy, if a bit worn and recovering from his body burning his aether like the tip of a cigarette. He had a mission, a job, a crew. He'd need a new heavy lifter, and he'd get one.