#Airka?

[just-rin-for-now]

@darth-marr

Low and loud displeased growling echo out for further then should be possible in the forested planet of Yavin 4., only interrupted by a spitted hissing whenever something approaches., and the growling turns louder., as the source bites at the steal netting with its sharp beak, claws leaking acid scratching at the nets, three long feathered/furred tails lashing out from where they stick out from the net.

Golden purple eyes glare out., as the being's feathers bristle wildly.,

[santoschristos]

[animusrox]

[dubiousduskwight]

The Case of the Ransacked Rug, Epilogue

And that’s that. Now to stop coasting on old writing and produce some new material.

Ha, that’s not happening anytime soon.

Epilogues

Just After:

With the danger past, they stopped to heal the wounded, summoning Airka over the linkpearl to assist those workers still too badly hurt to flee and assist in closing Verad's wound entirely. As they left the camp, Ziuz'a noticed Wahlbert sitting by himself, watching a few coblyns ravenously break down the metal components of the barricade. He approached the man with a puzzled expression. "Don't care to run out of here?"

Wahlbert gave him an appraising look before shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. "No," he said, upending his flask in the hopes there would be even a little more firewater remaining. "Let me watch them take it down, and then I'll hobble along with all the rest."

Ziuz'a took this as explanation enough, and left to assist Airka in healing. Wahlbert noted that the surrendering guards had fled the scene as well, but given the scale of the operation, was sure the Blades would be along to investigate them. And the workers would have many stories to tell. Just had to hope that the Blades they told them to were honest.

The group left, Burning carrying the injured Verad over her shoulder like a rescued damsel in distress. He was mortified enough, despite his injury, to kick his legs back and forth, helpless. It didn't improve the image. 

On their way out, they spied Palmer, hair undone, wandering around the broken camp like a refugee fresh out of the Calamity. Faye stopped in front of her. "On further consideration," she said, her voice sweet as candied venom, "We have decided not to invest in the company."

She received a nod in response, but Palmer only seemed to hear her from a great distance. "Of . . . of course," she said. "There will be other - other opportunities, I assure you."

Faye's smile matched her voice, and they left.

Wahlbert was true to his own word, and watched for an hour as the coblyns removed the barricade until naught but wooden planks remained, and these they tore up for the nails. On a whim, he tossed his empty flask to them, and he had a brief glimpse of the cheery cartoon coblyn on its side before a real one snatched it up in its maw and crunched it apart. Coblyns were more fond of raw ore, but he couldn't imagine how long this swarm had been down there, and how hungry they'd been.

He made his way to the offices, finding them abandoned as the camp, save for Palmer, sitting against the side of the main building, staring south, towards Ul'dah's high towers. Watching for a moment, he only spoke up when he feared the woman was broken. "Millie."

The phrase snapped Palmer out of her reverie, and for the first time she seemed to take in her surroundings in earnest. "O-oh, Wahlbert, I'm - you're still here."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you run?"

"Meant to." He shuffled forward. "But I didn't think your father'd be pleased if I just left you to your own."

"Papa . . . right, yes." She placed her head in her hands, but there was no sobbing, no tears that Wahlbert could see. "It's all gone now."

"That's so."

"I just - I wanted to keep it going. It was his."

"Mm." He made his way towards her and helped her up to her feet.

"There's - the investors are going to want a return. The shipment's gone. I can't - I don't even want to imagine the gil."

"Well," said Wahlbert as he helped her to the gate. "Could always trade the debt."

---

A Few Days Later A bump on the road caused Jeresu Resu to snap out of a light sleep with a start, grumbling and grousing as he looked around the environs. The caravan had not yet reached the Shroud, but drew close, the desert having given way to the sparse evergreens that served as precursors of much more grand foliage. The road here was rough, and as he fought to doze off again, another bump rattled his skull.

Beside him, his sister lay curled into a ball, using her hands for a pillow and not in the least perturbed. He envied her in the moment, but she'd always been a heavy sleeper, able to nap through a thunderstorm on the open desert without so much as a twitch. Chuckling to himself, he ruffled her hair slightly, and the movement did not so much as wrinkle her nose.

Once the Miqo'te guards had been distracted by the riot, Jeresu had fled, running to Black Brush Station as fast as his legs could carry him. From there he had hired the fastest chocobo they had to reach Ul'dah, gathered his clothes, sister, and what assets he could carry, and bribed his way onto the first caravan out of Ul'dah.

Extreme, perhaps, but Jeresu was good at seeing the writing on the wall. The workers were going to escape. And then, assuming they did not report him to the Blades for his actions, would involve him in a great deal of calculated vengeance of their own devising. And in either case, what happened to him would happen to his sister as well, and that he could not allow.

He leaned back in his seat, kicking his legs against its underside as he watched the scenery go by. It had been a good run, he admitted, having made a tidy profit from all the work. And this was likely something he'd have done in the next week or so; the creditors had noticed that they weren't getting the pay they said they were.

It was a shame about Palmer, of course; she'd been good business. And Agid would be tough muscle to replace. But he was disloyal muscle, and so that would have had to play out the way it did one way or another. He could handle skimming profits, but kidnapping family was something entirely different. No, what really rankled him, and the thought made him kick his legs harder against the seat, sending thumps along the entire plank, was the Duskwight. Bellveil. His face scrunched up in a scowl as he remembered the grinning idiot and his big, stupid beard and his stupid grin and his stupid stories, and his stupid, stupid debt that was too good to be true. Who carried that much over their head without losing their thumbs?!

He'd get his, though, Jeresu was sure of that. He'd cut the man's heels to force him to crawl on the ground, so Jeresu could get a look at his face, begging for mercy, before he brought the knife down. He'd drive him into poverty - real poverty, not his "I have rich friends but woe is me I'm so poor and use a rug" poverty. He'd ruin his business, destroy him, bankrupt him - 

The scowl turned to a blank look of realization, and then a smile. Ah, but it was already done, wasn't it?

Jeresu began to chuckle, which turned into a chortle turned into a laugh turned into a guffaw turned into a cackle. A sharp burst of pain cut through his thigh as his sister woke up and punched him there. "Jer!"

"What?!"

"You're too loud!"

He looked abashed. "Sorry. I was just having a good last laugh, that's all."

"Well quit it, it's stupid."

---

A Week Later: Despite his vehement insistence that he was fine, Airka and Faye's healing having reversed most of the damage inflicted upon him by Agid, Verad was still confined to his room and the company quarters for a day or two after the confrontation, and even when he was allowed out on the streets he wasn't to do anything stressful like peddling. They couldn't understand, of course. The streets of Ul'dah were broken and forlorn without his wares! Who would answer when the people cried out "Where, oh where, can we find dubious goods?" He envisioned men and women gnashing teeth and rending clothes when the call went silent. But his superiors were adamant, and so he stayed away. It was therefore some time before he could get in touch with Gliding Bone again, and that only when he knew where the man would be. So it was that a week after his freedom, Bone approached where the rug had been in Pearl Lane, wicker baskets on each shoulder, to resume his business. There were, after all, still debts. He arrived to find a rug in much better shape than the one he had used previously, a nice patch of carpet in the oasis style, as well as a new placard, one he had certainly never made. The writing - "Bone and Family Baskets" - was too neat for his own script, precise to a degree that worried him. Verad was there too, of course, leaning against the wall and grinning from ear to ear, a difficult feat for an elezen, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. Bone frowned, setting down his baskets. "Did you do this?" "Mm, well, consider it a donation," said Verad, bobbing his head in concession. "And the sign. You needed one, and I don't - with my offices relocated to the Mist, there's little point in my selling here. You look better without the bandages." "Yeah, well, the eye healed all right. Said I was lucky, really." He touched the space where his bandages had been. "You look better without the knife-wound." "Oh, that?" Verad waved a hand. "A scratch. I felt it best to let Agid feel like he was contributing before the true nature of my plan went into motion." He gestured towards the baskets. "But I'm surprised to see you back at work. Didn't your family want to keep you at home?" "Of course, they were ecstatic. Begged me not to go. But this is my day at work, and I still have debts to pay. Help me organize these?" They pulled small baskets from large and arranged them in front of the rug. In so doing, Verad pulled out a small slip of paper from his coat. "About the debts, though - here." "Not poison, is it? Not another scheme?" "Just take the paper!" Brief silence as Bone took the slip and read it. Then, sputtering. "You can't - no, you can't be - where did you even get this much?!" "Promissory notes, as you'll recall from my strongbox?" Bone looked abashed, but Verad ignored it. "My comrades were able to recover them during their second excursion in the Tangle. I'm just giving you what you've already taken." "If you're going to put it like that, then take it back, please." He tried to offer the slip to Verad, who pushed the man's hand back. "And my days on the rug are now yours, at least until the lease runs out in six months. You'll have much more time to sell your wares. And - " "No, no more anding. That's enough ands." "And if you'll come with me, I have something I think you'll find useful." --- The trip to Verad's warehouse wasn't a long one. Verad rented space where he could afford it and, like his rug, that meant his storage space was in the alleys and byways of Pearl Lane. "I recall you saying in the past that wicker could be quite expensive to procure." Verad spoke while he walked, moving backwards and facing Bone while keeping pace with the man. "And, during my convalescence, I happened to see a small supply of it in my inventory. It's not much, but I'd certainly like you to have it." Bone's frown was deep and suspicious. "You're being too kind, you know. If this is a ploy to see a Roegadyn blubber, you're going to be sorely mistaken." "It's not a ploy, it isn't! I just want to show my appreciation." That made Bone stop in his tracks. Verad followed suit, and a passer-by stumbled into him. "For what? For stealing from you? For dragging you into the whole mess and getting you enslaved, and stabbed?" "For keeping faith, and doing the right thing when you needed to," said Verad, righting himself. "Besides, so far in this fracas I've ruined at least three lives, destroyed a business, caused a mass coblyn migration which will doubtless affect other mining companies - legitimate ones - and seen a man get eaten by a couerl. Somebody needs to get rewarded in all this, or I'm going to go mad, and it certainly can't be me." "You freed the workers though." "They did that. They and Wahlbert. I just gave them an opening. Would you take the offer?" "Fine." Bone huffed, marching forward again. "But I'm taking a reward under protest." "Capital! That's the best way to take it. Now, it's just a bit further." Verad's warehouse was something of a misnomer. More of a wareflat, by the size, but it housed his goods decently enough, and with minimal threat of theft. "Now, it's in the back next to some old furniture, so it -will- take a bit of digging," Verad said, before turning to see the door, and frowning. "That's odd." A piece of paper had been plastered to the door, covered in Eorzean script in bright-red ink. Maintaining the frown, Verad pulled the paper off of the wooden surface and glanced it over. "Verad, you okay?" Bone peered downwards. As he read, the Duskwight's skin changed from a healthy grey to an ashen color, his eyes widening. He let the paper drop from his hands as he scrambled for his keys, fumbling to find the right one for the door. Bone reached down to pick up the loose leaf. "'Notice of Asset Liquidation'," he read aloud, finding the text familiar. "In accordance with the terms of the contract as defined by Jeresu Resu and the undersigned - " Realization struck. "This's the same bill of sale I had! What's going on here?" Verad said nothing. The door was open, and the key dangled from its lock. His eyes were wide, his skin pale to the point of whiteness, his mouth open. Bone peeked over the man's shoulder to look inside. Barren. Desolate. Emptiness. Void. Nothing but bare rock greeted the two men, Verad's wares nowhere to be found. Almost nothing. A gust of wind from outside, let in by the open door, caused a small tumbleweed in the corner to roll across the room. Seeing this, Verad put on a desperate, brave smile. "Well," he said. "At least they didn't sell the plant." --fin

[animegameblogjouhou]

ゲーム情報アンテナ

[dubiousduskwight]

The Case of the Ransacked Rug III

(This story was partly informed by playtesting the early form of the Fate-14 system with the Harbingers’ of Dawn. Some of the material here consists of summaries of those events. Because I was too lazy to write them in detail, I was led to a very dumb framing device which I still like.)

A Few Weeks Ago:

Trouble started for Verad, as it often did, in a cruel and unjust manner. Were he a more pessimistic person, he would have railed against the Twelve for choosing to torment him so. However, he at least recognized that the woes he suffered were not of his own making.  

So it was that when here turned from a brief, entirely voluntary vacation in Limsa Lominsa that had nothing at all to do with the possibility of his implication in accidentally smuggling a small forest's worth of juvenile cactuars into Ul'dah, he did not take it as a strike against him when he found that his Pearl Lane office had been vandalized, burglarized, and ransacked in a most vulgar manner. He came home to find a great quantity of blood on the carpet, his strongbox cracked and emptied of its contents, and his sign, the pride of his office, defaced in order to display a lewd slogan. If nothing else, he had to marvel at the creativity of the writer in changing "Dubious Distributions" to its current state; were he not quite cross at the culprit, he would seriously consider employing him for later advertisements. 

Now, some less-than-charitable individuals might have argued that Verad brought the possibility of robbery upon himself by making his office a small piece of rug situated in the middle of Pearl Lane's thoroughfare, and that by leaving his strongbox in plain view when he was not present, it was a miracle on the part of the Twelve that he had not been burglarized even sooner than he was. Verad could only scoff at such people, for the rug was some of Pearl Lane's most highly-desired outdoor real-estate, and available at a very reasonable rate considering its location, which was very close to the Quicksand. Further, would it not be unseemly for a dubious merchant to have anything other than a dubious office? Where else could he keep his papers and meet with larger clients but the rug, and not leave the impression that this was a man who was exactly as trustworthy as he appeared to be, without the dishonesty of meeting inside a building and at a desk, of all things!  

No, Verad prided himself upon his former office, whether that invited risk or no, and to the last point he had taken measures, first in making his materials appear to be far from worth the time and effort to steal them, and second in hiring security to patrol the area on times and days when the rug was being used by others, for he only rented it three out of the seven days of the week. It was, in fact, the very presence of this security which convinced Verad - in addition to more insignificant clues like the substantial quantity of blood that now stained the rug - that something was amiss beyond a mere robbery, for Ser Corinthus, the newly hired security, insisted that nothing had occurred on the days on which he patrolled.  

With no reason to doubt the man's honesty, and every reason to doubt the enthusiasm of the Brass Blades in resolving the matter once it was reported, Verad declared that he would put every one of his considerable resources to the problem of finding the culprits and returning his stolen belongings. It was most fortunate that he had only recently acquired the aid of one of Eorzea's free companies - or perhaps it was a charitable organization with a militant arm, Verad was never quite sure. But after making a sufficiently impassioned entreaty, several of their members offered to assist him in solving the crime. 

The task of finding witnesses to the robbery was simple enough, as it could only have occurred on the days Verad was not using the space, and was not present in the city as a result of his vacation. With the aid of Miss Airka Lakshmi's skill at dice - carefully monitored and supervised by Verad, of course - they were able to determine that the attack happened on the one day that Gliding Bone, a Roegadyn basket-weaver and, in Verad's estimation, a fellow of outstanding character, rented the space to sell his wares to the less fortunate. Their witnesses claimed to have seen the attack, and that one of the assailants was a member of the Ala Mihgan refugee community, notable for his bright-red, braided hair and relatively slim build for a member of a predominantly Highlander community. 

With this lead in mind, Verad had set about prodding, in his gentle, understanding fashion, for leads in the Ala Mihgan refugee community to see where such a man might take his leisure. Having narrowed down his location to the Laughing Peiste, a small tavern in Pearl Lane, he was quick to insinuate himself into the community, as well as take a few extra members of the company along for security's sake. 

Once one looked past the small riot that had occurred, the trip had gone quite well. Verad had been sure that there was some trick to be found in the wood grain of one of the tavern's tables, some sort of secret message, and so absorbed had he been in deciphering it that, regrettably, he had been unable to assist when one of his fellows in the company attracted the ire of one of the patrons. In retrospect, he supposed, bringing a number of Miqo'te and Midlanders into an Ala Mihgan bar was perhaps not the best way to avoid attracting attention, but not everyone could be as effective at blending in as he.

Violence was prevented by the late-but-timely arrival of Miss Lakshmi, and between her prowess as an arcanist and Verad's ability to provide a distraction while being stunned by arcanist magic, the group was able to escape before any serious harm was inflicted. Nor had their efforts been entirely fruitless, for one of their number was able to contact Godrich, the red-braided man identified as one of the assailants. Through him, Verad and, by natural extension, the others, were made aware of their next big lead: The Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company.

But it was in investigating this lead that the case would take a far darker turn...

Now:

Wahlbert sighed in relief as the Duskwight - Verad, he supposed, he'd certainly said his damned name often enough - stopped talking. It didn't sound as if he'd finished talking, with the trailing-off of his voice leading into the kind of pause in which an interested audience might prompt him to continue. But it certainly sounded as if he'd stopped, and Wahlbert was happy to take the lesser form of cessation. "All very nice," he said, pushing forward the small piece of parchment Verad had completely ignored. "But I was not being literal when I asked what brought you here. Could I get your name - all of it - and your contract tenure, please?"

"Well, as you'll see - " Verad began, before stopping, giving the man a second look. "I'm sorry?"

"Ah, so you can use the first person. Name. First and sur-. Contract length.  Please." If he pushed the paper any more firmly towards the man, it would scrape the desk. Wahlbert was fond of his desk, a holdover from the earlier days of the company, and one of the last few goods of some value remaining in the commissary. He would have much preferred to leave it unscraped. But this Elezen sorely tested.

"Y-yes, of course." He seemed to flush, leaning forward to scribble his name and tenure on the parchment. "Apologies for that. But as you can see, it is a problem of some import - "

"Your arms, please." Wahlbert rose from his chair and gestured upwards. "Need to get your measurements for the uniform." The Elezen was silenced by the act of lifting his arms out, and Wahlbert made a note to keep interrupting him to throw him off-balance. Probably the only way things would get done.

"Do we get new uniforms?" Verad asked as Wahlbert did not so much measure his arms as pat them down roughly to get a vague feel for the length. "I have to admit, some of those I saw on the way into the building seemed quite shabby."

"You can get replacements and repairs, but those are added to your debt." He gave a vague pat to the man's torso, then stepped back to eyeball his legs. There was no chance of him patting down a debt-laborer, knowing what some of them were up to in their spare time before coming here. "Not many trousers in Elezen-size, though - too narrow for Highlander legs. They'll end a bit high."

Verad seemed disappointed. "You don't have anything new, really?"

Wahlbert looked over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He took in the dust on the shelves behind him, some from where empty spaces hadn't been filled, some where full spaces hadn't been moved. It was thick enough to hang in the air without being disturbed; on the days he had a cold, some of the more resigned workers would joke that it was a small sandstorm, of sorts.

"No," he said. "Nothing new." With a vague sense of Verad's measurements, he limped back towards the more recently-used shelves to fetch one of the remaining uniforms.

"Well, at any rate," Verad continued, despite Wahlbert's best efforts to shut him out as he poked through shelves for a pair of boots, fitting or no, "My chief concern here is finding Gliding Bone. The Roegadyn? I've reason to believe he was brought here as part of a debt-trade when my office was robbed."

"Might've been," Wahlbert said with a grunt, kneeling down to pick through old aldgoat leather and worn laces. "We've had a few Hellsguard through here, the past few weeks. Name might be in the commissary purchases."

"Then you must have seen him! If he has found his way here, anyway. I was hoping to get in touch. I'm quite sure his family is worried, you see."

"I just handle the commissary." Wahlbert returned to dump a pair of the older boots on the ground beside Verad, the rest of his uniform tucked under his shoulder. "You'll need to talk to the main office to get a personnel request - Lamaki should help you out."

"Lalafell? Green hair, looked a bit queasy? We've met."

"Maybe. He does most of the greetings. Here." Wahlbert pressed the uniform into Verad's open hands. "Get to the sleeping quarters and get changed. Like as not your first shift will be in a few hours. Might get lucky and run into him then."

"I shall certainly hope so!" Verad grinned. Wahlbert resisted the urge to punch. It was a very punch-worthy grin, as much for its mere presence as its sheer cheekiness. "If I may ask, though, have you worked here long?"

"Longer than you, certainly." Wahlbert returned to his seat, stifling a wince, before picking up Verad's paperwork. He glanced up after a moment to see the dismissal had not led to the man dismissing himself. He remained there, eyebrows wide and inquisitive, a very old puppy. "Five years in this spot," he added. "Just a bit after the Era started. Longer than that, though. Back when the company was new."

"Then you're not a worker? I got the impression from the look on the guards that my term was . . . extensive."

"No, no. You won't find most of the workers here longer than a year or so." Wahlbert frowned. "Why, how much do you owe?" 

Verad told him. He snorted. "And it was only ten years? You were lucky." He shook his head, shut his eyes. "No, been here a while now."

He said nothing afterwards, and the Duskwight seemed to infer the conversation was over, as he heard the door shut after the man left. Wahlbert stretched out his arms before leaning down, gasping as foot and knee protested the movement, and patted around for the flask in its small catch, another advantage of having one of the old desks.

As he uncorked it, he caught sight of the old emblem of the company logo on its side, that of a small, cheery-looking coblyn, mouth open as it tossed a piece of ore into its mouth with one tendril, using another to pick up the leavings of a stubby-looking miner a few paces ahead of the beast, hacking away through rock with an oversized pick. As logos went, it was a poor choice, over-elaborate and too cutesy for a mining company.

Wahlbert grimaced, and swallowed before taking a long drink.