Stop Light Philosophy

 "There are three common factors about a job, and you get to pick two of them."

Roll let out a sigh. The silence had lasted a lot longer than he thought it would. To the point where he'd been allowed to space off staring at a light pole for the last half hour. Giving his cigarette a tap with his middle finger, he watched the ash shake off to the ground, letting the sentence settle for a bit longer. Perhaps if he waited long enough, traffic would magically let up, and they wouldn't have to dive into whatever point it was that Zen wanted to make.

A glance down the road said the odds of that happening were zero. They were still a block and a half back from the blockage, and there was no way things were going to get moving any faster. Some borg had gotten zeroed, and it had delayed their trip, all five blocks of it, by a few hours. At first he'd debated just getting out and walking, but then he'd never have heard the end of it by the time Zen had caught up.

Taking another toke, he finally turned back into the car, offering Zen a sincerely bored look, "Alright. I'll bite."

Zen brought up three mechanical fingers, "Fast. Easy. Pays good." He let those concepts linger for a moment, before continuing, "You get two. Fast and easy? Won't pay good. Fast and pays good? Ain't easy. Easy and pays good? Sure as hell ain't gonna be fast."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Roll said, turning to blow a cloud of smoke out onto the street, "But easy shouldn't be included." He lifted his left hand, motioning for Zen to shut up for a moment, "There's no such a thing as an easy job. If it's easy, it wasn't worth doing, and if it seems easy, shit just hasn't hit the fan yet."

"And I don't think that disagrees with anything I just said," Zen countered, shifting around. Roll could feel the whole car rock in the process.

How Zen managed to keep driving the old beater had was beyond Roll. Even before he'd chromed out his arms Zen was a brick wall of a human being. Where before he had some trouble fitting into his own ride, now it was a process climbing inside. The entire thing sagged to whichever side Zen was sitting on, and Roll was surprised it hadn't scraped against the ground on some longer hauls.

A few more cars slipped past the clean-up, inching them closer to the promise land. They'd already watched MaxTac come and go, and now Roll could see somebody taking a hose to the side walk to clean off the gore. A street sweeper was lined up in the alley, waiting for its turn in the queue. Settling back into silence, Roll took one last breath from the cigarette and tossed it out the window.

"Those things are gonna kill you," Zen mused.

Roll gave him a look of disbelief, "Zen."

"Yep," Zen said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"I got shot during the Palendo job last week," Roll said, dry as possible, tapping his shoulder.

"You did," Zen said, matter of fact. Which was how he said just about everything.

"We get shot on the regular, right?"

"We do," Zen said, "Though you definitely get shot more than I do."

"Okay, so with that firmly established. It's the cigs that are gonna kill me?"

"It's always the little things," Zen mused. As usual, he ignored that Roll was questioning him, treating it more as Roll slowly coming to see things his way, "The things we least expect."

"Well shit," Roll said, laying on the sarcasm as thick as he could, "I'll take that. Be the first runner to die of fuckin' cancer." A few more cars slipped through, they continued up in the line. "What's gonna kill you then, smart guy?"

"A beautiful woman," Zen said plainly, "I haven't met her yet, but I just know it."

All Roll could muster to that was a dismissive "Uh huh."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, before a digital voice crackled through both of their skulls, "You two talk about the weirdest shit." Roll rolled his eyes, marking yet another time a netrunner picked the weirdest time to state the obvious.

Before Roll could muster a witty comeback, he saw that it was finally their turn to shoot the gap. Finally. Just as they rolled past the cordoned area, Zen turned off, into a gas station parking lot. He leaned left a bit to glance at the dash. Tank was almost full. A look was shot at Zen, before looking back at the little station.

"Is this..."

"Yep," Zen muttered, iris blinking as he double checked the information.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Bribery

"Perney!"

Perne's pointed ears twitched at the shout. She released the trigger on her blowtorch for a moment, and waited.

"Peeeeeeerneeeeey!"

Content with the confirmation of who it was trying to get her attention, she resumed her work. The sound of the torch tearing through metal made it easy to ignore the following cries, and even once she was sure that the crier knew she could hear him and stopped, she made sure to secure the bolt she was trying to access. Just to make him wait a bit longer.

Rolling out from under the great machine she was currently working on, she flipped her goggles up. The rogue who stood above her looked as he always did. Just filthy enough to pass for a man of the streets, but with his beard trimmed so as to look dapper. She had never known a man to pay so much attention to his appearance, but had refused for ages to ever acknowledge it. He would have enjoyed it too much.

In his hands was a small parcel, wrapped carefully in brown paper. As she sat up and accepted it, she noted how much it resembled its owner. The paper had been shuffled around a bit, and cut at odd angles, which gave it the appearance of a rush job. The note attached to it had today's date on it, and only an hour or so prior. But the string was too carefully cut, and she assumed the entire thing had been prepared the night before. She gave it a small shake, and was satisfied with the metallic jostling noise it emitted.

Just as she was prepared to inquire as to the nature of his visit, he interrupted her, "Is this what I think it is?"

He was staring up at the machine, trying his best to look slackjawed, "If you think it's Garlean magitek armor, then yes," she said.

"You buy it offa one'r steal it?" He was circling the machine, poking and prodding at one of the legs.

"Built it off a shite I've scrapped," she said, knowing full well he knew that.

He gave her an incredulous look, "This legal?"

She rolled her eyes. They were right on his script, but she couldn't be bothered to diverge, "Since when did you give a goblin's arse about legal?" The parcel was sat on a work bench, and she leaned against it, ready for the rest of the performance.

"Well," he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt, "Ever since you put down yer stabbers, I've been thinkin' about goin' legit too. No more skulkin' about, gettin' some legit work."

"But," she said on queue.

"But," he said, stumbling a bit when he realized she'd beat him to it, "We just got offered a job, an' it'd be stupid to turn it down. And I figured I'd see if you want in on it."

"Uh huh," she said, motioning for him to speed it up.

"Well you're doin' the whole bodyguard thing with that gunsword you hacked together right?"

"Gunblade."

"Right that, and well we got this client. She's wantin' some cargo moved, but she wants it moved discretely away from her, so I figured," he made some motions with his hands towards her, "We move the goods, you guard the lady."

"Fine," she said, picking up a rag from her workbench and wiping some of the grime off her hands.

"And I know, it sounds like there's probably a catch," he started, before catching himself, "Beg pardon?"

"I said fine," she tossed the rag over her shoulder.

"Well, good. I'll let you know when and where."

"Yep."

Envoy

It was not often that she got letters from home. That was not to say that she had a strained or distant relationship with her family. More that she was constantly on the move, which made mail difficult to deliver, and her family and tired of paying for the increasing fees of sending a post moogle from city to city to track her down. She did not blame them, and consistently sent letters as a means to ease their minds.

So when she did receive a letter requesting her aid, she knew it was important. Rerouting her current wandering course to Gridania had been as painless as rebooking airships could be, and she had made it back to the city ready to help in any way she could. The entire way there had been spent wracking her brain over what could have gone wrong.

Her family were a rather simple clan of people. They were shoemakers and cobblers. They had been for generations. It was not a glorious line of work, but one that was forever consistent. Everyone wore shoes, and unless something insane happened that was unlikely to change. They kept themselves busy, especially around Starlight festivities. And it had drove her insane, while leaving her with the unfortunate burden of knowing what an aglet was.

The shoemaking business was also one without many sources for trouble. Sometimes a shipment was delayed, often due to troublesome beasts on the path of the convoys. Or a customer could be stubborn about paying their due. Both were generally resolved by bringing the matter to the proper authorities and waiting. A handful of times her parents had employed a group of adventurers to resolve an issue, but the matters were always solved within a day. So little work was involved that it wouldn't have even produced a stanza of song.

"Miss Morrow, the owner will see you know."

Frieda dragged herself out of her thoughts, offering the receptionist a gracious nod. She stood up, towering over the chairs in the waiting room she had been stuck in for the past hour. Their regular partners must have been universally lalafel. As she strode back into the hallway she was directed to, she attempted to pat more of the dust out of her shirt, surrendering when she realized that no matter how much she patted, no less was being produced.

A guard at the end of the hallway opened a door, motioning for her to step into a small office. Its centerpiece was a beautiful desk made of fine Gridania oak, the owner of which was slowly skimming through a pile of notes, looking down through spectacles that were perhaps as large as her thumb. He glanced up at her, and motioned for her to take one of the two seat in front of the desk. Which she did, awkwardly sitting down in a chair far too small for her for the second time now.

"Miss Morrow, it's wonderful to see you," he muttered, looking back down into his stack of documents. "If you don't mind me asking, why were you sent over your mother or father?"

"They were otherwise occupied," she said, trying to sound confident and ready for negotiations.

In truth, they didn't want to bother. And her brother didn't want to bother either. All of them hated having to deal with any business regarding their supplies. If it wasn't directly involved with making a shoe, it became a terrible game of trying to pass the task to someone else. One she had unfortunately lost.

"Understandable, everyone I know is so busy," he said, finally leaning back in his chair and looking up at her.

"As you likely understand, my father is not pleased with the new arrangement that you sent him," she said, not waiting for him to prompt her into explaining her visit.

"I am aware," he said, "But as I made clear to him in my messages, this is a dire time for such vital supplies. I have started new enterprise elsewhere, and they are taking up our resources, which means prices are bound to go up."

"And we believe we should be allowed some priority and better prices due to our consistency," she said coolly, "Our grandfathers worked together, and theirs before them. Whatever this enterprise is, I'm sure it is not worth destroying other reliable business for."

"It may surprise you," he said, leaning against his desk. "I've found an amazing new market in the last few years. It took some time to get production set up, but I have been shipping new styles of shoes into Doma, they are sweeping the markets by storm."

Frieda took a moment to process that, nodding in understanding, "But you know these trends come and go, no? In years, perhaps even months, they will either be tired of them, or start making them locally. And then your demand their will drop, but your partners here will have moved on."

The lalafel produced a quill, making a quick note, "Is that something you've noticed before?"

"My father adapted to making Ishgardian garments when the relations with them cooled, and Doman sandals when the travel and trade was reopened. They were certainly popular, but the people's interest is so fickle."

He tapped his quill, considering what to notate. Eventually he dove into composing a long letter, folded it up, and slid it into an envelope, sliding it across the desk. "I see your point, miss Morrow. I am willing to reconsider, but the price will still need to increase slightly, for inflation. Present this to your father, and I will see about getting a new shipment to him as soon as it is returned signed."

She held in the urge to sigh, grabbing the envelope and sliding it into her satchel. With only the slightest of nods she stood, and departed the office. As she stepped back out onto the scorching streets of Ul'dah, she tried to avoid thinking too hard about how long she was spending on a crate of shoe laces.

Written in Sinstone: From Where We Last Left Off

It was not unusual for a General of the Ebon Blade to receive missives, or had been the case for the last few years, summons. Death knights had a terrible habit of disappearing from rosters and role calls when the need arose. And while many were happy to show up on the frontline of whatever conflict called to them, they generally did so in colors outside of those of the Ebon Blade. The arrival of the Legion had prompted many to take up arms in Acherus together again, but afterwards they had been scattered to the wind like so many conflicts before, and so many conflicts after. Again many had answered the call from Bolvar Fordragon to assist in stopping the forces of the Jailer in the Shadowlands, though the General had neglected to respond to the message in time. He couldn't particularly recall what he had been doing in that specific moment, but it had apparently been of the utmost importance as he could not drop it for a matter of any importance. If he had to guess, he had been looking at a few fields in Pandaria or something to that effect.

Yet the Ebon Blade persisted, which was something that the dead unfortunately excelled at. Without the need for rest, they could spend countless hours each night crafting each summons by hand. Or more accurately, ordering a battalion of ghouls to do it for them. The creativity with which these messages were delivered never ceased to amaze him. Not the fact that they managed to find him, he was a large blue worgen wearing a confusingly small hat, he was not a hard man to find.

Initially the messages were delivered via ghoul. While they certainly drew some ire by shambling through town, they were effective. This was followed up with geists, who were capable of verbally verifying that it was received and was simply being ignored. After the first few of these, the deliveries became more elaborate. Carrion pigeons were sent to deliver them, often flying straight through windows in the process. He would be asked to replace the windows, which he billed directly to Acherus Central. Next were bone gryphons and wyrms, who would screech through the skies to raise a bit of terror, before blandly dropping the message off at his feet and flying off. More recently a gargoyle had thrown large rocks at him, each of which had a copy of the message tied to him.

The message that had done the job of getting his attention turned out to not be addressed to him. It was addressed to his wife. It should not have surprised him, because of course the Ebon Blade was well aware of his wife. Most of his closest confidants over the years had been made aware of her, due in no small part that it was very difficult to hide being haunted by a spirit for too long. In life the worgen had killed her and his family after his first exposure to the worgen's curse. A crime for which he had spent a substantial amount of time feeling a great ton of guilt for. Reconciliation had been quite the load off of his shoulders.

A few years ago things had gotten complicated again. When the Ebon Blade had started resurrecting corpses again to fight the Legion, they had continued to do so to refresh their numbers for those lost in the conflict. The Alliance and the Horde going to war once more only diminished their reserve even further, and provided enough corpses that those relegated the duty made sure that they happened upon them on a regular basis. One such corpse had happened to be his wife's.

The fervent search for a disappeared ghost had been short lived, thanks to the power of paperwork. His recently resurrected relative was a properly documented initiate, who took her sweet time completing her training, savoring the time away after years being bound. And thanks to bureaucracy there was no rush in having her complete it. Those even higher than himself were satisfied letting him torment himself over the distance.

His career having raised plenty of ire of those deep within Central, he presumed. At this point he had lost track of it all. Detailed as his career record was, though containing a gap following the Battle of Wrathgate and the start of the Cataclysm that he was not partial to filling in, the most distasteful part of it as far as anyone too far up the chain was concerned was a constant claiming of competence. The poor worgen had retained at least something of a brain between his ears, which had saddled him with a certain amount of responsibility that he had refused to acknowledge in recent years. So whatever could be used to poke and prod was gleefully accepted.

When they finally reunited, that pain point was lost. In the intervening years they had toured Azeroth in pseudo-retirement, making up for lost time, with Redamous hoping that eventually they would leave him alone. Who was to say what prompted the idea in some messengers head to skip past him and try a different route. It was a well established pattern that he was going to decline, but she was a quantifiable unknown. Previously some sort of wraith or revenant, perhaps there was the chance that the urge to inflict malice upon her husband still existed. Or she simply liked to torment him. Whatever the case, this hunch did turn out to be correct.

Because unlike her husband, she accepted.

Dry

 The coroner handed him a pair of gloves as he passed. It was good that they'd taken the time to do so, as it would never have crossed Tony's mind on the way through the yellow tape. He knew better, of course. He'd been to dozens of crime scenes over the years, and not wearing gloves when looking over the evidence was one of the first rookie mistakes that got forcefully corrected.

The sad fact of the matter was that he had other things on his mind right now. Namely an unceasing pressure and pounding, every pulse of which felt like they were going to send his stomach rolling. When he wasn't trying to keep his eyes open against the blinding light, he was too busy keeping his feet moving in the correct order to worry about the damn gloves.

In the rare moment that his mind cleared enough to process a thought or two, he was thrown back to thinking of the bottle of Jack and the cans of Coke he had stacked up the night prior. Various positions were passed back and forth on whether or not it had been worth it to pass out alone on the couch yet again, flicking between reruns on basic cable.

Moving past an ambulance, its flashing lights sending sharp pain behind his eyes with every rotation, he decided that things could be decidedly worse. He could be dead, like the poor soul who was currently slumped against a dumpster. He sobered up somewhat just from the view. The poor girls pale face was contorted into a ghoulish smile. However she'd gone out, she'd been the happiest girl in the world at the time. On instinct he rubbed his neck.

Someone was already crouched near the corpse, occasionally leaning out of the way for the photographer to snap a pic. She looked up at him, what looked like a wallet in her hand. Her short cropped hair was swept to one side. The wallet dropped from her hands as she stood, looking him over with the most unimpressed look he had ever seen.

"'Bout damn time," she said.

He didn't give her the satisfaction of following that train of thought. Instead he just rubbed his eyes, trying to give himself enough willpower to focus. "We get a time of death yet?"

"Jack's estimating somewhere between 1 and 3 this morning," she said, dropping whatever insults she'd had primed. "Checking with the local bars to see if anybody spotted her at closing time last night, no word yet."

Tony bent down, picking up the wallet and poking through it. All it confirmed were a few suspicions. No money taken, all cards present. After a quick gesture to the photographer, who nodded with approval, he began manipulating the corpse. A few turns of the neck, checks of the wrist, a look at her front and back.

"No wounds," he said. It was a lie. A good one, on many levels. Good because to them it was true, and good because it was better that they never knew it was true.

"Yeah, Jack's not sure about that one," she said, making a general gesture at the deceased, "Clear signs of bloodletting, but we're not sure how."

"Christ," he said, happy he was still able to sound surprised and disgusted. The pair of bumps were obvious to him, but he didn't blame anyone for missing them. They were slighter than the bite of a gnat. Which was worrisome. The person who made them knew what they were doing.

His hands found their way into the girls pockets. He produced a handful of items, a tube of chap stick, a few crumpled up receipts, before he found what he was looking for. With a sigh, he offered the tiny slip to his partner.

She took her turn to sound disgusted, "Christ."

"Blood donor," he said grimly.

Her eyes rolled as she bagged the slip, "Some sick fuck thinks he's a vampire."

"Yeah," he muttered, standing.

His pocket buzzed. The familiar sign of a phone call, save for the fact that it didn't continue. For a moment he wondered if it was better or worse that they already knew. On the one hand, he wasn't exactly looking forward to having to break the news. On the other, they weren't going to be happy having to hear about it from third parties.

Turning back towards his car, he offered only a short explanation, "I'll see if anyone at the Red Cross knows anything, start working on the timeline."

He didn't wait for her response. The walk back to his car was brisker than the walk in. His phone was out of his pocket the moment his ass hit the seat. The recent call was from a number he'd never seen before. Local area code, spoofing his own number. Spam call should have been his default assumption but he knew better. The dial tone had barely started before someone picked up.

"Again?" was all he heard from the other end. It impressed him how much a single word could house so much pure contempt.

"Again," he said, glancing up at the rear view mirror. He half expected someone to be in the back seat.

"This will be the last one, mister Ambrose. Should it happen again, we will have to drastically reconsider our working relationship.

He winced as the line cut. It was with clammy hands that he put the keys in the ignition, and pulled away.

Prompt 5: Symptom

 Working with the ill had its benefits. Not many benefits, now that she thought about it, but a few. Even after their emergence in Eorzea, after she could finally feel comfortable removing her glamour, people still had a tendency to stare at Viera from time to time. Some went further, for better or for worse. Mostly worse.

She had had people throw themselves at her feet, usually bards she had found, praising her beauty. When she prompted them to move on, she found them doing to same to others in a crowd. Others had choice words to say about their new long eared citizens, which were unkind. Those who were sympathetic made it clear this wasn't the first time that Eorzeans were distrustful. The Domans feeling their nation had encountered similar distrust, and Ishgardians had gone so far has to shut themselves away for years.

It went against the more open feeling of the nation, she found. In a time when the city states were forming a larger pact with each other, that they could still feel that sense of alien fear. That there was still that other from beyond. Perhaps it would permeate for some until the Viera had helped save Eorzea, she mused. That may be the true deciding factor.

The sick did not have such an issue, she found. Most of the time. Often enough they felt too weak to make any complaint on who was treating them, and those who clearly wished to either couldn't or wouldn't put up a fuss. In general there was just minimal talking when dealing with a patient. They didn't want to be there, and frankly neither did she, which meant both parties wanted any sort of appointment or checkup to be done as soon as possible.

She removed a small vial from the satchel slung around her shoulder, letting the liquid contents collect on into her palm. Making a fist, she allowed her gloved hand to get drenched, before reaching forward to slather the old man before her's forehead. He ground his teeth and grunted, trying to not complain of the stinging sensation that prickled across his skin. She stood, and removed her gloves.

Returning to the front room of the little hut, Kodiana sat next to the man's granddaughter. She removed another vial from her satchel, this one larger than the last, and set it in front of her.

"A drop of this in his drink every mornin' and every evenin'. After a week, if things haven't gotten better send word," she said.

The girl nodded, motioning to a pouch of gil, "Your payment."

It was with some reluctance that Kodiana took the money. Many families she helped couldn't afford what they were even giving, and she tried to be as reasonable as she could. But the unfortunate fact of the matter was that she had her own needs to watch out for as well. She offered the granddaughter a pat on the shoulder, and waited to see if there was anything more that needed to be said, before she opted to take her leave.

There wasn't.

Prompt 4: Baleful

 Agatha held the crystal up, letting it catch the dim light of the tavern's torchs. The seller looked on, seeming rather pleased with himself. He sat across the tab, hands clasped as he rested back in his cheap wooden chair.

"No imperfections," he said, pride seeping into his voice.

"So it would seem," she responded, retrieving a few more from the pouch she had been provided. She checked them much as she did the first crystal. "Very well."

The merchant's hands greedily went towards the sack of gil that was offered to him. He stood, offered Agatha a short bow, and left the tavern as quickly as he arrived. Her eyes rolled at the display. She replaced the crystals into the leather pouch, and set them off to the side of the table. Leaning back in her chair, she returned to nursing her drink, and debating if she felt like making a few scribbles in her journal. The book was becoming rather full, and she would likely need to pick up another one at the rate she was going.

Her eyes scanned the few people remaining in the bar, settling in on a man fidgeting in the corner. She had to lean to her left to get a better look, straining her eyes to see in the dim light. He sat alone, and fiddled with his hands. Rarely he picked up his drink, bringing it up to his lips for such a short time she could assume he barely had to take so much as a sip. His clothes were ragged, save for the hood he had pulled up around his face. And while it was certainly of a higher quality than the rest of his attire, it was clearly recently bought in a rush. It barely fit him, as though he had pulled it out of a pile and had only the time to check that it was not too small.

An ache began to grow from the back of her mind. On instinct her hands ran to her temples and she bent forward. The pain ingulfed her entire head until it disappeared into a bright light, along with the rest of the bar. The images her surroundings were replaced with were crisp and clear. A series of scenes, each shorter than the last. First the man sitting at home, debating financials with his wife. Next he stood in an Ul'dan alley, hesitantly opening a door. A bag of gold being presented. Weeks later men arriving at his home.

Just as soon as the sensation came it had left. She continued to sit there with her eyes closed, taking short breathes. For months she had lived with the visions now. There was no way to control them, no way to predict them. No rhyme or reason on what it was that triggered them. They were vivid enough that when she opened  her eyes she feared she wouldn't be in the same place. Her eyes opened to reveal the tavern still around her, its creaky floor still under her feet, and an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes met with a short miqo'te man's. She couldn't help but feel as though she had seen him before.

"You alright there ma'am?" he asked, looking rather concerned.

She took in yet another breath, and nodded, "Yes, fine. Drink was a bit too strong."

He released his grip on her shoulder, and returned the nod, "Perhaps try something lighter. Have a good evening."

With a sense of purpose in his gait, the miqo'te continued further into the tavern, before welcoming himself into the nervous man's booth. She watched the nervous man lean further back into the booth. If it were possible, she half believed he were trying to become one with the cushion and wood itself. It was impossible to tell with the miqo'te's back to her, but she could only assume he looked pleased with himself.

Intervention was not required of her. Nor was it expected of her. But she couldn't help herself. From some foreign memory, she counted out a stack of gil from her coin pouch, transferring it into another. Stepping from the table, she followed in the miqo'te's footsteps, and tossed the pouch onto the table between the two men. The nervous man's eyes went wide, and miqo'te's eyebrow raised.

"Double check me," Agatha said calmly.

The miqo'te snorted, and opened the pouch, bean counting in his head. His brow furrowed as he looked up at Agatha. "Right on the mark."

The poor man's face went flush, his has clasping together around Agatha's arms as he spewed an endless amount of platitudes. She tore his arm away from him, and strode out of the bar to leave the two dumbfounded. She paused at the top of the tavern's steps, and took in a breath of the dusty night air.

"Considering what you went in there to get, I find it hilarious that ya did that," a lilting voice from nowhere whispered into her ear. She rolled her eyes, and refrained from saying anything as she stepped into the street.

Prompt 3: Scale

 The winds of Ishgard never seemed to cease, much to Frieda's annoyance. It was particularly frustrating due to the fact that she regularly wore a feathered cap. The cap, along with the rest of her attire, had been recommended by a tailor who claimed it was a signature bardic look, which she couldn't argue with. Many bards, as she had learned from her times in taverns and inns, were easily identified by their hats. But it did mean that her hand was constantly clutching the thing to her head, or she was forced to hold it to keep it from flying off into the deep ravine that surrounded the city.

As of late she had frequented Ishgard. Thanks to an extensive clientele of nobles, all of who seemed to be terrified about their houses being lost to the passage of time in the face of imminent doom, she was making a fair amount of money. Often they were asking her to simply record what they said, but the more intense tasks required her to turn their family's history into an inspiring song. Which tended to be difficult, as it was hard to turn generations' worth of sitting around and drinking wine and disparaging the poor into anything inspiring. Unless you were a drunkard, who might find such a lifestyle aspirational.

Were she to make something out of all of their stories, it would have been how idle Ishgard had been until recent years had forced it to begin making changes. She could not imagine how a city so large could remain the same over such a long passage of time. Compared to Gridania it was massive, and that was before one accounted for the surrounding mountains. It had taken many grave things to make Ishgard begin to move. Perhaps the sheer size of it meant that more momentum was required for it to begin moving down the hill.

She was generally of the opinion that it was better late than never in the case of good change, which on the whole seemed to be what Ishgard had experienced. Where the city had felt so cold when she first visited, in the metaphorical sense as the city always felt cold in the literal sense, now there was a sense of warmth. The people no longer feared for their lives. A horde of wyrms were not at threat of descending over the walls, the issue of equality appeared to be being dealt with. Those who had done historical wrongs had or were being dealt with. The city still needed work, but the ball had been sent rolling.

As if on cue, a quick gust of wind and shadow sped past her. Her hands shot to her hat, and she braced herself as she gazed towards the sun. A dragon, wings spread wide continued on its way past the city. She remembered the first few times she had seen such happen. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, followed by a sense of wonder as she saw the other people on the street breathe a sigh of relief.

With the dragon out of sight, she continued on her way. Something drifting down in the breeze caught her eye further down the road. She reached out to let it fall into her hand, half expecting it to melt away the moment it made contact. Looking back up at the mountain the dragon had soared over, Frieda smiled. She pocketed the scale it had shed as a keepsake for this trip to the frozen north.

Prompt 2: Aberrant

 The beast was large, at least the size of two small huts sitting next to each other. Its horned head reared up, it's deep roar filling the snowy valley. Within moments it was charging again. Axe still brandished, Makoto rolled to side for what felt like the millionth time. She had sliced at the beast for what was beginning to feel like hours, and yet it showed no sign of tiring. Thankfully, neither did she.

The local Eorzeans, she believed they were from Ishgard though she could barely keep up with the different designations of the locals nor did she care to very much, had referred to the creature as a 'Behemoth'. She considered it a fair moniker, given the beast's size, if highly uncreative. Behemoth invoked no true sense of the thing, outside of its size relative to the average person.

Apparently behemoths were not uncommon in the Coerthan mountains. Which meant that adventurers were in constant demand, for behemoths did so love to go where they pleased, and that so often happened to be settlements full of delicious looking people. Thus a fairly regular culling was in order. Makoto had staked her claim on this fiend and after would could barely be called a hunt, for behemoths are not exactly hard to see nor track, their battle began.

This was not her first hunt. Makoto Okeya was a dotharl of the Steppe, and her people were well acquainted with fighting for their food. Many of them lived for the thrill of it, for those times when battling another tribe was not an option. She had never found it very fulfilling. Beasts, she had quickly learned, are quite predictable. Even though some are formidable, and many others simply refuse to die, they work off of simple instinct and behavior.

The behemoth was no exception, its behaviors were very simple. When she was at range, it charged her. When she was close, it became a storm of teeth and claw, one swipe of which was at risk of cleaving her in half. And rarely it called down an elemental bolt. She wasn't quite sure how it managed to do that as of yet. But it was very impressive.

With a few yalms between them, she readied herself for the beast to charge again. The canyon their duel resided in was narrow, which had required her to time her rolls carefully. It lowered itself, and she did the same, waiting for her window of opportunity to present itself. To her surprise, the beast did not charge. Instead it slammed the full of itself against the side of the canyon, sending a quake across the entire formation. She felt the ground under her feet tremble, and wondered if it was at risk of crumbling away. Above her flakes of snow were scrambling downward, as well as a few pebbles. Her gaze drifted upward in time to see the cascade of boulders making their way down.

Eyes growing wide, she scrambled, trying to judge their impact point to avoid being crushed. Just as one rock slammed into the ground her right and she readied herself to dodge the next, she found another projectile slamming into her. Her mind scrambled to make sense of anything as she was flung across the canyon, making contact with the ground just in time for the behemoth to strike again. Her heart began to race, her hands shaking as it continued to rage at her, snapping and clawing as she recovered and fled.

Makoto Okeya was a dotharl warrior. This was a simple truth. The descriptors themselves were also rather simple. Dotharl, those of the xaela who did not fear but embraced death. A warrior, one who channeled their rage into their axe and cleaved their foes in twain with the resultant swing. At the moment she felt like neither. There was no anger in her as she turned in time to bury her axe into the behemoth's shoulder, sending it reeling. Only a desperate panic filled her as she unleashed a fury of terrified blows against the creature.

Even after the beast was felled she felt that fear. Could still see it tearing hell down the canyon as it raced towards her. Perhaps that was meant to be her death. Should she have turned and faced it there? Let out a bellowing battle cry and leapt to what surely would have been her end? She did not know. Slumping against the side of the canyon, she could only ponder. For now, she felt rather tired, and even the freezing stone was not too uninviting.

Prompt 1: Foster

Many consider Gridania's main export to be its lumber. The vast forests, all well kept and managed by the local conjurers, allowed for a healthy logging industry. Others believed that Gridania's value lay in its herbs. Indeed the area was an alchemist's dream, with so many plants to pluck and turn into paste that it made the mind boggle. These too were tended to and documented, making them easy to find. Those in charge of tourism claimed that Gridania was truly great because of her people. The tried and true friendly forest folk were the true cornerstones of their secluded society.

Frieda presumed that it was a bit of everything, really. But her favorite thing about Gridania was that, due to the nature of it (quite literally), there were so many nooks and crannies to call your own. Those secluded spots where one was left with naught but themselves and their thoughts. Or so most tended to think.

The clearing she sat in now was one such place. The perfect place to practice the harp, as she had learned when she was much younger. It was the place she often found her brother during quiet summer evenings. Times when the tasks in the shop could be completed early or late, and there would be sun to burn regardless. Over the years she found him making the trek less and less, until inevitably he had ceased altogether.

She plucked on a string, considering such a moment. When the rocks and trees were so much larger, such that she could still hide behind them. The gentle, if unsteady notes her brother played, her head rested back against a tree, just out of sight. It had always felt like a game, to make sure that she went unseen. Of course, she always won, thanks to the fact that her brother never let on that he always knew she was there.

Just the thought of it fostered a sense of peace. She strummed another chord on her harp. Oh how such a simple feeling felt so rare. She had thought the act of being home would be enough, but she found only a hollow sense of the familiar in town.

The shops still ran, the streets still bustled, and yet many were absent. Marching off to war, as it were, for the fate of the realm. Such seemed to have been the way of things for so long. Even her family's shop hadn't felt right. Her mother and father, ever the charitable and logical pair, and shifted their focus from the shoes of everyday wear to the boots required for an army. They were helping with the effort to equip the Serpents, and when that quota had been met, they moved on to Flames and the Malestrom. Her brother helped as per usual, with little change in his life beyond the fact that the woman he had fancied had marched off to battle herself.

It was only with that serene sense of nothingness that she truly felt at home. At peace. She disliked it. Always had she craved some sense of adventure, of excitement, and to chronicle such. But as things were, all she felt was a pang of longing. The songs ill portrayed this feeling, she felt. Perhaps because many in a tavern's crowd already knew it too well.

The Call of Duty

The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. For some reason, that always seemed to impress her. Probably because everywhere else on Port Forward was far less operational. On any given day, or so a very drunk IT technician had told her, the port had no less than 100 new complaints popping up. Computers on the fritz, doors with hydraulics that needed replacing. A landing pad that had its sensors go on the wonk. The list was endless. IT Man had posited that it was a curse on account of the station's terrible pun. She wasn't sure what the pun was, but it must have been terrible enough to summon a few space demon.

There had been one period, described to her over three shots of whiskey, where all the stations technicians had dedicated themselves to clearing the list. Every hour of overtime they could manage was pulled, and at least some were kept off the books to get the job done. When the Herculean task was finished, everyone had the first full night of sleep they had had in years.

Then they woke up to the oxygen producers struggling to work.

Yet still, against all odds, Section Chief Alejandra's door always worked. Without fail. And today was no exception.

Most authority holding figures that Angua had met always tried to look busy when a subordinate was due to walk in the door. An illusion to paint them in a positive light, she presumed. You never want to see the boss lazing around knowing full well that you have a laundry list of tasks to oversee. Alejandra was pulling no such con. Her hands were folded on her desk from the moment Angua stepped through the door, only parting to motion to one of the two chairs that sat at the front of the desk for visitors.

"Please take a seat, miss Case," she said, her voice warm and professional.

Angua did as instructed, taking the chair. It was of a decent quality. Not quite as good as the one being sat in by the Section Chief, but just good enough that a visitor wasn't going to complain during their short time in the office.

Opening a drawer, Alejandra produced a tablet, and slid it across the desk. Angua took it, and slid through its various screens, reading over the already open documents. Having skimmed most of the relevant information, Angua let the tablet fall into her lap, and stared at her boss.

"Stanton?" Angua asked, as a casual bit of conversation. It was clearly written on the document. She knew full well what the assignment was.

"Stanton," Alejandra replied, knowing full well all she could add was in the request, "Rather active region these days. Plenty of smuggling, among other things. I'm sure you'll have an easy time blending in."

"When do I leave?"

Alejandra would have been taken aback at the response by anyone else. Most Advocacy enforcers, despite the station's technical problems, liked the posting. Port Forward was a decently quiet spot at the edge of its system. Angua liked to leave though. Perhaps, Alejandra had mused, because it was nice to come back somewhere quiet.

"Two days, we're still setting up your lodging and means of transportation."

"So I don't get to bring my Titan this time?"

"It will arrive a few weeks later, after you've 'worked' enough to 'earn' it. We don't want it shipping in with you."

"Makes sense," Angua said, tucking the tablet under her arm, "Points of contact already establish?"

"They are."

"No further questions, ma'am," Angua said, standing.

"Then you are free to go."

With nod, Angua turned, and made her way out of the office. The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. She wondered how on the fritz things were in Stanton.

Prompt 20: Soul

A toy chest. That was Agatha's first impression of the box of baubles that the merchant and set on the table, and happily pushed her way. As she prodded and poked through its contents, that thought remained. It reminded her of a toy chest, though it lacked a few things to complete the memory. She recalled a few deflated rubber balls she had kicked around her family's yard. A few dolls. Shiny stones that she had recovered from Lakeland. This chest only contained the latter.

Contrary to those rocks she had collected as a child, these stones appeared to be hand crafted, rather than simply pulled from the earth. They could have been organized out by shape and marking, if the merchant had bothered to take the time. He hadn't though, and so they sat in a mixed mess. She presumed it was so that she would have a harder time producing two of the same kind, and noted how inconsistent their designs were in comparison.

There was a reason she had spent the day before researching soul crystals. It was a topic she hadn't truly breached until she had come across it in conversation at the arcanist's guild. Those teachings tended to branch off, she had been told, into two unique disciplines. Practitioners of either discipline would have been disgusted looking in the box.

Both the stones meant for a scholar or a summoner were crude in their craft. It didn't matter which she pulled out, they were all imperfect in their design, and branded with a poor rendition of each discipline's emblem. Worst of all, she felt no resonance with either of them. There was no soul in these crystals, either in the spirit of craft, or the spirit of an individual.

She paused her digging, looking up to consider the merchant. He had retained his confident manner, hands resting in his lap. The bead of sweat on his brow betrayed him. Every moment she looked further into the box worried him. She presumed that he had grown used to fools prodding his wears and buying whatever struck their fancy. By the time they could return demand a refund, he would have skipped town. She resumed shifting through the box's content. It hadn't escaped her mind that this would be a possibility. If it took a few tries to find a proper soul crystal, she would endure. No matter how long it to-

A chill ran down her spine as her hand ran one of the crystals near the bottom of the box. Her fingers curled tight around the stone, and the frost dug in even deeper. Her eyes darted about the room, trying to spot the person she was now certain was observing her. She stared at the merchant, and swore he was about to panic. The shadow behind him agreed.

Ripping her hand from the box, stone still clutched in a dead man's grip. She forced it out of her hand and onto the table, behind the box. The merchant tried to look around the box, to see what it was she had retrieved, before she glared at him. He shot back into his chair immediately. Agatha rubbed her hand. It felt as though if she were to look at her palm, the stone would have left a burning scar, but she knew that wasn't the case.

It sat innocently enough on the table. A jagged piece of an obsidian looking ore, emblemized with a dark red sword. She palmed it again, immediately shuffling it from the table to her pocket, hand burning the entire way.

"Price," she said, looking back to the merchant.

"Pardon?"

"The price for one," she repeated, watching him starting to stammer, "Give me the price for one, you damned fool."

He gulped, murmuring, "A thousand gil."

She stood, flinging her prepared payment on the table, and left the merchant. Her pocket burned. Even walking down the docks of Limsa Lominsa made her fingers curl from the pain. Every now and then she stopped with a shudder, and was forced to look over her shoulders to make sure she wasn't being followed. By the time she returned to her room at the inn, she felt forced to bury the crystal in a drawer, just to keep her distance.

Yet in her dreams, it seemed to call.

Prompt 19: Where the Heart is

There was a number of words that could describe Winttrach Ahldbharwyn's abode. Simple. Spartan. Undecorated. Rather ill-suited to guests.

Such was the way it had always been, and such was the way she had been raised. A few adornments for the walls, including flags of those she felt comfortable flying. A small sitting area next to her orchestration, which she sparingly bought new recordings for. A comfortable kitchen area to cook in, and a similarly comfortable area to sit in. The hallway beyond the sitting and eating half of the house split the remaining space down the middle, into two rooms.

One was an office, with a desk jammed into a corner so tightly that were she wearing armor, Winttrach often had to clamber over it just to squeeze into her rather comfortable chair. This, and her bed, were the only pieces of furniture she had allowed herself to truly splurge on. The office's walls were covered in bookshelves and maps, further shrinking the room to the point where it seemed far too small for its roegadyn resident.

The bedroom was similar. The bed was sizable enough for her, but as the room was small enough as it was, it took up a fair amount of space. Which left barely enough room for her dresser, and chest for her armor to rest in.

The view from the window in the hallway was similarly bland. It was a lovely view, so long as your definition of 'lovely' would befit a long, empty gorge, of which nothing of note could be said. It wasn't even pocked with any foliage.

All was as Winttrach wanted it. There was no need to load the place down with luxury, as she was constantly on the road. She had what she needed for when she was home. And so home it was.

Prompt 18: Panglossian

 Optimism was a difficult thing to manage. Even on her best days, those where she had little more than a care in the world, Frieda was bound to be visited by at least one dour though, if not more. Life was full of such disappointments.

If she managed to keep her focus away for long enough, things were perfectly fine. She was traveling Eorzea, and lands beyond soon enough hopefully, and making a living through song. Eccentric and exciting people had been met, and beautiful locales had been witnessed. What more could she want?

Quite a bit, she had found out. Those things she had neglected while still living with her parents back in Gridania. Such as the fact that, at the end of every day there were so many things to be paid for. A room at the local in, which in some places felt rather outrageously priced. She needed food to fill her belly, lest she starve, which again could fetch an inane amount of gil.

On worse days it was much harder to ignore. Those days when she encountered a woeful individual, those souls who were worth speaking too just for the chance that their stories would make an excellent ballad. Those nights when she had to stretch her gil as far as she could.

But on the whole, Frieda Morrow felt happy. Most of the time.

Prompt 17: Fade

 Fading away into the shadows was far more difficult than romanticized writings have ever implied. It was this thought that filled Perne's head as she sprinted down the empty stalls of Hawker's Alley, constantly shifting under desks, and behind unsold merchandise.

In any book she had bothered reading, whether it be a story of Limsa's own rogues or the far eastern shinobi, the author always seemed to presume that there was some mystical aspect to it that allowed one to simply drop from sight in the blink of an eye. Perhaps that was the case for the shinobi, Perne had never closely associated with any, but for her, it was a much greater task. It also helped that in every one of those stories the guards had a gourd for a brain.

"Turn the place over," she heard one of her pursuers say, followed by the group picking through the stalls at the end of the market.

She started to crawl to a neighboring stall, the sound of shifting boxes and boots drawing ever closer. Quietly cursing to herself, she half considered dropping the loot this entire chase was over. A small box, containing a ring. Important to the client, but dead weight to her. For a moment she wondered if they would give up if they found the box and not her.

"Can't wait to wring that elezen's bloody neck, got me out on the docks at this hour," another pursuer grunted. There was a shared sound of agreement.

Guess not.

One of them was at the stall directly next to her. The end of the alley was close, and she had ran out of stalls. With another curse, uttered only to herself, she sprung out from under her current hiding place, and bolted for the end of the alley. She plotted out a path back to the guild, but none of her estimated routes felt safe enough to dedicate to. Especially after an arrow went flying by her head, fired by an individual who was far too tired to do this the clean way anymore. That narrowed her options down immediately.

Swerving straight to the edge of the plaza she had emerged out into, she took a running leap out over the edge, arcing herself down into the water. A few more arrows followed after, but no one left above her seemed willing to take the plunge themselves.

Much like one of those stories, she mused, she was allowed to swim away without much more resistance. What those authors always failed to note, she realized, was walking back with the prize not looking impressive, but as a dripping mess.

Prompt 16: Lucubration

 The lalafell looked up from the page presented to him, and to the elezen sat in front of his desks. He took a sip from the glass of water on his desk, organized a few of the other papers he needed to sort through, and prepared to take his quill and ink to the page the elezen had presented.

Frieda smiled nervously, feathered hat clutched tightly in her hands, "Well?"

The lalafell looked up again, and gave a half-hearted service smile, "I believe we will be parting ways, miss Morrow. We'll pay you for your time," he trailed off scribbling a few things on the page, "And perhaps we can work together in the future."

Frieda's heart dropped, her hat drifting from her hands and into her lap.

"Oh." She gulped, trying to find the words to follow up, "Was something wrong?"

The man adjusted his glasses, and tried to sound as polite as possible. It was clearly a trained method of speaking, one that had been practiced for years, "We're running a business here, miss Morrow. It's entirely possible that your piece here is a wonderful bit of poetry. But we're looking for something catchy. A jingle that gets people spending gil here. If it were closer to Starlight, then we'd want more sentimental, so perhaps we'll consider you closer to then."

"B-but," she said, her stuttering ceasing as the man slid his writing across the desk.

"Take this to my secretary. He'll make sure you get paid for your time. Good day, miss Morrow."

Prompt 15: Ache

Spoilers for Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers setting and lore.

Never in her life had she believed it would be possible to miss Norvrandt of all places. She had spent a not inconsequential amount of time attempting to flee from it. And where she still there today she would have nothing but contempt for its blighted landscapes and sorrowful people.

And yet, staring out across Limsa Lominsa's endless view of the ocean, she couldn't help but feel a longing. The sight itself was beautiful, there was no question about it. Eorzea's full moon serving as the centerpiece for a dark blue canvas, full of stars. The water rippled gently as boats maneuvered in and out of the ever busy port, their lanterns reflecting off of the water, giving the harbor the appearance of a colony of fireflies going to work.

There was something about the scene that she hated. Something about it that made her heart cry out for home. But she couldn't put her finger on it. The ships of Eulmore had never moved around as such, with a sense of purpose. In fact she couldn't recall if she had ever seen the ships of Eulmore leave the dock. Likely because she couldn't think of another destination for them to shore up. Perhaps Lakeland.

It most certainly was not the night sky or the ever watching moon. She had never witnessed such until coming to Eorzea, except in illustrations. It had occurred to her earlier that it was a pang she had felt everywhere. In Ul'dah, in Gridania. Every street she walked had struck at her differently, but all in the same spot.

All of it felt so unfair. For all their troubles, the denizens of Eorzea had managed to avoid the worst possible outcome. Their streets were in one piece. Their people able to go about with their lives,  unfettered by the ever encroaching end times. Of no fault of their own, she presumed. No one here would have been able to bring about such a catastrophe if they tried.

So called 'calamities' had apparently plagued Eorzea for some time, but they had survived. Almost like roaches, she mused, before feeling as though the comparison was too cruel. She wanted to hate them, and yet she felt it was undeserved. They had not caused her people's woes, but to watch them mill about their lives felt cruel. It felt fake.

Were she to describe the scene to someone back home they might have hailed it as a grand tale from the past, or a silly dreamscape. To think that the fleeting wants of a flooded world would be to see the water active again. She could only hope that her hand would soon be on the spout.

Prompt 14: Part

 Fredrick took a hesitant sip from the coffee mug, taking a moment to savor the flavor of the contents. Perne gave him an annoyed look as he ummed and ahhed, mockingly deliberating with himself on the results of the thermoboiler's attempt at coffee.

"Not bad," he finally settled on, taking the opportunity to continue drinking.

Perne rolled her eyes, pouring herself a cup. "Next time'm askin' Georgie to help me carry this shite."

After yet another dramatic sip from the cup, Fredrick set the cup on the workbench, filling it back up from the thermoboiler, "There is no way in any of the hells that you're gonna ask Georgie to help you carry any a this stuff."

Taking a sip of her coffee, Perne shook her head in disagreement, "If I don't want my shite criticized I will."

"I know for a fact that you aren't gonna ask Georgie to help you haul six boxes of scrap from Limsa all the way to the Mists."

Perne had set her cup down and was beginning to sift through said boxes of scrap, setting out certain pieces on the workbench to be hammered away at later. "Yeah? An' why's that?"

"'Cause Georgie's barely a yalm tall, and can barely see over these boxes."

Perne didn't honor that with a reply, only offering a short dismissive gesture over her shoulder. She pulled a set of goggles from above the workbench, putting them on as she started to tear at a few pieces of metal. She had seen enough people with eyepatches to walk the docks of Limsa Lominsa to risk taking a flying piece of metal to the eye.

Fred paced the length of the elezen's workshop, admiring a few of the pieces strung up here and there. Unfinished pieces of Garlean armor, magitek, and more. Here a rifle, there a helmet, most of them half-finished at best, and barely started at worse.

"You ever worry about your place getting raided? Maelstrom saw this stuff I feel like they would hang you down in the square."

She snorted, "Nah. I send reports on this shite in so that the Alliance can deal with it better. Got my permit for the lot of it."

"The Maelstrom has permits? Sounds like a lot of paperwork for a bunch of pirates."

"Figure of speech."

He smirked behind the coffee mug, pacing towards the back of the workshop. He craned his neck to see up to the top of the centerpiece of the entire place. The still in-progress set of reaper magitek armor. Large patches of the metal beast were missing, revealing a mishmash of innards, all of them in different states of repair. Some panels look like they could have rolled straight off the line at whatever factory Garlemald used, while others looked as though they had been left out in the woods to be chewed on by a goobbue. Some of them, Fredrick knew for a fact, had been left out in the woods and had been chewed on by a goobbue.

"How's this thing coming along?"

She turned somewhat, looking at the armor. All she could muster about it was a shrug, "Some stuffs working, most stuff isn't."

"Yeah?"

"Tried firing it up the other day, and the legs almost snapped off since the servos got locked up."

"Damn," he said, pacing around it, "Any of these parts for it?"

"That's the plan."

He nodded, and began on the path back through the workshop, stopping at the bench and the thermoboiler again. Perne glanced up from whatever it was she was working on, and looked at the hyur.

"If you put your mitts on that damned thing again, it better be after complimentin' the damned coffee."

Prompt 13: Repairs

In spite of all their subterfuge, it should never be said that the rogues of Limsa Lominsa were nothing if not upstanding members of society. They were, after all, the keepers of the city's obscure set of rules. Quiet, respectable, and if anything just a bit rough around the edges. A truly well oiled machine of pure cohesion.

"You ain't allowed to have two of those damned cards in yer deck ya little gobshite."

Perne Iseterre pressed her hand of cards against the table with her left hand, and pointed angrily at the current state of the Triple Triad board with her right. She wasn't wrong. An honest game of cards meant that only one such powerful card could reside in anyone deck. But even on its best days, Limsa Lominsa only passingly resembled anything honest.

"Got no idea what you mean," the lalafel on the other side of the table said, his teeth flashing, the few golden inserts shining brighter than the others.

She narrowed her eyes at him, prepared to start one of the many arguments that were currently proceeding inside the Rogue's Guild, before a slamming door cut her off. Every head at every table turned to watch the trio that had so suddenly arrived awkwardly stumble through the tables and chairs. Two hyur and a roegadyn slamming through everything in the most awkward way possible.

The hyur were carrying the roegadyn, one struggling to hold up the giant man's shoulders, the other grimacing as she hauled him forward by his legs. Perne had seen them all running about in here before, albeit the roegadyn had been conscious then. Her eyes rolled when she saw the gash in the roegadyn's tunic, and the fact that they were winding their way towards her.

The lalafel across the table from her had long stopped caring, and was instead using the time to reach across the table to try to get a peek at her cards. She slapped his hand away,  which he reacted to innocently enough.

It was with a thud that the roegadyn was dropped in front of her. She looked between the two hyurs, fraternal twins, and then down at the unconscious brute of a man.

"The hell ya want me to do with this?"

The pair exchanged a glance, quickly looking from each other, then to her, and then down to the man.

"Well," they said in unison, before looking at each other again.

"You go," said the boy, waving his hands at the girl before she could argue.

"We reckoned you could fix him," the girl said, rolling her eyes at her brother.

Perne snorted, "Shoulda taken 'im to the damned Arcanist Guild then. Probably woulda been closer to the town gate anyway."

"But you were in the Arcanist Guild," the boy said, suddenly regretting that he'd put himself on the spot.

"Key word in that sentence bein' 'were'," Perne said, looking even more annoyed now.

Not wanting to drag the matter out any further, she produced her satchel, and slowly went through it until her hand fell upon a dusty arcanist's tome. She slapped it on the table, dust filling the air above it, and began flipping through the pages. It was an older volume, and the arcanists had surely made a few improvements since the publication of this book, but it would have to do.

Focusing on the roegadyn, she settled on one page, and summoned the rune from it as she had been trained to do. It was a shoddy job, done by someone who didn't want to be doing it and didn't seem particularly good at it even if she had wanted to. But a shoddy job was better than no job in this case. The gash in his chest seemed to start closing. His breathing steadied. He would live.

Before they could utter a word of thanks, Perne motioned them away, "I better not have to do this again."

Without another word, the pair nodded, dragging the roegadyn away, this time by his arms, to find a good wall to settle him on. Perne turned back to the table after watching them go, once again having to slap at the hand of the lalafel and fend him off from her cards.

Prompt 12: Tooth and Nail

 The greatsword felt good in her hands. That was always the problem. The greatsword felt amazing in her hand. The heft of the weapon, the broad reach it gave her in combat. It was liberating. Intoxicating. She would dare say it was freedom. She was not bound to be a stalwart wall behind a shield.

So like a rabid dog being let off the leash, she lunged.

She had long told herself, especially as a member of the Sultansworn, was that she was meant to uphold a standard. As her mother had taught her, Winttrach Ahldbharwyn was the rally point. The wall. Not now. Now she was a whirlwind with a blade caught in the midst of it. And it felt amazing.

In another part of the room, carving through another pack of cutthroats was the person who had given her the sword. The one she had sworn to never be tempted by. The temptress was doing much the same, carving through their collective foe like they were tissue. It felt good. No laws to be bound by. No steps to follow. The people before her were the scum of the earth, criminals who preyed on others, and now she could treat them as such.

The crystal in her pocket burned, pressing her own. The blade slashed with a mind of its own, never ceasing. She felt the pain of dents in her armor, ruptures in it that required attention, but nothing allowed her to stop. There was no pain, there was no promise of demise, there was only the swift movement of blade.

When this crowd had fallen, their bodies being added to the liter that was Ishgard's streets, she readied herself for the next group that would come. But there was no next group. They had defeated all of them. As though the weight of the battle itself had been holding her up, she collapsed. The sword clattered to the ground. Perhaps, she thought, that was where it should stay.