Sherral (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fluffiest_archadian) wrote2014-01-25 01:39 am
fluffiest_archadian) wrote2014-01-25 01:39 am
(no subject)
The news of the escape from Nalbina Fortress has not been out long before Judge Magister's Gabranth men are combing Rabanastre. Houses and businesses are entered, many more than once. Even the barracks are searched.
But Gabranth does have some restraint.
A Judge Third Class under his command breaks a window of a shop owned by an elderly bangaa – the bangaa protests, and the Judge throws him to the ground and delivers a punch that makes his nose bleed.
Before long, the Judge Magister is there himself, exuding quiet fury. On the spot, he strips the offending judge of rank, commission, and honour, and leaves him as a disgraced civilian in the back streets of a foreign city. The bangaa is paid in full for repairs.
They find no trace of the fugitive, but Sherral notes the tension in the frames of Gabranth's men. This is important. They must find this fugitive, who was held in Nalbina and seems to be of special importance to Gabranth.
---
“I'm Basch fon Ronsenburg!”
Some of the soldiers have acquired Memstones holding recordings of the strange prank. A boy, younger than Sherral, of Dalmascan origin, hollering in the streets of Bhujerba that he is the traitor who slew Dalmasca's king, and who was subsequently executed by Marquis Ondore of Bhujerba.
The recording is absurd. Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg had been a man in his thirties at the time of his treason. This boy could not be older than seventeen.
”Don't believe Ondore's lies!”
Judging by the way his men snicker over it, they've noticed the same thing. There are a few who have another Memstone, of a Bhujerban woman tutting.
”It just shows how cruel the youth of Bhujerba are becoming these days. Barely two years has passed since the Marquis lost both his brother-in-law and his niece, and here is some teenage boy hollering about it, bringing up bad memories, trying to bring our Marquis in disrepute. He needs to learn some respect.
…
And put on a shirt.”
---
The new recruits arrive. On their first night, Sherral takes them out to the Westersand. It is freezing. One by one, he examines each of their armours. Two of them are wearing their armour correctly. For the rest, he cheerfully remarks that if they cannot wear their armour correctly, then they won't wear it at all.
They perform the rest of the training exercises in their skivvies, in the freezing cold, with sand getting everywhere. The next day, he has them clean out of the chocobo stables in the same skivvies. That evening, when he calls them for training again, all but four are wearing their armour correctly.
He re-trains them as he was trained. They eat when he tells them. Drink when he tells them. Wash when he tells them.
At the beginning of the week, they are sneering and swaggering.
By the end, they recognise his authority.
---
The garrison is abuzz. Judge Magister Ghis has been injured. Someone has injured a Judge Magister.
Worse still, they did so on the Leviathan, his own flagship. For a group of fugitives to escape a Judge Magister on his own flagship is inconceivable. It is an insult to the Empire.
Sherral reads the missive with a frown. There are now two high priority fugitives they must look out for. A man, tall and muscular, with blond hair and a scar on his forehead; and a woman, average height, with pale blond hair. Neither are identified by name.
There is something suspicious going on.
---
Her name is Jules. She is a street ear.
Sherral folds his arms and settles on a bench in Nalbina Fortress while she gives him the pitch about any information found.
“Listen, prettyshins,” she says, and Sherral glances at his shins, “you're adorable like a bloody puppy, so I'll give you this for nothin' – the rumour going around is that this fugitive? Amalia. Insurgent leader.”
“Unlikely,” Sherral says quickly. “They would've executed her on the spot. A quiet death.”
“You'd think so. But there's another rumour, too. That one will cost you, though.”
Sherral gives her a plaintive look. Jules' shrugs. “Hey, if I gave my wares to every guy with puppydog eyes, I'd never make any gil.”
“I get a captain's commission. I'm hardly rolling in wealth, Jules.”
“Then I guess you won't be rolling in secrets either.”
---
Sherral is on patrol when he sees it. A giant dragon, flapping about the edge of the Nam-Yensa Sandsea.
“They call it the Wyvern Lord, sir,” one of his men says. “It's a lord. Of wyverns.”
They are forbidden to enter the Nam-Yensa Sandsea. But that dragon could threaten Rabanastre.
---
“No,” Major Ronick says.
“But - ...”
“No,” Ronick repeats. “If the Wyvern Lord attacks, the wall shall hold. From the safety of our defences, we shall have little issue repelling it.”
“With respect, sir,” Sherral says stiffly. “The traders and nomads make their settlements outside the walls. Should this Wyvern Lord attack the city, I've not the men to adequately defend them. But if you permit me to go alone, I am capable of felling the creature without aid.”
Ronick rumbles out a sigh, attaching his signature to a piece of paperwork. “My decision is made, Captain Maduin. Not yet two months have passed since the Insurgents attempted violence upon the life of our consul. I require you here, not chasing dragons. Are we clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
---
The member of the hunter's clan of Rabanastre, Clan Centurio, who visits Sherral to accept his bounty looks familiar somehow. Sherral has seen that blond mop of hair and slightly bizarre lack of shirt before.
He can't recall where.
But within a week, the Wyvern Lord is killed, and Sherral thanks the boy and pays him.
---
The explosion is visible from Rabanastre's walls. Sherral recognises the blindingly bright burst of energy, and the fiery figures billowing from it, immediately.
Deifacted Nethicite.
News comes in later that the Leviathan has fallen, and Judge Ghis with it.
But Gabranth does have some restraint.
A Judge Third Class under his command breaks a window of a shop owned by an elderly bangaa – the bangaa protests, and the Judge throws him to the ground and delivers a punch that makes his nose bleed.
Before long, the Judge Magister is there himself, exuding quiet fury. On the spot, he strips the offending judge of rank, commission, and honour, and leaves him as a disgraced civilian in the back streets of a foreign city. The bangaa is paid in full for repairs.
They find no trace of the fugitive, but Sherral notes the tension in the frames of Gabranth's men. This is important. They must find this fugitive, who was held in Nalbina and seems to be of special importance to Gabranth.
“I'm Basch fon Ronsenburg!”
Some of the soldiers have acquired Memstones holding recordings of the strange prank. A boy, younger than Sherral, of Dalmascan origin, hollering in the streets of Bhujerba that he is the traitor who slew Dalmasca's king, and who was subsequently executed by Marquis Ondore of Bhujerba.
The recording is absurd. Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg had been a man in his thirties at the time of his treason. This boy could not be older than seventeen.
”Don't believe Ondore's lies!”
Judging by the way his men snicker over it, they've noticed the same thing. There are a few who have another Memstone, of a Bhujerban woman tutting.
”It just shows how cruel the youth of Bhujerba are becoming these days. Barely two years has passed since the Marquis lost both his brother-in-law and his niece, and here is some teenage boy hollering about it, bringing up bad memories, trying to bring our Marquis in disrepute. He needs to learn some respect.
…
And put on a shirt.”
The new recruits arrive. On their first night, Sherral takes them out to the Westersand. It is freezing. One by one, he examines each of their armours. Two of them are wearing their armour correctly. For the rest, he cheerfully remarks that if they cannot wear their armour correctly, then they won't wear it at all.
They perform the rest of the training exercises in their skivvies, in the freezing cold, with sand getting everywhere. The next day, he has them clean out of the chocobo stables in the same skivvies. That evening, when he calls them for training again, all but four are wearing their armour correctly.
He re-trains them as he was trained. They eat when he tells them. Drink when he tells them. Wash when he tells them.
At the beginning of the week, they are sneering and swaggering.
By the end, they recognise his authority.
The garrison is abuzz. Judge Magister Ghis has been injured. Someone has injured a Judge Magister.
Worse still, they did so on the Leviathan, his own flagship. For a group of fugitives to escape a Judge Magister on his own flagship is inconceivable. It is an insult to the Empire.
Sherral reads the missive with a frown. There are now two high priority fugitives they must look out for. A man, tall and muscular, with blond hair and a scar on his forehead; and a woman, average height, with pale blond hair. Neither are identified by name.
There is something suspicious going on.
Her name is Jules. She is a street ear.
Sherral folds his arms and settles on a bench in Nalbina Fortress while she gives him the pitch about any information found.
“Listen, prettyshins,” she says, and Sherral glances at his shins, “you're adorable like a bloody puppy, so I'll give you this for nothin' – the rumour going around is that this fugitive? Amalia. Insurgent leader.”
“Unlikely,” Sherral says quickly. “They would've executed her on the spot. A quiet death.”
“You'd think so. But there's another rumour, too. That one will cost you, though.”
Sherral gives her a plaintive look. Jules' shrugs. “Hey, if I gave my wares to every guy with puppydog eyes, I'd never make any gil.”
“I get a captain's commission. I'm hardly rolling in wealth, Jules.”
“Then I guess you won't be rolling in secrets either.”
Sherral is on patrol when he sees it. A giant dragon, flapping about the edge of the Nam-Yensa Sandsea.
“They call it the Wyvern Lord, sir,” one of his men says. “It's a lord. Of wyverns.”
They are forbidden to enter the Nam-Yensa Sandsea. But that dragon could threaten Rabanastre.
“No,” Major Ronick says.
“But - ...”
“No,” Ronick repeats. “If the Wyvern Lord attacks, the wall shall hold. From the safety of our defences, we shall have little issue repelling it.”
“With respect, sir,” Sherral says stiffly. “The traders and nomads make their settlements outside the walls. Should this Wyvern Lord attack the city, I've not the men to adequately defend them. But if you permit me to go alone, I am capable of felling the creature without aid.”
Ronick rumbles out a sigh, attaching his signature to a piece of paperwork. “My decision is made, Captain Maduin. Not yet two months have passed since the Insurgents attempted violence upon the life of our consul. I require you here, not chasing dragons. Are we clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
The member of the hunter's clan of Rabanastre, Clan Centurio, who visits Sherral to accept his bounty looks familiar somehow. Sherral has seen that blond mop of hair and slightly bizarre lack of shirt before.
He can't recall where.
But within a week, the Wyvern Lord is killed, and Sherral thanks the boy and pays him.
The explosion is visible from Rabanastre's walls. Sherral recognises the blindingly bright burst of energy, and the fiery figures billowing from it, immediately.
Deifacted Nethicite.
News comes in later that the Leviathan has fallen, and Judge Ghis with it.