Just a little Final Fantasy XIV thing...
The amber libation swirled around the cloudy glass with rhythmic impetus, its locomotion encouraged by the gentle rotational movements of the Duskwight’s wrist.
He’d nursed it for half a bell already, yet hadn’t mustered the courage to drink even once - his mind was wreathed in a miasmatic shroud that had, as of yet, been entirely impenetrable by thoughts both within the central sphere of his mind, and beyond it. Such an oppressive feeling had, in the past, correlated with the proximity of a hunt’s conclusion, an internal mechanism that guaranteed effectiveness and yet, this time, he found himself dissatisfied and distant. A frustrating predicament was the cause of this oppressive malaise, and the need to choose one of two altogether terrible solutions
The first, he could not abide as a consequence of his incredibly high standard of work, not to mention the immense personal danger that could be awaiting him - going in without the necessary information was seldom done, even during his resistance days… and for good reason. The second, and perhaps most grievous, was an ideological problem - the notion that a man who’d sided with the Empire the moment Bozja had come under siege, had dispensed suffering wholesale upon his own people and had, miraculously, escaped justice many times since its liberation, would once more elude his grasp… it was a prospect he could scarcely stomach, let alone allow to occur.
Once more, the barman sidled up to his booth. And once more, he raised a hand in dismissal - he had been polite the first few times, but at this juncture, he felt no such obligation to submit to etiquette’s whims. The lingering man paused at the gesture, then retreated back to the front of the establishment - it wasn’t a reputable place by any means, a dingy offshoot from the main promenades of Tulliyollal, down a plethora of winding, poorly maintained alleyways and nestled firmly between two buildings long since derelict. It was a far cry from what he’d grown used to over the years, but circumstance demanded he eschew the finer, better establishments in favour of the clandestine, the… He struggled to think of an apt word, and settled on the almost-complementary ‘humble’. The risk of identification was far too great, otherwise, so laying low was his only recourse… it was nostalgic, in a way: to be surrounded on all sides by rugged types and opportunists brought to mind his days spent in and among the resistance’s own.
The silhouette of the barman once more returned. By his very nature, and with many moons of practice besides, the Duskwight was reserved and almost immune to such vexatious behaviour, however, in his current state of mind, to have a target so eagerly volunteer itself to weather his frustrations gave him little room to resist. The man’s eyes rose to meet the barman’s own, and his exasperated expression broke into a slight, but relieved, smile. In retrospect, he should’ve absolutely noticed the barman’s sudden shift in stature and demeanour.
“A bird by any other name…” The Duskwight began, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over the man’s features, and gestured for him to sit. “I do not wish to lay claim to your time on these beautiful islands, but my conscience leaves me little other choice…”
The Duskwight leaned close, and consequently, into the low light of the establishment - he looked not a day older than when they’d last met, all those seasons ago, and spoke in a hushed whisper: “Slavosz goe Alyuba is here. Right here, and I’m ready to give him what he’s long overdue for… My predicament, however, stems from the fact that I’m not currently operating with everything I need to know… but I have a suspicion you may well be the one to change that. Back in the day, in fact, I recall you being the first sought out when assignments to gather intelligence were being handed out. Asked for by name, no less.”
With his prospects upturned, and his mood changed for the better, the man finally took a drink from his long-dormant beverage, and concealed his revulsion by flashing a toothy grin across at the Miqo’te insurgent, dressed like a barman. “It’ll be like old times. Hells, I’ll even let you come along for the operation, if you get me exactly what I need. Should be enough of an incentive, given your history with the marked man…”
The Duskwight let the words hang in the air, his gaze, however, remained fully fixated upon his companion’s expression - he was searching for any indication, no matter how slight or unformed, of the man’s willingness to step back into boots that could be half a decade old. But if his penchant for disguises had clearly not faded, perhaps there was still that spark lingering beneath the surface… Not that he could ascertain, of course, the man’s poker face was by all counts, insurmountable.
Unsurprisingly, it was the Elezen who broke first: “Understood, loud and clear. Reasonable and fair compensation as well, then, given you’ll be disrupting your quality time upon this beautiful island nation to lend your expertise. That is my final offer: a hefty pouch of coin, and the satisfaction of knowing you took part in dispensing long-awaited justice to the most treacherous, slippery bastard to ever split his name with an imperial ‘honorific’.”
The final word was delivered replete with venom, to the extent of being almost spat - but it was only now, after all was said, and promises made, that the disguised man offered a smile in return.
And it was not slight, by any means.
