Le toutou-crotteur (version)
- — ... en voyant le strip de Yaza [asha docet ;)] ... et pour célébrer la technique d'Asha :
[Le toutou-crotteur] du passé
X’yaza shifted uncomfortably on the saddle, earning him a literal side-eye from the chocobo. He hated the leggy birds at the best of times: too smart, too tall, too strong. Also, no one should have an aetherically-talented mount, that was obscene. Given that these were far from the ‘best of times’ he had even less patience for a surly horsebird. The agitated chocobo narrowed its eye, as if it had both heard and didn’t care for X’yaza’s thoughts on the matter. If Yaza didn’t know better, he could have sworn the bird was walking stiffly on purpose, exacerbating the discomfort to his backside.
X’yaza tried his bonds for the hundredth time since being picked up near old Nym. The leather around his wrists sung an ugly little song but there was no appreciable movement from the manacles. They had at least bound his hands in front so he could steady himself against the pommel of the chocobo’s saddle, but the cuffs around his ankles were another story. They were heavy; had to weigh a good ten ponze each. They were pulling him down against the unsupple hide of the seat, like his captors were attempting to (very slowly) wishbone his pelvis over the course of the journey to Limsa Lominsa. The more he thought about it, the more agonizing the seated posture became and he tried shifting his posture again.
“WARK!” protested the bird, startling X’yaza so fiercely he lost all train of thought.
“You know, my kin have been known to eat your kind,” growled X’yaza, which felt silly immediately. Even if the bird did know what he was saying, which did seem more and more likely, the miqo’te was in no position to make good on any threats.
“Koo-kweh,” replied the bird, fearless and unimpressed.
From the head of the small formation of chocobo, the lead rider turned around in his seat. Clad in leather and the distinct yellow of the Yellowjacket, there was no mistaking what the pale hyur did for a living. Nor what the other three bird-mounted figures (two women, both Sea Wolves, one hyur male) did. Yellow all the way down. That is, except for Y’zara, who wore the polished red of his impractical “traveling” mail from foot to throat. There was muddy black boot mark on the breastplate about the same size as the lead man’s boot. Exactly the same size, in fact.
“Hey, quiet down!” said the man in the lead, “Got no problem pullin’ that fat tongue outta your head.”
X’yaza pushed his tongue around in his mouth, momentarily distracted and self-conscious. Did he have a fat tongue? Vanity thy name is Tia. Clearly satisfied by the miqo’te’s sudden silence, the lead man turned forward. Almost as soon as he did, X’yaza remembered what he was thinking about.
“Ser Jacket? Before I’m silenced, do you mind explaining something to me?”
“I got this, Rigbill,” said one of the two Sea Wolves. X’yaza couldn’t remember her name, but it was something like ...Swishfish? Close enough. She tugged the reigns of her chocobo and fell back to flank X’yaza’s beleaguered mount.
“He said shut your face, crook!” barked Swishfish, slapping X’yaza across his bare cheek. And not gently. His head jerked to the side as if stricken with a club and he tasted copper. At least Swishfish had leather gloves on, not the steely gauntlets of her boss, but still. X’yaza shut up until the Sea Wolf returned to her position in the meager formation.
“Why…” began the bound miqo’te, making the decision to get his concerns out quickly to avoid the most facial injury, “...didn’t you incarcerate me at Aleport? Or Swiftperch? Seems Limsa is a proper distance to take one looter, don’t you think?”
This time both Sea Wolves slowed, putting one on either side of X’yaza. They were waiting for the okay to strike him, he knew, but to his surprise Rigbill turned around again. This time he was grinning. Four of the teeth X’yaza could see were dull and metallic, probably lead.
“Oh, that’s easy enough to answer. You know of Master Lacurico, scofflaw?”
Now, it was X’yaza’s turn to grin, “I might’ve heard the name…”
“Well, maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, but he pays well for able-bodied martial types. My commander has a pretty good gig sellin’ him, uhh… what’d we call em, Thissero?”
A mousy man in uneven spectacles, the second hyur, looked up for the first time since X’yaza had been caught and blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. The huyr’s brown-tan chocobo looked as lethargic as its rider.
“Labor-capable Detainees…” said Thissero without hesitation, before yawning and closing his eyes once more.
“Selling him Labor-capable sorts,” finished Rigbill, “Like you.”
“And these capable criminals are compensated fairly for this labor?” asked X’yaza.
Everyone but Thissero laughed. Thissero startled awake, grinned, and closed his once again. X’yaza himself was nodding in understanding.
“And this is legal in Limsa Lominsa, despite the very clear prohabition against slavery?”
“With the right paperwork,” sing-songed the Sea Wolf without a name -- Fyshmish, X’yaza decided -- much to the amusement of those compatriots that remained awake. X’yaza waited for the chuckles to pass, his own grin missing from his face.
“Alright. Does this count, Montresor?” asked X’yaza.
“These guys are gross,“ said Montresor, whose voice came from nothing and nowhere, “Teach them a lesson! K--!”
X’yaza’s bindings shimmered and split! First the feet, then the cuffs, all while he waited patiently on the uncomfortable saddle. Scraps of leather and chain peppered the hard-packed dirt under his chocobo’s claws. The audible POP of leather mad Swishfish’s mount rear and Fyshmish struggled to hold the reigns of hers.
“KUHHH--!”
A shimmer in the air panicked Thissero’s passive mount. Thissero himself jerked awake just in time to wrap his arms around his startled steed’s neck. They went to the ground spectacularly, becoming a shrieking, warking obstacle that the distracted Fyshmish couldn’t quite avoid. Fortunately, Swishfish was regaining control of hers when her fellow roegadyn ate complete shit. She wheeled her steed toward X’yaza, struggling to pull a shortspear free.
“--KUPO!”
A small, white ball of fluffy, puffy aerial rat manifested less than two yalms in front of Swishfish -- much to the surprise of both Swishfish and this newly-extant moogle. Oddly, it had an acute right angle bent into the antenna leading to its pom. Odder still, it had both of its little arms wrapped around the hilt of an impractically long sword it was obviously struggling to keep from dragging on the ground.
The crash was an unexpected result of the moogle’s sudden appearance, but not an unwelcome one. Chocobo, Sea Wolf, moogle, and shortspear went down in a wild skid that left talon-marks in the hard earth as long as roegadyn forearm. The sword, as red and absurd as X’yaza’s brightly colored armor, flew through the air in a wide arc. X’yaza snapped it out of the sky before his own chocobo’s patience ended.
“WARK!” said the chocobo.
“Yeah,” said X’yaza, resigned to what came next, “Wark indeed.”
That X’yaza landed on his feet is a testament to the ownership of a well-balanced tail. That the scared chocobo’s mad sprint to freedom didn’t catch his crimson sollerets on the saddle and drag him through plains, well, that was a miracle.
In the seconds-long duration of this whole event, Rigbill had managed to: bring his mount to halt, see his companions thrown to the ground by their own steeds, and draw a plain but functional sword. Seeing X’yaza’s approach with a much bigger, much more ostentatious sword concerned him enough to put the spurs to his horsebird.
“Monty?” sighed the miqo’te.
“One sec…” groaned the bent-pom moogle, waddling free of the mess of unconscious roegadyn and chocobo feathers. It wiggled its crooked little pom with purpose.
Something shimmered in the small space between Rigbill’s chest and his chocobo’s neck. The invisible force hit the hyur in the chest so hard he lost the grip on both sword and reins and landed on his back in the dry grass. Loyal to no man, his steed kept going, leaving Rigbill breathless and at the mercy the approaching miqo’te. Something heavy and indistinct sat on the hyur’s chest.
“Fortuna, good of you to join us…” and just like that, a moogle twice the size of the first appeared on Rigbill with its oddly muscular arms crossed over its burly little chest. It had a skullcap on that pinned its pom mostly over one eye.
“Was that good, boss? I didn’t have much time to plan, Monty just woke me up!” said the child-like voice of the large moogle.
“It was perfect, Fortuna,” praised X’yaza, remembering to be gentle with the big, sensitive sack of kuponuts. He walked as menacingly toward Rigbill as two-ish yalms of miqo’te could reasonably be asked to walk. The massive sword did help.
X’yaza stood with his feet on either side of Rigbill’s head and stared down into the man’s face. He let the tip of his wine-red blade rest persuasively against Rigbill throat.
“Now,” began X’yaza as a twisty black smog rose from the sword in elaborate tendrils, “Let’s have another chat about Lacurico Curico.”
Beni bir gün unutacaksan, bir gün bırakıp gideceksen boşuna yorma derdi, boş yere mağaramdan çıkarma beni. Alışkanlıklarımı, özellikle yalnızlığa alışkanlığımı kaybettirme boşuna.
