Lost Causes

Late evening cast it's gloom down upon the city of Kefkaburg as Escalore strode through one of the many run down squares within it's walls. The streets were empty save a dark elf slipping through the northern gate and a dirt laden begger who slumbered in the doorjam of a shop that had closed for the day. It seemed to Escalore, that even the Vectorian patrols were lighter than the last time he had passed through. Leaning down he picked one of the two gold pieces from the hat which lay beside the begger and held it up to the dying light of day thoughtfully. Gold, the drug in which it seemed every cursed being on the forsaken planet was a victim too. The priests and their fallen pantheon, those who claimed to be the rightous. They all needed it just as much as the begger who lay at his feet, there was no difference between them all. Escalore himself detested the fact that he needed it to charter the passage for his mission. Perhaps it would be far simpler to commandeer a vessel with which to ply the eastern seas with. No. Those actions would draw far too much attention, and there would be enough of that in the days to come.

'Travel across the Sea of Swords. Within it's waters lies the key to  salvation. Bring it home.' These were the simple words that had kindled  the flame that lit the path before him. What would happen when he got out there was left in the hands of the Son. So long as it brought closer  the inevitable and cut short any unnecessary prolonging he didn't care  how far he needed to travel.

Escalore tossed the gold coin idly back into the begger's hat, inadvertently waking the man who turned his tear streaked face up towards him. 'Shh, it will all be over soon. ' Escalore crooned as he stood, looking down at the man. 'Yeh speak o'the occupation?' the begger croaked as he looked up with weary eyes. Escalore's lip curled up in a half sneer half smile, putting the man in visible discomfort. 'I cannot attest to that. After all, it's inconsequential who claims to hold control over this lost cause of a city. ' The man's mouth open and closed not unlike a fish out of water as he attempted to formulate what was certain to be a question to which answers would bear no level of understanding. Escalore simply  stood as he set his mind to the task before him. 'Ah coin fer the trouble?' the begger had finally found his voice. Escalore made no attempt to hide his disgust as he left the man behind him, his words lingering as smooth as silk. 'I'll not feed your addiction unbeliever.'

Profit

The rumors had been true: Kefkaburg's North Gate was quite the sight. Five people, all hanging on the gate by the ropes around their necks, Vectorian sentinels standing over the scene on the walls as if displaying goods they were selling. The act itself isn't what surprised Relic, but the manner in which it was done. Ever since Westbridge was taken under Vectorian rule, murder, especially aimed at Espers, had become less of a rarity. Though a public hanging wasn't a mere murder, it was a message. The intended recipient, it seemed, was headed towards the gate at this very moment. Rushing towards him down the path that cut through the northern plains were several rider-ladden chocobos. The grasslands offered small options for cover, though Relic had taken cover behind a small outcropping of rock a bit to the east of the gate itself. He doubted attention would be directed at him anyways, due to the situation at hand. He was too far from the riders to hear any words but shortly after they had stopped one of them, most likely the one in charge, began speaking. Several of them split off in different directions while one turned back the way they had come, kicking his chocobo into high gear. Most likely reporting the scene. These men weren't hard to discern as members of the TriPower. Their leader, now dismounted and peering upwards at the bodies, was armored with the unmistakable red and blue of the TriPower.

Relic smiled slightly. A message of blood, hung directly under the TriPower's nose. He had never cared who ruled what city or why, but as long as power continued to shift, there was money to be had.

He took a deep breath. It had not been since his days in the Brotherhood that his abilities were allowed a true target. This message sent the smell of war a hundred miles in all directions. War created targets, for both sides. It was only a matter of time now, before one of those  sides needed a target dealt with, by one means or another.

Smiling again, Relic, keeping low, slipped away along the city's wall. It was time to get wispers in the right ears.