[The Contract] Signing

Crovax leaned back in his chair, raised his right arm, and motioned briefly to one of his guards. The soldier stepped forward and produced a fairly large leather pouch, clearly heavy with coin. The guard dropped the bag on the table with a loud thud, the unmistakable clinking of coins filling the air. Crovax slowly pushed the pouch across the table. Dryden leaned forward and casually glanced inside. 

'Consider this a deposit. Much and more will be provided should you follow through with the deal,' Crovax said as he watched Dryden counting the coin in his head.

'One final question. Do you have any requirements or restrictions about how we accomplish the mission?'

His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, but Crovax shook his head. 'None. Do what you must.'

Dryden smirked slightly. 'Very well. Then all that is left is a little bit of paperwork...' Without breaking his gaze, Dryden motioned over his shoulder. A man clad in plain gray robes stepped out of the shadows with a parchment in hand. He laid it down before Dryden and handed him a quill. Dryden quickly signed his name along the bottom of the document and then slid it over towards Crovax. 

Crovax looked the document over, reading everything that had been discussed during the meeting. He looked up at the scribe still standing over Dryden's shoulder and chuckled. 'My, do you work quickly.'

The scribe smiled bashfully and nodded his thanks. Crovax then picked up the quill and scribbled his signature before sliding the document back to Dryden. Grabbing a small metal seal and a stick of blood red wax from the other side of the table, Dryden held the wax over one of the candles until it started to melt. He then quickly smeared it on the document, next to the signatures and firmly pressed the seal into the hot wax. Pulling the metal stamp away from the document, a grinning skull plastered in blood red wax finalized the document. Dryden handed the document back to the scribe who quickly slipped away.

'When shall we begin?'

[The Contract] Requests

'Please, have a seat,' he motioned to the vacant chairs across the table from him. Crovax stepped forward and took a seat, brushing his cloak over the back of the chair. Dryden made a subtle motion with his hand and a pair of guards clad entirely in black appeared as if from nowhere, flanking the Vox of the Hoard.
'Gentlemen, we would like a little bit of privacy to conduct some business. See to it, if you would.'

Nodding almost in unison, the two guards moved away from the table, quietly slipping through the crowd. As if their mere presence was message enough, the patrons of Smuggler's Haven seemed to disappear into the night. Within  moments, the bar was completely empty, save for the guards, the bartender, and the party gathered around the table in the corner.

'Can I offer you or your friends a drink? Some food perhaps?'

Shifting his chair forward slightly, Crovax rested his forearms on the table. 'I require the services of your brotherhood. I have been led to believe that you can help me with a unique situation.'

'Straight to the point, I can respect that,' Dryden chuckled softly. He leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk playing across his lips. 'And what can I do for you, Crovax?'

'We have a... how shall I say? A situation that is approaching. During this engagement, we need the assistance that you and your brotherhood specialize in. We require supplies. A steady stream of them, delivered to specific locations.'

Nodding slowly, Dryden idly flipped a platinum coin over his fingers. 'Seems simple enough, which of course means there is a catch. What supplies are needed? And how much of them?'

A slightly smile crept across Crovax's elven features. 'True enough, true enough. The supplies are fairly basic. We will need provisions - both food and drink, mounts, and basic armament for roughly one thousand men.'

Dryden's eyebrow raised slightly in curiosity and amusement. 'And the delivery locations?'

'Well, that is more likely to change over time. But for now, we will need initial deliveries to be on the Westbridge side of the Tripower Blockade.'

While his eyes seemed almost to be laughing in amusement, the rest of Dryden's face was an indiscernible mask. He watched Crovax without blinking for a few moments, before slowly nodding.

'That will cost you.'

[The Contract] Introductions

The ageless blond elf walked confidently into Smuggler's Haven, flanked on either side by Warriors of the Radiant Heart. The shady tavern in the depths of Makou was crowded at this time of night, just about every seat taken by some random denizen of the outlaw city. Stopping just inside the door, he started to peer around, searching the faces that surrounded him.

Almost immediately, a young boy slipped through the crowd beside the elf and his entourage. Clad in rough spun, nondescript clothing, he couldn't have been more than four and ten years old. Motioning to the trio, he turned his back on them and started to slowly push through the masses, cutting a path towards the back corner of the bar. The soldiers followed behind the boy, moving smoothly between the patrons until they reached a table against the back wall.

The massive wooden table, covered in half burned candles and scattered with parchment, was occupied by just a single person. His tattooed face bathed in the light of a cluster of candles, he seemed absorbed in the document resting in front of him.

'Sire, may I present sir Crovax Brightmantle of the Order of the Radiant Heart,' the young boy said, puffing up his chest and looking straight ahead.

Looking up slowly, his cold eyes seemed to take in every detail of the people in front of him. Finally looking at the boy, he nodded slowly.

'Thank you, Morigon. You may go,' he said as he slid a coin across the table. The boy scooped up the coin, beamed brightly, and quickly disappeared back into the crowd.

'Please, have a seat.'

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.

The Dormant Cell (II of II)

The pilot nodded an apology to the Captain who noted his appearance with a wrinkled nose of disgust and took his seat once again at the helm. Once again he tripped the switch he had just minutes before shut down, noting in satisfaction that this time the warning indicator did not blink as the lift engines whirred to life. Swiveling in his chair to face the command chair he nodded to the Captain. Shes up and running sir. The Pride of Torregiano is ready to depart on your command. The pilot looked hopefully up at the Captain who was leaning thoughtfully upon one arm of his chair. Shall I configure the Munchausen for home port? At a single shake of the Captains head his spirits fell slightly. As no doubt the rest of the crews would when they learned that they must continue to call the confines of their small bunks home for the time being. No. the Captain said, with another shake of his head. We are to proceed to the North Gate of Kefkaburg and hold airborne until further notice. The pilots spirits rose again ever so slightly. Then we are to finally be of use I venture to guess? The Captain scowled deeply in reproach as he straightened in his chair. We have played as large a role as any. Do not forget this. Where do you think our fleet would be without reserves had Vector decided to launch an attack? The pilot turned back to his console chagrined, as the Captain continued. Scuttlebutt has it that The Tripower leaders have enlisted a group of radicals to take a more active approach to the Vectorian scourge. The Eastern Blockade is being recalled at this very moment. We will be joining the fleet at the location I gave you. Nodding his acknowledgement, the pilot pulled gently back on a lever beside the console. Shuddering ever so slightly The Pride of Torregiano lifted from the sodden habitat that it had been lying in wait and slowly took to the skies.

The Dormant Cell (I of II)

A red light blinked steadily upon a polished control console. The pilots eyes turned lazily towards it as he sighed and flipped a large switch beside the light. A low mechanical moaning filled the cabin in testament to an engine powering down at the far end of the vessel. What is it? issued a man sitting in a raised chair amid the cabin. The pilot shook his head trusting himself to take his eyes off the light only when the blinking had ceased. Its hard to say until I go below to take a look. Amphibious lift offs can be tricky in these parts Captain. The pilot waited for the Captain to nod his permission of leave before swiveling out of his chair and swinging deftly down a laddered hatch with the experience of one who had done so countless times before. Slipping through a series of corridors and hatches, the pilot finally found himself standing in one of the many hot engine rooms that the ship housed. Inwardly the pilot cursed himself for having warmed the engines prior to final inspection as sweat began to bead on his face, soon to be rivulets which would  render his morning bath useless. He slipped past the side of the engine gritting his teeth against the intense heat radiating from it before finally spotting the red handled access panel he was looking for. Wiping away the moisture that had collected upon his brow he pulled open the panel with a grunt a sudden burst of water and muck which spewed out onto him. The pilot looked down at his now green tinged shirt and shook his head as he reached blindly into the space behind the panel, his entire arm disappearing within it. Aha he exclaimed as he withdraw his arm. He looked down at the red and green colored carcass that swung gently from the long neck that he held firmly in his grip and frowned. Swam too close did you little feller? he mused to himself as he let the half pulped corpse fall to the deck with a wet thump. The pilot slammed shut the access panel and stepped over the small body, flipping the toggle on a communications box against the bulkhead. Alls well Captain, just some of the local wildlife tangled in one of the lift engine turbines. He switched the toggle back off as he made way out of the cramped compartment and made a mental note to have one of the crewman clean the engine rooms the next time they made port.