#ah even remembered his singular gold coin for the man with a single penny to his name

[ruleandruinrpg]

DRUVIK JADEJA

TWENTY-SEVEN ❈ ALKEMI THE ORDER OF FABRIKATORS (MATERIALKI)

He was meant to traverse the high heavens, what with his beauty that contested that of even celestial bodies. It was something that he was humble enough to admit -- a fact he admitted often, to whoever should be so lucky enough to bend an ear and listen. However, it was a pretty piece of prose that his parents had heard too often from their moon-eyed son. Are you not content with what we have given?, they would ask as they would shake the dust from their tents and wipe the sweat from their brow. To which he would respond, simply and serenely, Never. Ah, how oblivious he would remain to the way that his parents would glance at one another, their lips pressing together tersely as they would finish their packing -- their hands so roughened with work, contrasted so sharply with the third pair of hands that seemed better suited for the life of a plush aristocrat than a travel-worn nomad. Nomad. How drab the word seemed to young, lofty Druvik who drank in the stories of the wealthy who paid his family to perform, how wide his eyes would grow when they would wave their ring-heavy hands with fistfuls of coins around as though such a thing meant less than a handful of dirt. Are you not content with what we have given?, his parents would ask as they tucked him in at night, their voices quiet with sadness as they watched him clutch the coin in his fingers so jealously. Never, he would say, eyes unblinking as his fist curled around the gold -- as jealous and covetous of it as a dragon with its jewels. 

Was it not surprising that, like a dragon, he would fly to a grander hoard of treasure? He paid his parents not a single thought as he set out to Ketterdam with nothing but the moon and stars above as his witness. So, too, were they witnesses of the tears that his parents shed -- wasted, they would have whispered if they could, wasted upon a boy with a dragon’s heart. But it was the kind of heart that lavished in its depravity, steeped in its most corrupting flaws, when catered to by a place like Ketterdam. He hid his talents and he hid them well, for he knew what kind of distasteful lifestyle he might be forced to live should they know what he was. A life of subservience was never written in the stars for him, for he was much too grand for that. However, a life of self-solicitation while obtaining from it an abundance of pleasure was much more befitting for him. For the life of a Suli child had forced him to refrain from exploring indulgences, from savoring the decadence that life had to offer. What was more was the bliss that he was able to offer them. Eventually, he became Ketterdam’s very own poppy, very own god of ecstasy-inducing poison. The masterful Alkemi that he was, once working on tricks of light and showers of illusions for his family’s performances -- a memory of a distant, much less appealing time -- knew what a taste of ecstasy was, so he sought to manufacture it to others as well. Honey-sweet god that he was, proliferating happiness from the heavens and deigning to give it to those who paid a pretty penny. Rich in its potency, sweet in its slow sin. As if the unholy city of trade did not have enough opiates passing through its ports. 

Unholy as it was, it knew the value of authenticity. Something that Druvik was very much not. He claimed that his concoction had nothing to do with the Small Science, merely science. But he recognized that creatures of beauty and higher callings were often damned for their superiority, for their craft. The world feared them, in all their gifts and glory and Ketterdam was not to be an exception. So, like the dragon-hearted man that he was, he opened his wings and sought a new treasure to commiserate over. He sought a new sin to indulge in, a new knight with whom he could have a little fun with. Yet again, like a boy he faintly remembered, he thought not of the tears that would be shed in his absence -- of the souls that had tied themselves to him, weaving themselves around him so intricately that they witness existence without him (or his poison) unless they wished to be fettered and frayed. They had not expected that he should be the one to tear himself away, in a way that was almost savage, almost cruel. But it was Druvik, the man with a smile that could have charmed a starving wolf into doing his bidding.  His voice was too soft, words too tender and caressing in their cadence to ever be considered wicked. Yet the pain that he left in his wake, when he took his bliss in a bottle with him, said otherwise. Only a completely and utterly wicked man could give Ketterdam a taste of heaven, then withhold it from them. Or perhaps he was not wicked at all. Perhaps it was just part of his nature. 

His terribly sweet, rich nature. It will not be too long before he rots with the taste of his own honey in his mouth. For Ravka was not the place that he assumed it might be, the place where Grisha are worshipped as war heroes instead of slaves, subjects, or something worse. When he had smuggled himself onto its shores, he had expected more than the lack-luster cities, the war-weary villagers, and the hard-hearted soldiers that occupied it. But even those expectations were completely eclipsed by the one, astounding fact that they enlisted him as a Second-Army soldier. They clearly did not know that a deity such as he did not sully his hands with the wear and tear of something as revolting as war. Druvik grew up assuming that he might able to dance in decadence for an eternity without the worries of blisters marring his feet. He grew up gracing the stars with his kisses without the worries of their light burning his soft lips. No one had bothered to tug his head from the clouds and tell him otherwise -- despite the havoc that he reaped in his blissful, naive self-indulgence. But naivety is a feeble armor to wear – ignorance a fractured shield to bear. Indulge yourself while you can, little honeyed boy, for sweetness can only last for so long before it rots.

CONNECTIONS

KATYA ARISTOV: The way that her tongue lashes at a person, more effectively than any whip, is perhaps the sole reason why Druvik hates her as much as he does. Although, their first encounter was less than ideal -- what with the way he was so nice to her, complimenting her as it is only polite to do. She, however, did not respond in kind. Instead, she had the gall to look unimpressed and simply brush him off as if he were no better than the plain humans that wallowed in their plush chairs. It is difficult for Druvik to hate someone bitterly, to hate them with heat. But he has no problem smothering someone in kindness, drowning them in it until they have no choice but to cling to him so that he might lift them to take a breath. There are many weapons in Katya’s arsenal, but none of them are prepared to defend her from the singular bullet of benevolence that is Druvik Jadeja. 

VASILY BARANOV: He remembers kindness and he remembers it well ( as all kindly gods are required to do ). When it came time to bid his farewell to the city of Ketterdam, Vasily was there to whisk him away like a knight in appalling untarnished armor. See, Druvik preferred his lovers to have a little wear in their look. But the more time Druvik spent gazing upon the visage of the Baranov man, the more intrigued he became. For his sugared words seem to offer no comfort, nor did any of the other amenities that he proposed. There was only one thing that could provide fulfillment where Druvik, again -- being as humble as he was, knew when he was lacking. Should Vasily ever wish to indulge himself in the bliss in a bottle, Druvik would always just be around the corner -- willing and ready to bestow his creative blessing. 

IRA SOROKIN: He is always seeking someone to indulge them and Ira is the singular person who is capable of doing so. He does not see the way that she finds them amusing, like one might find a playful horse or an overenthusiastic pup entertaining. Nor does she see the way in which his sweetness sours just the tiniest bit when she turns away. She, too, is blind to how he steps closer, how his eyes narrow and his lip curls in anticipation whenever he watches her Durast hands perform their fate-given duty. They use each other, abuse each other. But perhaps it is rightfully so, for fire may not be able to kill a dragon -- but another dragon’s bite surely could. 

DRUVIK IS PORTRAYED BY ROHIT KHANDELWAL & IS OPEN.

[castellankurze]

FFXIV: A Job for the Noble

I haven’t done an au ra thing in awhile and with Stormblood coming up with a certain new class I figured this was a good time to set things up.

------- The glint of gold light was what caught his eye.  The sun reflected from the sigil worked in metal like a beacon placed there by fate - any higher, any lower, and it might have passed his attention entirely.  But as it was, it was just enough for the au ra to turn his head, and what he saw made his heart leap into his throat.

Someone grunted at him from behind and he quickly stepped to the side to permit the flow of foot traffic to continue past him.  One man's revelation was no reason for Hawker's Alley to slow in its pace of buisness.  Once he'd removed himself from the street, Jiro was permitted a moment's respite to study the object that had so captured his attention.

He had to have it.  A part of him wanted to dart forward, to go running across the shoppers and grab the thing, and from there go tearing off into the crowd before anyone could stop him.  He had to take a breath.  That would be foolish - the Yellowjackets that policed Lominsa's streets would stop him before he made it fifty steps, to say nothing of what would happen should he elude the lawmen and instead run afoul of the Upright Thieves.

So he turned away, and closed his eyes, and lifted one hand to stroke at his chin, appearing contemplative.  After a moment he subtly lifted one finger and bit at the first joint.  He knew what he had to do.  He did not relish the task.  Another moment's passing, however, and he lowered his hand, pressing his palms together as he took a breath to fortify himself with the cool sea air.  Then he turned on his heel and made his way across the street, careful not to march too purposefully.

Exotik Goodes! the cheap wooden sign read.  Claim for Yorself the Wonders of the Far Easte!

A curtain was raised around half to booth to protect the proprietor, who turned out to be a lalafell smoking a pipe nearly as long as his forearm.  He was surrounded by all manner of goods, mostly such things as Jiro recognized to hail from Kugane, and a few from Doma.  Most were cheap wooden or clay or paper things, and Jiro did not look at the prices, knowing full well that they would be marked up to an absurd degree.

The shopkeeper looked up as the tall au ra brushed past the curtain.  "Welcome friend," he said with a heartwarming smile.  "Did something catch your eye from the street?  A piece of home, no doubt?"

"You have a sword, there," Jiro said, waving an arm in the vague direction of the object.  "What is it you want for it?"

"Ah, you have a fine eye, my tall friend," the lalafell said.  "It is quite a specimen, is it not?  It was by great luck and chance that it fell into my possession."  Jiro longed to reach out and clamp a hand around the small man's neck, but he restrained himself with a titanic effort of will, and instead glanced towards the stones beyond the curtain, as if already boring of the the man's pitch.  "...but I can see you are weary of the day," the lalafell quickly caught on.  "Still, it is a most prized thing.  I could not part with it for less than ten thousand, and that-" he emphasised with a stab of his pipe stem, "is already a great generosity to you, noble traveler."

"It is, how your Eorzean saying goes, a piece of shit," Jiro pronounced, feeling his stomach turn about and roil the deck of a ship amidst a hurricane.  "Fit for no more purpose than as a toy for the smallest and most clumsy child.  Still," he said with a decisive wave of one hand, "I am perhaps of too foolish a heart, and I would give you two thousand of my coin that it no longer make such mockery of your other wares."  

The lalafell's eyes narrowed sharply and he exhaled a small cloud of smoke, the stuff curling from his nostrils like the breath of dragons.  Then he smiled.  "Sir, you are perhaps touched by too much of Lominsa's sun and the salt of her waves.  "The sword there is no less than a Kanemitsu original, a name that has reached even these poor and distant shores.  It would be folly, true folly, to part with it for any less than nine and five hundred gil."

"Even a blind man could see that it is but a fake," Jiro riposted, using some of the anger rising in himself to add scorn to his voice.  "A Kanemitsu.  All swords would be Kanemitsu or perhaps Masamune if they would, when they are but shadows beneath the mountains of such greatness.  But even a thing like this is a very funny joke, claiming such ancestry so brazenly with such poorly imitated sigils and clumsy sign.  Yet it is not a joke worth more than three."

"Good sir, good sir, if you would but look upon it more closely, the artistry of the blade is plain to see," the lalafell replied without missing a beat.  Turn your head to and fro and you will not see a single imperfection upon the steel, not a single flaw in the curve of the blade.  It is a thing of singular beauty, not worth a penny less than eight and three-quarters."

"I turn my head and I see the dirty feet of Lominsions on the road outside through this so-called steel," Jiro snorted.  "Paper may be a tool of artistry but only for such works as may be hung from from the wall for the rich and the idle and the stupid to comment upon.  I am not rich, but I am neither idle nor stupid, and you will not see more coin from me than four."

"My dear far-flung friend," the proprietor growled, "far be it from me to insult my most gracious guest, but you have traveled far from home, and whilst you and your most noble brethren work most righteously to reclaim what is yours, we in Eorzea must yet safeguard our own.  Four?  Perhaps you would take the sandals from my feet alongside it.  I will not sell for less than seven, and I am hanging myself out to the sharks in so doing."

"Five and five," Jiro replied immediately.

"Six."

The au ra narrowed his eyes, the crimson limbals menacing as he thinned his lips.  "Not six," he finally said.  "Five and nine."

The Lominsan stared him down for a long moment.  "Five and nine," he finally said with a nod.  "A most excellent purchase, my good friend.  Perhaps I might also interest you in one of my fine scarves?"

-------------------------------

The sun was a deep orange as it hovered, half-hidden by the ridge of the mountains that surrounded the community of Mist.

The beach was empty this evening, the sounds of the marketplace distant as the daytime businesses cleared out, while the night traders had not yet moved in.  This far from the walkways, Jiro could not hear even the most distant voices, and the only sound was that of the waves.

He had stripped to the waist, baring the musculature of his long torso and arms, as well as the scars over his heart and across his back where he had once narrowly escaped death by the bullet of a Garlean soldier.  He sat, legs crossed his sandals resting nearby, the naked sword held in his upraised hands.  The long blade shimmered nearly blue in the fading light, smooth metal seeming to hum with the vibration of each succeeding wave.  The blade itself was without ornament, with only the golden dragon coiled at the handle to mark the weapon as the work of a master of his craft.  The length of it easily surpassed Jiro's shoulders, the curved blade long enough to pass itself off as an odachi, rather than the more famed katana.

Jiro bowed his head for a long moment, and closed his eyes.

--------------------------------

"Here, Ichiro," the boy said, holding out the blade.  "I got you yours."

"Longtail, you shouldn't," said the son of Lord Kuroda as he took the proffered blade.

Jiro shrugged his shoulders.  "It wasn't a problem.  I was getting the practice swords anyway."

"That is not the problem to which Ichiro refers," an older voice broke in, and both boys turned and bowed before the bearded form of Master Ji.  "Young Longtail," he said, his voice grave but not unkind, "a lord's blade is not for a peasant man to touch, even if he should mean well.  It is a symbol of his house and his responsibility.  A master who does not show diligence in the care of his own blade is one who does not care for aught else under his banner, do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," Longtail said, bowing.

Ji gently mussed his hair.  "Remember that.  Now, take your place."

"Yes, Master," Longtail said again, recognizing the double meaning of the order, and hurried to take up his wooden practice blade, ignoring the slight curl to the lip of Lord Kuroda's other son as he watched the commoner side-eye from Ichiro's other side.

"Now," said the master, gently drawing his dragon-hilted sword from its long sheath.  "Where were we yesterday?  Perhaps you could remind me, Jiro?" he asked the younger of the two lordlings.

--------------------------------

Jiro Kuroda rose slowly, his long tail acting as a balance that made the movement almost supernaturally graceful.  As he stood he panned his fingertips along the flat of the long blade to take the handle in both hands as he held it out at an angle.  Then he slid a foot through the sand and cut, biting back a curse as he overbalanced.  Hew had grown too used to the barbaric axe, too used to the savagery of plunging its heavy blade into an opponents flesh and using the weight of the thing to do the cutting.  

He redressed and repeated the cut.  This time it was faster, more sure of itself.  Then he stepped forward and swung the sword about to cut the other way.  This blow was precise, stopping exactly where he wanted it to.  He dropped back, pulling the sword upright in a defensive posture before striking out again.

Sand flew as the au ra turned about and spun on first one foot and then the other.  Master Ji's sword all but sang, flashing in the dying light as the sun retreated behind the mountains.  A hundred lessons he'd stood, with Ichiro and...and...and the other boys, when they would come.  The wooden blade had been a crude, cheap thing, but it had mimicked the weight and reach of a sword enough that the great odachi felt familiar in his hands.

He turned and slid his foot out, sneaking his toes underneath the silken scarf he'd laid out across the sand and kicking upwards, sending it fluttering through the air, and reversing his direction in a heartbeat he cut horizontally, using both hands to whirl the long sword around in a tight arc.  The blade caught the scarf halfway down its length and there was a whisper of cloth.

Two frayed pieces of silk drifted down to the sand.

The dragon sword was no work of art.  It was a treasure beyond compare.  Whole empires could rise and fall and not see fit to create such beauty.

Jiro came to a halt as quickly as he had begun.  His breath came with difficulty, and he fought to keep it regular, his chest rising and falling as sweat gleamed upon his chest and shoulders.  There was the hint of wetness at his brow, as well, and at his eyes, though perhaps not all of it was sweat.  With slow deliberation, he lowered his sword arm, using his other hand to brush hair from his eyes.

A motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he turned his head to see several figures, mostly female, watching him from the distant railing where the paved street of Mist met the beach.  One of them lifted a hand to curl her fingers in a wave.  Another had her fingers curled into a fist, her thumb extended.  A third had the rich, golden eyes of the shogun’s daughter...

Jiro felt the heat that he'd been so careful to breathe out flood back into his face and chest and quickly turned away, hurrying to clean up the discarded clothing.

[ruleandruinrpg]

DRUVIK JADEJA

TWENTY-SEVEN ❈ ALKEMI THE ORDER OF FABRIKATORS (MATERIALKI)

He was meant to traverse the high heavens, what with his beauty that contested that of even celestial bodies. It was something that he was humble enough to admit -- a fact he admitted often, to whoever should be so lucky enough to bend an ear and listen. However, it was a pretty piece of prose that his parents had heard too often from their moon-eyed son. Are you not content with what we have given?, they would ask as they would shake the dust from their tents and wipe the sweat from their brow. To which he would respond, simply and serenely, Never. Ah, how oblivious he would remain to the way that his parents would glance at one another, their lips pressing together tersely as they would finish their packing -- their hands so roughened with work, contrasted so sharply with the third pair of hands that seemed better suited for the life of a plush aristocrat than a travel-worn nomad. Nomad. How drab the word seemed to young, lofty Druvik who drank in the stories of the wealthy who paid his family to perform, how wide his eyes would grow when they would wave their ring-heavy hands with fistfuls of coins around as though such a thing meant less than a handful of dirt. Are you not content with what we have given?, his parents would ask as they tucked him in at night, their voices quiet with sadness as they watched him clutch the coin in his fingers so jealously. Never, he would say, eyes unblinking as his fist curled around the gold -- as jealous and covetous of it as a dragon with its jewels. 

Was it not surprising that, like a dragon, he would fly to a grander hoard of treasure? He paid his parents not a single thought as he set out to Ketterdam with nothing but the moon and stars above as his witness. So, too, were they witnesses of the tears that his parents shed -- wasted, they would have whispered if they could, wasted upon a boy with a dragon’s heart. But it was the kind of heart that lavished in its depravity, steeped in its most corrupting flaws, when catered to by a place like Ketterdam. He hid his talents and he hid them well, for he knew what kind of distasteful lifestyle he might be forced to live should they know what he was. A life of subservience was never written in the stars for him, for he was much too grand for that. However, a life of self-solicitation while obtaining from it an abundance of pleasure was much more befitting for him. For the life of a Suli child had forced him to refrain from exploring indulgences, from savoring the decadence that life had to offer. What was more was the bliss that he was able to offer them. Eventually, he became Ketterdam’s very own poppy, very own god of ecstasy-inducing poison. The masterful Alkemi that he was, once working on tricks of light and showers of illusions for his family’s performances -- a memory of a distant, much less appealing time -- knew what a taste of ecstasy was, so he sought to manufacture it to others as well. Honey-sweet god that he was, proliferating happiness from the heavens and deigning to give it to those who paid a pretty penny. Rich in its potency, sweet in its slow sin. As if the unholy city of trade did not have enough opiates passing through its ports. 

Unholy as it was, it knew the value of authenticity. Something that Druvik was very much not. He claimed that his concoction had nothing to do with the Small Science, merely science. But he recognized that creatures of beauty and higher callings were often damned for their superiority, for their craft. The world feared them, in all their gifts and glory and Ketterdam was not to be an exception. So, like the dragon-hearted man that he was, he opened his wings and sought a new treasure to commiserate over. He sought a new sin to indulge in, a new knight with whom he could have a little fun with. Yet again, like a boy he faintly remembered, he thought not of the tears that would be shed in his absence -- of the souls that had tied themselves to him, weaving themselves around him so intricately that they witness existence without him (or his poison) unless they wished to be fettered and frayed. They had not expected that he should be the one to tear himself away, in a way that was almost savage, almost cruel. But it was Druvik, the man with a smile that could have charmed a starving wolf into doing his bidding.  His voice was too soft, words too tender and caressing in their cadence to ever be considered wicked. Yet the pain that he left in his wake, when he took his bliss in a bottle with him, said otherwise. Only a completely and utterly wicked man could give Ketterdam a taste of heaven, then withhold it from them. Or perhaps he was not wicked at all. Perhaps it was just part of his nature. 

His terribly sweet, rich nature. It will not be too long before he rots with the taste of his own honey in his mouth. For Ravka was not the place that he assumed it might be, the place where Grisha are worshipped as war heroes instead of slaves, subjects, or something worse. When he had smuggled himself onto its shores, he had expected more than the lack-luster cities, the war-weary villagers, and the hard-hearted soldiers that occupied it. But even those expectations were completely eclipsed by the one, astounding fact that they enlisted him as a Second-Army soldier. They clearly did not know that a deity such as he did not sully his hands with the wear and tear of something as revolting as war. Druvik grew up assuming that he might able to dance in decadence for an eternity without the worries of blisters marring his feet. He grew up gracing the stars with his kisses without the worries of their light burning his soft lips. No one had bothered to tug his head from the clouds and tell him otherwise -- despite the havoc that he reaped in his blissful, naive self-indulgence. But naivety is a feeble armor to wear – ignorance a fractured shield to bear. Indulge yourself while you can, little honeyed boy, for sweetness can only last for so long before it rots.

CONNECTIONS

KATYA ARISTOV: The way that her tongue lashes at a person, more effectively than any whip, is perhaps the sole reason why Druvik hates her as much as he does. Although, their first encounter was less than ideal -- what with the way he was so nice to her, complimenting her as it is only polite to do. She, however, did not respond in kind. Instead, she had the gall to look unimpressed and simply brush him off as if he were no better than the plain humans that wallowed in their plush chairs. It is difficult for Druvik to hate someone bitterly, to hate them with heat. But he has no problem smothering someone in kindness, drowning them in it until they have no choice but to cling to him so that he might lift them to take a breath. There are many weapons in Katya’s arsenal, but none of them are prepared to defend her from the singular bullet of benevolence that is Druvik Jadeja. 

VASILY BARANOV: He remembers kindness and he remembers it well ( as all kindly gods are required to do ). When it came time to bid his farewell to the city of Ketterdam, Vasily was there to whisk him away like a knight in appalling untarnished armor. See, Druvik preferred his lovers to have a little wear in their look. But the more time Druvik spent gazing upon the visage of the Baranov man, the more intrigued he became. For his sugared words seem to offer no comfort, nor did any of the other amenities that he proposed. There was only one thing that could provide fulfillment where Druvik, again -- being as humble as he was, knew when he was lacking. Should Vasily ever wish to indulge himself in the bliss in a bottle, Druvik would always just be around the corner -- willing and ready to bestow his creative blessing. 

IRA SOROKIN: He is always seeking someone to indulge them and Ira is the singular person who is capable of doing so. He does not see the way that she finds them amusing, like one might find a playful horse or an overenthusiastic pup entertaining. Nor does she see the way in which his sweetness sours just the tiniest bit when she turns away. She, too, is blind to how he steps closer, how his eyes narrow and his lip curls in anticipation whenever he watches her Durast hands perform their fate-given duty. They use each other, abuse each other. But perhaps it is rightfully so, for fire may not be able to kill a dragon -- but another dragon’s bite surely could. 

DRUVIK IS PORTRAYED BY ROHIT KHANDELWAL & IS OPEN.