As They Usually Do
Basch's "days of glory", as they were affectionately known in reels and shanties, were long behind him. This was not of his own doing, of course -- the combination of Shakespearean betrayal and plain time, the most vigilant thief of vigor, was an old, old story. Best left for storybooks, but the rare times where it touched one's life and one lived to tell the tale, they usually didn't tell it at all.
It started off as an ordinary day, as they usually do. There had been unimportant errands to run in Rabanastre; the touch of imposing heat in the dry Dalmascan air felt good on his inflamed joint, so Basch had decided to proceed to his destination on foot from his home, and enjoy the warm pocket before the summer began its descent into the sweltering.
His first alarm, upon return, was the voice of his neighbor Gartes. He could hear somewhat panicked, heavy breathing, coupled with phlegmy snorts even from ten feet up the walkway; the latter normal of the Seeq, to be sure, but the former slightly worrying. Basch had picked up his pace and poked his head curiously around the corner, wondering if he was to come upon a scene of injury or foil a prank in the making.
For some reason, Gartes was trying with uncharacteristic fervor to wash the front wall of Basch's house, sponge in hand, wooden water pail on the ground before him. He'd succumbed to a side-stitch, and was trying to work despite it, cursing, arm only reaching small, impotent arcs that'd he already cleaned into greyish drear. Upon the sight of Basch's face, Gartes small eyes went wide; he tried to waddle and intercept Basch's path, only to almost fall over thanks to his pulled muscle. Basch had dropped the bag of his groceries to lash out his arms and catch him, barely snagging his sweaty underarms before hefting Gartes back to his feet -- the thick pad of Gartes' swollen belly made it difficult, but not impossible.
"What is it?" Basch asked, suppressing a laugh -- such was mean-spirited, especially when a friend had tried for a nice gesture such as chores, even if the heat made them near-impossible. "Don't break yourself on my account."
Gartes managed to heave a frustrated and surprisingly close to teary, "I didn't catch them. My damnable side..."
There was a moment of pure, utter confusion. Then, once casting a glance to the side of the house, it became clear -- it wasn't a chore out of misplaced, needless good intentions.
Writ in black paint across the entirety of the front wall and door, became clear;
We Remember Raminas
Even If His Blood Would Forget
So even her exalted majesty Ashelia would be branded a traitor for clearing the name of the Kingslayer.
"Captain, I--"
Basch shook his head, smiling a little. "Just children. ...here, I've bought some stock; I'll make dinner. Remind me to replace your sponge."
Gartes nodded, for once lost for comment. The swift change of topic was not lost on him, nor was the weight bore by the dishonored soldier; Gartes' crippled body and seemingly harmless love of alcohol could attest to that.
Basch crouched to collect the fallen food, pointedly ignoring the paint running down the cobblestone. Nothing more needed be said, to his mind.
The silence was even heavier than the heat.
It started off as an ordinary day, as they usually do. There had been unimportant errands to run in Rabanastre; the touch of imposing heat in the dry Dalmascan air felt good on his inflamed joint, so Basch had decided to proceed to his destination on foot from his home, and enjoy the warm pocket before the summer began its descent into the sweltering.
His first alarm, upon return, was the voice of his neighbor Gartes. He could hear somewhat panicked, heavy breathing, coupled with phlegmy snorts even from ten feet up the walkway; the latter normal of the Seeq, to be sure, but the former slightly worrying. Basch had picked up his pace and poked his head curiously around the corner, wondering if he was to come upon a scene of injury or foil a prank in the making.
For some reason, Gartes was trying with uncharacteristic fervor to wash the front wall of Basch's house, sponge in hand, wooden water pail on the ground before him. He'd succumbed to a side-stitch, and was trying to work despite it, cursing, arm only reaching small, impotent arcs that'd he already cleaned into greyish drear. Upon the sight of Basch's face, Gartes small eyes went wide; he tried to waddle and intercept Basch's path, only to almost fall over thanks to his pulled muscle. Basch had dropped the bag of his groceries to lash out his arms and catch him, barely snagging his sweaty underarms before hefting Gartes back to his feet -- the thick pad of Gartes' swollen belly made it difficult, but not impossible.
"What is it?" Basch asked, suppressing a laugh -- such was mean-spirited, especially when a friend had tried for a nice gesture such as chores, even if the heat made them near-impossible. "Don't break yourself on my account."
Gartes managed to heave a frustrated and surprisingly close to teary, "I didn't catch them. My damnable side..."
There was a moment of pure, utter confusion. Then, once casting a glance to the side of the house, it became clear -- it wasn't a chore out of misplaced, needless good intentions.
Writ in black paint across the entirety of the front wall and door, became clear;
We Remember Raminas
Even If His Blood Would Forget
So even her exalted majesty Ashelia would be branded a traitor for clearing the name of the Kingslayer.
"Captain, I--"
Basch shook his head, smiling a little. "Just children. ...here, I've bought some stock; I'll make dinner. Remind me to replace your sponge."
Gartes nodded, for once lost for comment. The swift change of topic was not lost on him, nor was the weight bore by the dishonored soldier; Gartes' crippled body and seemingly harmless love of alcohol could attest to that.
Basch crouched to collect the fallen food, pointedly ignoring the paint running down the cobblestone. Nothing more needed be said, to his mind.
The silence was even heavier than the heat.