Rance Carter was the son of a cut purse. His grandfather had been one, too. If Rance had been the type to care about things like ancestry, which he didn’t, he’d likely have found that, for as far back as history cared to record their miserable existence, the Carters had all been cut purses and con men and thieves since the first of them walked Eorzea. Rance was just the most recent scum in a long line of scum. Not that he cared, though. It earned him a pretty pocket of full of gil most nights and entertainment most others. That night he’d gotten both in spades.
The Quicksand had mostly emptied by the time he and his good and only friend, Del Dollins, made their way back to it. There were two miqo’te at one of the tables in the middle of the floor, talking lowly, one smiling wolfishly at the other who blushed in response. They went on their way towards the inn rooms without paying the two thieves any mind. Several women in maid uniforms sat around a table looking exhausted, clearly fresh from work. Rance let his gaze linger on them a bit longer, imagining what kind of work he could put the lot of them up to with the coin that now weighed his trousers down. He flashed them a snaggle toothed grin until they noticed him. He followed it up with several audible puckers of his lips. They revolted and he cackled.
Del rounded on Rance and began to slap the older man’s massive shoulder with the back of his hand. “Oi, ‘ave a look,” Del gestured to the bar counter. Much like the rest of the Quicksand it had been abandoned by patrons save for a studious looking lalafell at one end of the counter and a man dressed in white and black laced finery with a new-ish looking top hat rested on his head at the other. He seemed to be passed out, head buried in his arms, a snore escaping him every few breaths. No less than a dozen glasses had been arranged around him, most all of them empty with either dwindled ice cubes or the dregs of something strong and amber in the bottom. “Looks like the night’s not quite over yet.”
Rance, despite being so massive of a midlander he was often confused for a highlander, had the deftest hands between the two of them and Del knew it. The smaller man bowed mockingly to his elder and gestured on ahead as if to say the mark was his. Not that he needed to. Rance Carter didn’t take orders from anyone and never played second fiddle so long as he had something to say about it. He wouldn’t need a thief’s knife for this one.
Once the bartender had vacated her vigil over the sleeping man in favour of the monetarist at the other side, Rance made a beeline for him. He paused, just behind him, waiting for the snore–once he heard it, he slipped his hands quickly into every visible pocket he could find. A chronometer. A cheque book made of rich, Ishgardian leather. And a pendant. He looked down at it for a moment–it was in the shape of a cluster of stars with wings folded over its body with a small blue stone in the middle. Rance kissed the jewelry, gil signs appearing in his eyes. He waved Del over and slid his haul unceremoniously into the same pocket.
“Oi,” he hollered to the other end of the bar, waving a fat hand at the diminutive keep while she tended to the small patron’s glass. “Round of ales for me and my partner here and be quick about it.”
“No tab for you tonight, Rance,” she spat his name and it drew a gleeful smile upon his face to know he disturbed her so. “I want to see some coin now.”
Rance sneered and spat on the bar floor. “Oh you’ll see some coin, alright. Del and I had a good haul tonight.”
“Best one ever, I reckon,” Del added, his voice stringy and hoarse like it had been stretched too thin. Rance slapped the other man over the back in a congratulatory manner, but where Rance defied size norms Del most certainly didn’t. He was a head or two shorter than Rance and likely two hundred ponz lighter. He had enough meat on him to prove a decent knife fighter when the occasion called for it and was quick as a devil, but Rance’s single slap was enough to send him sprawling out of his stool and to the bar floor.
Rance had a good laugh, slapping his hands together in applause.
Del’s expression flattened.
“Come on then, ya tiny bit, I’m a payin’ godsdamned customer ‘ere,” he waved between fits of laughter at the barkeep.
Begrudgingly she finished the slowest drink refill she’d ever completed and trudged back over to the pair.
“So what was it this time, Rance?” said the barkeep. It was clear in her tone that she didn’t honestly care what the answer was, “Knock over a caravan of relief supplies again? Rob an old man by pretending to be his sick grandson?”
“Robbed an old woman by pretendin’ to be ‘er sick grandson!” Rance declared, flashing wide, sinister grin. Or at least it might’ve been sinister had he not been so ugly. A wide scar deviated the side of his face, whitening one of his eyes where it split down across the brow to his cheek bone. It wrinkled and squished with his grin. “Or rather dead grandson, as it turned out. Had it comin’, she did, bein’ so defenseless and alone as she was.”
“You are truly a gift to society, Rance,” said the barkeep with a sneer. “Godshelp me, I’d throw you out if you weren’t a paying customer.”
“Yer bloody right, I am payin’,” he said, slamming a fist down on the counter, silencing the small woman’s distaste. She jumped. He grinned. “And I expect my mugs to never get empty, ya understand?”
“….of course,” said the barkeep after a moment.
Rance turned around to see what remained of his potential audience for the evening and saw that the maids had taken their leave. He frowned and spat again. Dumb whores, he thought.
The moment the massive wooden stein of ale was set in front of both Rance and Del, the larger man slapped a sack of gil between them. The keep fetched it quickly and retreated to the other end of the bar. “To our haul,” Rance said, turning to Del with a grin. He threw one of his massive, meaty, tattooed arms around the smaller man’s shoulders and gave him a good shake.
“To many more!” Del added, and the men clinked the mugs together with such force that a good quarter of it spilled down their arms and splattered on the floor. As if bidden by old muscle memories, the two men slammed their mugs back and nearly drowned themselves in the contents. Foam and earthy brown liquid spilled down the corners of their mouths and splattered against their tunics and trousers until they both pulled their mugs away with satisfied ‘ahhhhh’s’ and began to demand more.
Once his drink had been refilled, Rance reached across the counter, plucking the barkeep’s small arm in his massive grasp. “It’s story time love,” he said, cracked lips pulled back in a devilish grin. “You won’t want to miss it.”
The barkeep looked left and right for any sign of a patron that might be willing to intervene on her behalf. Once she saw, though, that the snoring drunk and the monetarist weren’t likely to do anything other than continue on as if she didn’t exist at all, she sighed and resigned.
Satisfied that he now had an audience, Rance released her and began. “So there I was.” His voice was a bellow.
“I was there, too, remember,” said Del.
Rance heard him, of course, but pretended not to. “Mindin’ my own business–”
“It was our business,” said Del, correcting him with a raise of a hand, “But go ahead, tell us about the ol’ granny.”
“She had her coin purse out, she did, but me trousers got a bigger bulge than it. Thing ‘at caught my eye was ‘er fancy pendant. Had one a them gemstone gryphons,” Rance continued.
“Ala Mhigan from the looks of ‘er,” Del added.
“She looks a bit lost, ya understand? Probably out of ‘er wits, given ‘er age,” Race mimed her hunched posture walking with a cane.
“Dementia,” said Del before making a religious gesture across his chest. “Me mum had it, gods rest her.”
“So I follows her into the alley while she’s lookin’ for another shop to spend ‘er gil at, gods knowin’ there ain’t nothin behind the Sapphire exchange but beggars and crooks alike, and I says to her–” Rance began before Del cut him off.
“Shop here often, Miss? Rance Carter’s got a special deal just for you,” Del did his best imitation of Rance’s low, gutteral drawl.
“Piss off, I don’t sound like that,” Rance slapped Del on the back of the head. Del seemed content. “So I says to her ‘ey, you shop here often, Miss? Rance Carter’s got a special deal just for you–”
“Your man already said that part,” said a voice from Rance’s elbow. It had been so sudden and unexpected that even the barkeep jumped. The massive man turned with a start, eyes darting back and forth, alley piece already in his hand. It was an old, dull knife with blood stained along its edge from repeated use and lack of care. Del had raised his pitcher of ale, too, half drained as it was, ready to bludgeon whoever it was to a sopping wet death. To their surprise it wasn’t anyone dressed in flames colours, standing over their shoulder. They weren’t standing at all, in fact. The voice, as it turned out, had come from beside them. The dandy, whose pockets they had rifled through earlier. Rance narrowed his eyes. When had the man stopped snoring? How had he not noticed? Had the chess board coloured man realized he was missing anything? Rance reached down, checking his side pocket to ensure the thick cheque book was, in fact, still there. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the odd shape of it and settled back in his chair.
“Who the bloody hells are you?” Del asked, still wielding his ale mug like a hammer.
“Just…a man out of good conversation partners whose had a bit to drink and could do with a good bedtime story.” True to his claim, the man’s words were so low and mumbled even Rance had a hard time understanding them. The man beside them looked up without his head leaving the crook of his folded arms. He tipped the brim of his top hat up with a single finger so that one bloodshot eye became visible among the tangle of dark hair. Clearly he was up to his eyeballs in something harder than ale. “Get to the next part, what happened?”
Rance rubbed his hands together now, satisfied that the dandy wasn’t aware enough to realize he’d been robbed clean of everything but the clothes on his back–and wanted to join his small audience, to boot. “Well then,” he said, happy to continue. “She looks right confused at that–calls me Tom, I think it was. Thought I was her boy who died in Ala Mhigo,” Rance and Del both chuckle at the memory. “So I run with it and I says to her, I says–”
“That’s right ya old bitch, now give us your valuables ‘else I can’t pass on to the aether!” Del imitated Rance again, only this time Rance seemed to have found it of passing quality.
“That exactly it,” said Rance, grinning. “And like I was speakin’ holy gospel she took it for truth and started tearin’ everything off! ‘Er pendant, ‘er jewels, even ‘er bloody wedding ring. Threw it all right in the street–n’ that ain’t even the best part!”
“Oh?” asked the drunken dandy. “What was?”
“The old hag drops on the spot and starts clutchin’ at ‘er chest. Seein’ ‘er dead boy walkin’ must’a been too much for ‘er old ticker. Started ‘avin’ a bloody heart attack!” Rance laughed and slapped his thick knee. Del echoed the noise, slapping Rance on the shoulder as if to say ‘good one’. Once he had collected himself enough he took another long swig of ale. “So I wait a minute until I know the old bat ain’t among the livin’ anymore and then made my merry way ‘ere.”
“Can’t rat on you if they ain’t breathin’, right, Rance?” Del asked with a chuckle.
“Right you are, Del!” the larger man slugged his friend playfully in the shoulder.
The hatted dandy let the brim of his top hat fall again, covering up his drunken eye. “Quite the story,” he said into his arm. “Must need a wheelbarrow to haul your balls around in.”
Rance’s laughter was cut short at that. He turned, narrowing his bulging eyes at the fine suited man, catching his tone. “Come again?” Rance demanded, grabbing hold of the man’s collar. To Rance’s surprise the man came loose from the bar counter with surprising ease. He truly was deep in the sauce. His top hat fell from his head, though his face remained mostly obscured by sweat matted hair clinging to his every feature.
“It’s just that…” the man began, dangling from Rance’s grasp. “You’re a big fellow. And…I’m betting the old woman you mentioned was not.” He prodded Rance’s thick, rounded chest. “So…when I suggested you had large balls—that’s what the wheelbarrow comment meant,” the man’s tone had grown sharp. “I was actually suggesting they were quite small.”
Rance’s face turned hot coal red. “Little shit,” he spat, spittle pelting the drunken man’s face…just before his massive fist did. The suited man sailed like a rag doll from Rance’s grasp and slammed into the darkly stained floor face first. He groaned and attempted to raise himself, before collapsing and falling still.
“That’s it, you’re done!” The barkeep shouted, leaping back from the counter. Rance turned to shout at her but saw that she now had a pistol in her hand and had it aimed at him with a quivering hand. “I don’t care if you’re paying, Rance, you won’t be starting brawls in my establishment! Get out before I call the Flames!”
“BAH!” Rance roared. He threw his stool as he stood, letting it clatter across the floor and smash against the far wall, bursting into splinters and pieces. “This place has gone to shit. Can’t tell a bloody story without everyone getting their panties in a bunch.”
Del chugged the remained of his ale, though most of it ended up on his shirt.“You said it, Rance,” said Del. He wiped his lips with the back of his arm.
“We’re leavin’, and it ain’t cause you’re wavin’ that peashooter in my face!” Rance pointed a meaty finger at the barkeep. “I’ve got places to be!”
“Yeah! Better places!” Del hollered after his large friend.
The both of them left, each giving the dandy on the floor a swift kick to the ribs for good measure before they did.
The alleyway outside the Quicksand was long and cast in the deep shadows of the night. Cool wind whipped down it carrying with it the scent of desert and the mold and mildew of the alley which, Rance thought, somehow smelled better than the arm pit that was the Quicksand. Several homeless men and women and sometimes children huddled along its walls near one another, wanting for warmth. Rance spoke loudly despite them. “The nerve of ‘er,” he said, kicking a stray glass bottle out of his way. It shattered against the wall, spraying old, warm booze and glass out into the alley. “Me, a payin’ customer, gettin’ a gun waved in ‘is face over some piss drunk aldgoat fucker who’d done and closed ‘is tab?”
“Gone to the seventh hell, it has,” said Del empathetically shaking his head. He eyed one of the slumbering families against the alley wall and thought for a moment that their blanket was almost nice enough to nab as he passed it.
“You’re tellin’ me!” Rance exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “I swear it’s the whole of Ul’dah these days. They’s so firmly on the dick of the alliance now, what with helpin’ the Ala Mhigans and the Saltery and everythin’ but us, it’s a wonder they even remember they ‘ave citizens at all.”
“Yeah,” Del echoed mindlessly.
“And I swear if I have to suffer one mo–”
The sound of crunching glass sounded off behind them and the two men paused in their conversation to turn, hands reaching for their weapons. They couldn’t see his face or the shade of his jacket, but the silhouette of a top hatted man had appeared in the alleyway, stumbling as he walked. The figure paused as they realized they’d stepped in the shattered debris of the bottle and he began awkwardly checking the bottoms of his boots.
Rance grunted a laugh and Del waved his hand in the air as if to say he wasn’t worth them going back and roughing up more. It was late, of course. And they had stolen merchandise to try and hock.
“As I was sayin’” Rance began, smirk still on his lips. “It’s all of Ul’dah. Ain’t a place for enterprisin’ men like ourselves anymore, Del. We oughta find some place to set up shop what’s better than this piss hole.”
“Could try Ala Mhigo,” offered Del with a shrug. “They’s a desperate lot now. Too busy fixin’ things to bother with a pair of entrepreneurs.”
“Del!” exclaimed Rance. “Where you been hidin’ them good ideas at all this time?”
“Well not up my–”
The two men had rounded the corner at the end of the alleyway and ducked into the covered tunnels of Ul’dah’s innards. The sound of crunching glass came again. The two men looked behind them to where the stumbling dandy had been, expecting to see him bumbling his way down the way, only to find that he was no longer behind them at all. The sound came again, slow and deliberate, the pops glass debris echoing in the silent room like a strangled wind chime.
“Oi,” said Del quietly, looking across the way. He pointed a finger towards a long, dark lane that led off towards the Colosseum. “Look there.”
Rance followed Del’s finger and saw, to his surprise, that the shape of a top hat wearing man could be seen among the shadows. His face was featureless in the darkness, pitch black from the poor light drowning everything but the shape of him walking slowly ahead, the stumble gone from his step. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Screeeeeeee. The glass beneath his boots scraped along the ground, creating a sound that made Rance and Del both wince. Surely it had to be the same man, what with the shape of him and his shattered glass footsteps. But…how could he have gotten ahead of them so quickly?
“Think he’s after another round?” asked Rance, turning to Del. “I’m right pissed after that short little shit pulled ‘er gun on us.”
“Could use for blowin’ off some steam,” Del agreed, turning to Rance.
With grins plastered on their faces the two men turned back towards the lane and–he was gone? The pair shot each other curious glances before looking back towards the enshrouded lane. Surely they hadn’t been imagining things. They’d both heard the crunching of the glass under boot and saw the man’s tall, top hatted shadow.
“Hn,” Rance spat between his own boots. “Must’ve thought better of it.” He turned to Del, meaning to comment on the man’s desire to retrieve his chequebook….but when he turned to his right he saw nothing but empty air. It was as if Del had vanished entirely. “Oi! Del Dollins you mangey shit quit playin’ games!”
Rance listened for Del, practical joker that the smaller man was. Surely he was capitalizing on the strange and sudden reappearance and then disappearance of the top hatted man and was going to jump out of a dark corner at the last minute in attempt to frighten Rance. Unfortunately for Del it would mean a beating for him.
“Geh-hyeaaahhhhh….” a strangled moan from the lane ahead drew Rance’s attention and he turned, alley piece now in his hand again, startled by the sound. His free hand reached for his pocket, clutching the outline of the old woman’s pendant and the dandy’s chequebook, as if he could draw clarity out of them.
“OI I said! Del get your arse back here! We got a haul to count! I ain’t got all bloody night!” Rance turned on a swivel, looking around for any sign of where Del had gone off to. The room had gone deathly quiet, too early in the morning for foot traffic between the guilds. Shadows blackened the lanes that branched off from the room, making it impossible for Rance to see beyond it. The night in Ul’dah was always cold, but he couldn’t help but feel like the room had dropped a few degrees as he wandered deeper into it, knife at the ready. No, he thought, wiping a hand down his ale and sweat stained face. Just his mind playing tricks on him.
Suddenly there was a wet crack and it spun Rance on his heels. He heard it again, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere in the room. Again, the sound filled the room. It was like a slab of raw meat were being slapped against a stone. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. “Geh-hyeaaaaahhhh…..”
“Y-you little shit, Del, I swear to all the gods I’ll put my fist so far up your arse I’ll,” Rance heard the wet, awful sound again and almost too late. It was above him. He looked up, knife held tightly in his hand only to see a blur of colour dropping nearly atop him. He dove backwards out of the way and skidded across the rough floor. His spoils scattered from his pocket on impact, coins and rings and jewels rolling away from him down the lane until they stopped abruptly against whatever it was that had nearly flattened him. He leaned up from his seat and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of the object….until he realized it wasn’t an object at all. He saw a face, though it was unlike any face he’d ever seen before. It was petrified as if were old wood, skin drawn paper thin over the curves and edges of its skull as if it were skin and skin alone that kept Rance from seeing bone. Its jaw was frozen, open wide as if howling a silent death throe. Brittle hair fell around its face and in front of the cavities where its eyes should have been. Arms wrapped around its body in ways that limbs shouldn’t have been able to bend, and they, too, looked to have been drained of everything but dusty, paper thin skin and sharp, jutting bones.
“Thal’s balls….” Rance scrambled forward on his hands and feet towards the crumbled, thin body his eyes wide, stomach in knots fearing the worst. When he got close enough to tell that it wasn’t just any grotesque body, but the remains of his partner Del Dollins he fell backwards and clamped his hands over his mouth. He turned and retched violently and begged whatever gods could hear him to let him finish soon because he needed to get out.
Rance didn’t even wait for the contents of his stomach to finish emptying. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling the distinct sensation of his heart hammering in his throat. He forgot about his spilled treasures, only checking to ensure his knife was still in his hand. He looked around, wildly scanning the room for what creature of the night had drained his friend so.
And then he saw it.
At the end of the lane ahead, where he had seen it before, the shape of the man wearing the top hat stood, swallowed by shadows. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. His footsteps dragged along the ground, glass scratching and cracking and breaking beneath his boots. He had drawn close enough that the shadows began to pull back away from his features and Rance blanched. It wasn’t just the man’s mane of hair holding the top hat atop his head–it was a pair of sharp, curved horns.
“Shit shit shit shit,” Rance turned on his heels. Whatever courage he might have boasted earlier at the maids and the barkeep and the drunken dandy had evaporated. He made for the alleyway behind the Sapphire exchange, but drove his heels hard into the ground when the image of the top hatted silhouette filled his vision. He barked a curse and spun again and threw his knife towards the man. It sailed past the image and clattered beyond him in the alley. Rance scrambled, willing his legs to move back towards the silent chamber. His footfalls were so heavy and his attention so torn that he nearly tripped over the desiccated body of Del. There were so many lanes that lead away from the chamber. His mind was racing too fast to be decisive. What was that? How could a man do that? Come on, Rance, he thought, think! The guilds, he reasoned, were bound to be empty at that hour and were all situated at dead ends. Surely the Colosseum, at least, would still be active at that hour of the morning. Maybe there’d even be Flames there. He’d gladly surrender himself to the flames if it got him away from whatever it was that had killed Del.
His feet slapped against the ground as he ran, his steps sloppy and haphazard. Every few paces he turned to look over his shoulder, ensuring that the figure wasn’t on his heels, almost afraid to look ahead to find that it had somehow rounded him again. It seemed fast. Impossibly fast.
He could hear the sound of clanging swords growing louder the further down the lane he ran, thank the gods, he thought, that there was someone still at the Colosseum. His hands gripped at the rounding lane, preventing him from slamming hard into the wall, but as he looked back to scan for the figure he found, rather abruptly, that the wall wasn’t going to save him from anything.
He felt something grip at his throat. It was strong, terribly strong, and hoisted him up off of his feet with what felt like little effort. His head slammed against the cold stone as he was forced backwards. Stars burst into his vision. It took him a moment of clawing panic, reaching for whatever was constricting his throat until he saw what it was. The man from the Quicksand, dressed in his dandy jacket and top hat propped up on horns. But he was no au ra. No scales marked his features. No tail swung at his waist. “What…what are…”
The thing looked up to where it had pinned Rance to the wall. The crook noticed that what had once been tired, bloodshot eyes half lidded with intoxication had now bled entirely black. It was as if his pupil took up the entirety of his eye now, chasing away the colour and the white. “What in…what the….oh gods…” Rance choked the words out as he felt wind harder to drag in.
“How does it feel, boy,” asked the man, his voice so rough and severe it sounded like icebergs crashing against one another. “To be the prey of someone stronger than you?”
“What…what do…I don’t…” Rance stammered, clawing with both hands at the one that closed around his throat. He could feel sharp things begin to poke into his flesh. Sharp, so sharp. The heat of blood began to trickle down his neck, pooling into the hollow his throat. His legs kicked wildly beneath him. “Please I don’t…I won’t…”
“Do it again?” asked the man, his all black eyes wide and wild, his full lips drawn up into a terrible, white toothed grin. “No…no I don’t suppose you will.”
Rance Carter’s screams echoed through the night, calling upon whatever grace the gods would bestow upon him. And then they were silenced.
A short story.
Roses And Grimoires 