museboxofmuses | Merc Stuff

Merc Stuff

An escort job.

If given a choice Aza would've passed on it. Unfortunately, however, Ul'dah was an expensive place to live, and as frugally as him and Bluebird lived, the expenses for food, rent, gear maintenance and stable costs for Rations, meant they were constantly scraping the bottom of their purse every month. It could be worse, though. Aza and Bluebird were successful mercs, always able to snap up jobs to pay for their livelihood because of one important detail: they didn't have standards.

They didn't have standards, and they always performed well. Reputation grew, and spread, and it meant they always had enough jobs to live off of, so long as they didn't squirm out of any unsavoury ones. So, escort job... with a Syndicate member.

Gross.

But he could admit, he was a little anxious too, since there'd be no Bluebird at his side either. She was also snagged up in an escort job, one related to his but going in a separate direction, so for the first time in a while, Aza would have to spend a few weeks without his sister at his side, acting as a shield and buffer to the confusing, harsh world that was Eorzea. It made his palms sweat to think about, but... fuck, he couldn't depend on her forever. He was a scary, intimidating merc! He could survive a few weeks without his sister, easy! He was a strong, independent Miqo'te!

(Though, deep down, he really wasn't sure...)

So, at the crack of dawn, when Ul'dah's streets were sluggishly stirring into life, Aza left his and Bluebird's tiny, one room apartment on Pearl Lane (a deceptive name, as the street was rundown, cramped, and had no less than three gangs at one time preying on unsuspecting wanderers. Aza already established himself as top dog amongst those gangs, though, and they tended to let him by unmolested with resentful wariness). He made his way to the meeting point, the Gate of Nald, mentally reviewing what he knew of the journey and its purpose.

The job: to escort two caravans of 'cargo' to a drop off point in South Shroud and ensure bandits, Amalj'aa, Ixal, poachers, monsters or whatever the fuck else, didn't attack and run off with either the traders or the cargo. What the cargo was, Aza didn't care. It wasn't his business to know.

The route: to travel across Central Thanalan using the Royal Allagan Starway, onto the Allagan Sunway, until they reached Eastern Thanalan. Once there, they were to stop off briefly at Camp Drybone to resupply, then continue along the Allagan Sunway, through Wellwick Wood, until they hit the South Shroud. After that, Aza had no idea of the route, and that was where the caravans' 'supervisor' was to take over navigation, so hopefully that guy wouldn't lead them into a wolf's den or something.

It was an easy route - mostly on established roads, at a slow pace of caravans... but it still had its dangers. Amalj'aa were plenty ornery recently, and wild dogs and other animals and monsters were driven to attack travellers due to an extended drought hitting the land. It still had its dangers, but Aza wasn't worried. Compared to fighting Imperials in the swamps of Othard, alongside ill-trained 'freedom fighters', this was going to be like a vacation!

Hopefully.

Aza reached the Gate of Nald a little earlier than the meet up time, but the caravans were there. After confirming his identity with the driver there, he loitered around, idly kicking up pebbles and sand coating the wide, stone road leading up to the gate. He dressed light for the journey - well, 'light'. Instead of his heavy plate, he switched it for lighter chain mail, a short sword hanging from his hip with a shield strapped to his back. Those weren't his only weapons, of course, but they were what was visible.

He blew his fringe out of his eyes, squinting at the sun rising above the horizon as the caravan waited for its 'superviser'. Not even properly dawn and it was hotter than Azim's balls. Ugh.

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Technically, it was an escort job, in the same way Gaelicats were related to normal household cats; they were the same, save for the promise of bodily injury in the near and immediate future.

Lo'kha had zero problems with the idea of an entire caravan being bait to lure out two or so problematic Amalj'aa and Coeurlclaw bandit cadres, but he had a lot of problems with having to actually be in said caravan, simply because was, essentially, one of the only people in the Syndicate who could heal through the attacks in case it went sideways. He'd also been assured that the mercenary assigned to this job was, and he quote, 'fucking amazing at choppy bits', but it didn't inspire much confidence, because a lot of mercs were good at 'choppy bits' - it was coming out of the other side alive that was the hard part.

He'd briefly debated shirking the job, but it did route into the South Shroud, and like a gods-damned bleeding-heart, he still couldn't not take it, not if there was a chance maybe...

The caravans were already mostly packed and saddled, but he still had to check and confirm the wagons, and pretend this was a normal route with a normal delivery, as much as Syndicate deliveries went. Spooked, paranoid drivers never traveled well, but having a white mage (in very white, glaring healer's robes) with a nondescript crook strapped to his back should probably tip the security off that this wasn't your ordinary escort job. He hoped.

"Lodwicke?" He called to the Hyur driver near the Gate of Nald, hoisting his pack higher up and giving the lost (?) adventurer (?) kicking the sand up nearby a wide berth, "I'm Godchild, your...client. Sorry I'm late."

When Lo'kha arrived, Aza was contemplating digging out his half-eaten oatmeal bar out of his pocket. It was meant to be a motivating treat for later - the pace was going to be slow and dull, so he needed to think 'if I get to this point, I can have a bite of honeyed oats!' but, Nhaama's tits, he was so bored. Bored, bored, bored. This was why he hated escort jobs; no murder most of the time, lots of walking (something which his knees despised), and awkward, forced socialising if your client was unfortunately chatty.

He dug out the oatmeal bar.

Yet, his ears visibly perked up when he heard 'Godchild' - the 'supervisor', his employer had told him. He pivoted hard on his heel, making a direct beeline for the direction of the voice - front of the caravan, next to lead driver; Miqo'te, ginger, goatee, yup, that fit the description of 'Godchild'. Why the hell he was dressed in pure white though - oh, Azim, please don't tell him he's a priest. Aza hated priests. Especially preachy priests.

Aza swallowed his mouthful of oatmeal, stuffing the remainder of it back in his pocket as he came to a heavy halt next to the driver, bluntly inserting himself into the conversation with all the grace of a grain flail to the hindquarters.

"About time," he grunted, talking over Lodwicke before the poor man even got out a 'morning', "Thought I was gonna sweat to fuckin' death waiting for your ass to show up."

Lodwicke coughed awkwardly, not looking pleased at the interruption. Unfortunately for him, Aza didn't give a shit. He was not standing around waiting for the sun to slowly cook him alive on the doorstep of Ul'dah while these two had pointless pleasantries. They were all here on a caravan adventure together. The caravans were there. Everyone was here. It was time to go.

"Look, uh, you-" Lodwicke stuttered, clearly not remembering Aza's name.

"You're the Syndicate man?" Aza continued, ignoring Lodwicke - he was an insignificant person, and Aza, quite frankly, didn't have the mental capacity to acknowledge his existence outside of 'is something directly threatening his life'? "If you are, then let's go already. I wanna get us to Black Bush Station before all the fuckin' sandflies come crawling outta their holes."

His head jerked up, and he had to fight his automatic 'bland customer service smile' coming on, as he pretended not to be surprised that the adventurer kicking rocks turned out to be part of his entourage. Lo'kha's first thought when the other man met his eyes was, 'Wow, those eyes are really striking'. His second thought was 'Wow, how on earth does he get repeat Syndicate contracts once he opens his mouth?'

"I am 'the Syndicate man', yes," he replied, amused, offering Lodwicke an apologetic look and giving him the cargo manifest to sign off. He turned to face the adventurer fully, ears perked forward and tail lifted in the universal sign of Miqo'te friendliness. "Godchild will be fine. From the way you are armed, I assume you are the hired security?"

Aza leaned back on his heels, internally surprised at the show of friendliness. He sorta, kinda, got some Miqo'te body language, though he missed plenty for him to be immediately pegged as an outsider. Xaela were a lot easier to read, in his opinion. None of this, deciphering wiggling ears and shit.

(As a result, his own body language came across as very taciturn to other Miqo'te. In this case, he did not reciprocate Lo'kha's friendly posture, his tail remaining low yet still, with his ears canted at an uneasy angle: wary)

"Uh, yeah," he said after a pause, remembering Bluebird wasn't here to handle the client interaction, "I am. I'm Aza Lynel, mercenary. My job's to kill whatever tries to kill you, so, y'know, kick back and relax. I'm, uh, pretty skilled. So. Yeah."

Aza mentally patted himself on the back. Not as eloquent as Bluebird's boasting, but he got his competence across, he was sure!

All right, Lo'kha was no stranger to mercenaries wanting nothing to do with the client outside of preventing dismemberment, but it had been a long time since he'd had a job with fellow Miqo'te. He was usually quite friendly and disarming - a trait drilled into him during his time in the Conjurer's Guild - but when it came to fellow Miqo he always had the immediate urge to befriend.

The slit pupils marked him as a Seeker, though, too bad he wasn't a Keeper - "The Syndicate speaks highly of your skill, Aza," he murmured, smiling at him and holding out a hand for him to shake. "I will be in your care, so I hope we get along."

Aza eyed the hand for a moment, his tail giving a few wary swishes before he reached out and clasped it tight. He knew this much at least, about Eorzean customs, so he gave 'Godchild' a few brisk shakes of his hand, his grip sure and strong.

"Uh, sure, same to you," he said, letting go and setting his hand on his hip, shifting his weight more onto one foot. His gaze flickered to the side, to watch the caravan workers finalise their final checks, one ear cocked forwards curiously. He felt so awkward... talking to people was always awkward. This was why he liked the Qestir...

"So, what's with all the white?" he asked, pointing at Godchild's robes, "You do realise all this sand and dirt's gonna make it all grimy, right? Seems like a waste of nice lookin' cloth."

Really nice looking cloth! It was very white, very soft looking - and that stitching! Aza's fingers itched to take a closer look at the craftsmanship, though he managed to clamp down on it, because even he knew grabbing a stranger's clothing to look at the stitching was weird.

It was at this point that Lo'kha realized two things about Aza: a) he had fangs. Keeper fangs, and for the life of him he couldn't not stare, and b) he either forgot, or had no idea what a white mage's medical arrows looked like. He was so used to the Syndicate house knowing (and parading him around mostly) what he was that he took it for granted that white mages were quite scarce outside of Gridania. The robes were spelled so that they repelled dirt and stains, and the red lining was fairly absorbent in the case of blood.

With great difficulty he looked away from Aza's mouth and looked down, smoothing a hand down his robes and flicking imaginary dust away. Was he a Seeker or not? But he had fangs? But he also had slit pupils? Is it impolite to ask?

"It's a preferred color, and it's...enchanted, please don't worry about it," he answered vaguely, walking closer and past Aza to take the manifest from the driver. Everything was accounted for, and he told himself he'd... watch Aza for a while and see if the other man could be discreet enough to be told what the job really is without spooking the rest of the crew. Lo'kha looked back over his shoulder at him, only remembering to not look at his fangs a second too late, and hoping Aza didn't notice. (Fangs??????) "Let us depart."

Aza pouted a little at the vague answer about the robes, but he understood. Some crafting was a family secret thing, a method passed down through generations, much like in the Xaela tribes, and nosing for details about it was considered the height of rudeness. Aza may not observe Eorzean manners, but he did observe Steppe manners, so he dropped the subject with a small, rumbling huff.

Even if this guy was being kinda rude himself. Did Aza still have some of his oatmeal bar around his mouth? Why was he staring. He flicked his ear, his head tilting to the side, but he just discreetly wiped his mouth when Godchild looked away with him. He checked his glove. Nope, clean.

Hmmm.

"What? Oh, yeah," he said distractedly, seeing that the caravan was now starting to move. He shifted his weight, side to side, bracing himself for the inevitable knee pain to come, and kept pace with the, thankfully gentle, pace of the caravan. He didn't keep in step exactly with Godchild - on account of his gait being somewhat uneven and limping and Godchild's being a mite faster than his - lurking just a few paces behind the man at his left shoulder.

This close to Ul'dah's walls, Aza could stay relaxed. He kept his gaze on the back of Godchild's neck, contemplative.

"So," he said after a long lull of silence, "Why were you starin' earlier?"

He was already feeling jittery from the feeling of Aza’s eyes watching his back, and Lo’kha twitched violently at the question. This was why he walked a bit faster, because then he wouldn’t be tempted to stare; he figured it was only because the combination of Seeker eyes and Keeper fangs was wholly new to him. It would pass.

He slowed down and carefully didn’t look Aza in the face, instead looking somewhere past a... sabotender ambling up a small hill far from the path. “Forgive me, that was rude, but. I’ve never seen a child of both Menphina and Azeyma before.”

A child of what?

"Uh?" Aza said intelligibly, his eyebrows shooting upwards in an expression of clear bewilderment. Was this another Eorzean phrase he didn't get? Wait- Azeym- oh. An old memory, a very old, rusty memory that made his stomach twist unpleasantly, bubbled up, of a woman's whose face long since blurred into indistinctness, murmuring 'Azeyma'a'.

Azeyma. The Warden. One of the Twelve.

He really was a priest. Ew.

"I'm... not sure what that means, but it's probably wrong," he said a mite flatly, "Pretty sure I'd know if one of the Twelve popped me out."

The surprise at a Miqo’te not knowing what the phrase implied was clearly visible for a moment on Lo’kha’s face, and he made an aborted effort to touch Aza lightly on his forearm - in comfort or sheer shock he wasn’t sure.

“You are not from Eorzea, are you?” He asked, slightly bewildered, not really able to comprehend a Miqo’te who did not offer their piety to either of their gods. “Here, it means you have both Seeker and Keeper blood. ‘tis not a common thing, not even in Ul’dah.”

Edited 2019-11-24 21:54 (UTC)

Oh, so kinda like how on the Steppe, you separated the Xaela and Raen by calling them the children of Azim or Nhaama. Ahhh, that made sense.

"Mm," Aza made a low, meaningless noise in the back of his throat, his gaze following the aborted movement of Godchild's hand. Thankfully, the man didn't reach out and touch him, though it was obviously a near thing, but it still made an unpleasant sensation prickle down his spine. He disliked... touching, even to this day. With Bluebird, it was fine, it was Bluebird. But a stranger? It still made him feel nauseous...

"Well, you're right. I'm not from Eorzea," he said, and automatically glanced to the side- ah, no Bluebird. Normally she took the lead on these questions, since saying 'Othard' tended to have people suspecting you of having Imperial ties, and saying 'Azim Steppe' either garnered you a blank look of ignorance, or a disdainful curl of the lip. The Xaela tribes had a very impressionable stereotype, and it coloured one's view of Aza instantly. Aza never knew what the right answer to give was, whereas Bluebird tended to just bulldoze the person until they regretted they even asked.

So, after a prolonged pause, where he shifted uncomfortably, he said, "There aren't many Miqo'te, where I'm from," In fact, Aza was the only Miqo'te in the undulating plains of the Steppe, though he heard rumours of isolated Miqo'te colonies up in the Tall Mountains, "So, this 'Seeker' and 'Keeper' stuff... I dunno any of it. A Miqo'te is a Miqo'te."

Lo'kha gave him a brief, unreadable look - not knowing a Seeker or a Keeper from the other, not having to worry about following the traditions of either, what would he have given to know how that feels - before canting his head to the side in agreement.

"That we are," he said cheerfully, ears perking up again as he dropped the subject of the mercenary's homeland, picking up on Aza's discomfort. He clasped his hands and turned around, instead, watching the great walls of the city recede farther into the distance as he walked backwards. Slanting Aza a once-over, he asked, "Have you been taking work from us for long? It is not often that I am sent with out with someone I do not already know."

Aza relaxed when the topic was dropped, letting his gaze move away from Godchild and on their surroundings. The Brass Blades and Stone Torches only really guarded the immediate surroundings of the Ul'dah, especially when the refugees from Ala Mhigo started building up shanty towns and the like outside of its thick walls. Right now their route took them close to some of these slums, and while Aza doubted they'd encounter any trouble with such a big, official looking caravan convey, these were desperate times, and desperate people did stupid, desperate things.

So, he stayed attentive of their immediate surroundings, alert for any desperate refugees, or opportunistic bandits using the guise of harmless refugees as a cover for an ambush, keeping Godchild in his peripheral, one ear tilted in his direction. The sun was completely up at this point, moving from dawn and into early morning instead. It was disgustingly hot.

"I've taken a few jobs from your lot, yeah," Aza said, "All low-levelled grunt work, so, uh, I probably wasn't considered important enough to be remembered by your bosses or something. Syndicate guys seem to have problems with, what's the word... object permanence, when money ain't attached to it."

Edited 2019-11-24 22:52 (UTC)

There was another reason why he chose to wore his official robes: in places as rundown and poor as the route they were taking, the starkly bleached, thick, clean white stood out as well as any beacon could. There were churches who took vows of poverty and wore simple, yet practical hempen robes, but Aza wasn't the first one fascinated by the make of his clothing at first look. His robes weren't drowned out by the splendor of Ul'dah here, either.

It didn't help, either, that the Syndicate had deliberately had rumours circulated of a caravan having a substantial somnus delivery headed to the Shroud.

Lo'kha drew his hood up, seemingly unbothered by the heat, and turned around again, falling into step beside Aza and slowing his pace to match. "If this goes well," he said, sensing the aetheryte of Black Brush station in the far distance, "There won't be those sort of problems in your near future."

Either because Lo'kha would put in a good word for him, or because he'd be dead was up in the air, but they would be finding out soon, probably, as some of the refugees drew close, seemingly curious. He wondered if Aza would immediately ward them away.

Well, that sounded a little ominous.

"Should I be expecting a knife between the ribs and a 'you know too much' speech anytime soon?" Aza asked lightly, seemingly finding the idea adorable. It was probably arrogance, but from what little he'd seen of your run-of-the-mill assassin out here, they were positively quaint compared to some of the nasties lurking in Othard. Some shinobi joined the Empire, after all, and they sure loved their backstabbing.

He was distracted by a few refugees shuffling close, though. Their clothes were patched, threads frayed, and there was a gaunt, hungry look to their sunburnt faces. A quick glance over the group told him there were no obvious weapons to hand, but with how their clothes hung off them, they could easily conceal a dagger or a short sword from view. Yet, they were so skinny, Aza dismissed them outright as a serious threat, even if they were hoping to try and intimidate some cargo off them. Any blows from them would be as feeble as a Borlaaq child.

But, Aza wasn't in the mood to deal with some hungry flies, so when one brave refugee edged close enough to try and peer into the caravan, Aza decided to gently shoo them away. 'Gently', as Aza decided to channel a fucking guard dog.

It was a tactic he did back on the Steppe, where the common Xaela made up all kinds of crazy stories about Miqo'te. There were a few superstitions about how they could transform into tigers or lions and savagely maul you to death, and Aza, admittedly, played a little on them. So, without thinking, he eyed up the small group of refugees and growled.

It was low, very soft and quiet, barely audible at first - but the closer the refugees got, the louder and more aggressive became, until they finally took notice and halted uncertainly, their gazes darting from the caravan to him. They didn't really seem to know how to proceed, but a growl was universal across all species so some lizard part of their hindbrain made them keep their distance.

For the moment.

The lizard part of Lo'kha's hindbrain, however, immediately sat up and howled, and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his ears pinning back; he was suddenly extremely grateful that he drew his hood up. What the actual fuck was that sound--

The moment he realized it was Aza, growling deep in his throat like a demented tiger, he wasn't sure what he felt; it was a combination of panic and something- something else, and he felt blood rush to his face and downwards. He could feel his tail quivering traitorously and this was a bout of self-realization that he did not want to have in the middle of a refugee town about a stranger.

Lo'kha opened his mouth, closed it, and cleared his throat. "Let us," he started roughly, hoping the smile didn't look as pained as it felt, as he walked past Aza to motion to the driver. He seriously hoped there weren't any bandits hiding amongst the refugees with his concentration shot like this. "Move on, come. Thank you, Aza."

As Godchild walked past, Aza eased up the growling a little; at least, he let it rumble deeper in his chest as a sub-harmonic purr, just barely heard on the edge of hearing - for a Miqo'te, that is.

"Hrm," he grunted, not letting his gaze waver from the nervously milling group of refugees. Combined with his feral growling, intense staring, and his clearly heavily armed person, the refugees lost whatever nerve they'd been building up to, not following after them as the caravan trundled on. Still, Aza could feel their gazes on them until they winded out of view past a ramshackle group of grey tents.

The refugees always made him feel on edge. Once upon a time he'd kindled the same desperation they held deep in their hearts, so he knew the lengths they'd go to to sate it, how explosive and sudden it could rear up, without need of rational thought to guide it. That encounter could have easily ended in bloodshed, if a single one of them decided to chance mobbing the caravan. After all, desperate or not, Aza would've killed them - because his survival relied on this caravan too. Without the pay from this...

It was times like this where he missed home. Life was hard there, but, it was less... this. He couldn't put it into words. Just, some malaise that had sunk deep into the society, where the richer got richer and the poorer got poorer, and everyone seemed to accept that that was the best way to live. It rubbed his fur all wrong.

Aza's gaze drifted over to Godchild. Compared to before, the other Miqo'te was stiff-backed and tense. Had that very brief encounter scared him? Hm, he was going to have a heart attack if they got ambushed by Amalj'aa, if a group of half-starved refugees got him twitchy.

"Something wrong?" he asked Godchild, lengthening his awkwardly uneven stride enough to walk alongside him, "You look like you've got a poker rammed up your arse."

He was purring.

Aza was purring, and Lo’kha had to dig the tips of his fingernails into his palm, just shy of drawing blood, to concentrate enough to look at the other Miqo’te. Maybe he could play up the ‘green office worker who refused to get his hands dirty’ Syndicate client stereotype and pretend he was shaken instead of being horribly, undeniably—

Maybe he should have not avoided other Miqo’te so much. He’d deliberately kept away personally from other Keepers, extending to Seekers, interactions limited to work and the odd shop, after realizing that the entire time he spent studying in the Guild, most of the Keepers who came to trade in Gridania shunned him as well. Keepers were very tightly knit, and he- he wasn’t one of them anymore.

“I.’’ His voice cracked a little, and he shrugged at Aza, hands folding into his sleeves. He’d definitely need to take a break in Black Brush and ... pray, or something. “Most jobs I have overseen personally do not take such... ah, scenic routes, my apologies..”

Godchild was kinda weird, Aza decided.

"Right," he said slowly, giving Godchild a suspicious look. The other Miqo'te looked kinda like the time Bluebird ate a shitting berry and tried to pretend her guts weren't trying to leave her asshole at top speed, and he warily wondered if the guy was the kind to vent his nervousness in physical ways like loose bowels or upset stomachs. That'd be super gross, also he doubted his enchantments woven into those pure white robes would survive such abuse.

"Scenic routes," Aza continued, letting out a scoff, "You mean you don't make a habit of frolickin' with the poor and hungry? S'weird. You look like a priest, so would've thought you'd be elbow deep in that stuff."

These were safer waters, thankfully. “I am a priest, yes,” he agreed, ears bouncing. (The ordination certificate cost 500 gil at the Gold Saucer, and he was only sanctioned to marry Gold Saucer weddings, but hey, he was still one.)

“And, well.” He looked down at the sword strapped to Aza’s hip, then to the cargo stacked high in the caravans; his smile curled sly, “I am a priest who works for the Syndicate, so my habits aren’t probably quite what one expects.”

The smile turned into a cheeky grin, though, and he bobbed a tiny bit into Aza’s personal space. “Don’t worry, I won’t preach at you, unless you ask for it,” Lo’kha added, winking at him.

"Uh," Aza flustered a little when Godchild sidled into his personal space - not quite touching him, but enough for him to feel a little twitchy. Especially when grinning and winking at him like that! Bluebird would've laughed and called him a cheeky charmer, used the opening to coax more info about this mysterious Godchild out of him from just good social skills and bold-faced flirting. But Aza...

"I'm- well, yeah, sure," he said awkwardly, then mentally kicked himself for his weak reply. Ugh, this was why... he really needed Bluebird for these situations. He could feel his palms sweating, his pulse spiking a little, but he managed to keep his face straight despite his twisting nerves. This was so stupid. Godchild wasn't threatening in the slightest.

Aza forced himself to look completely forwards, and just blurted the first thing that sprung to mind, "I guessed you were a knock off priest, anyway."

Lo’kha was very good at not being offended - mercenaries were all types - but Aza’s reply still rankled, and he straightened up, smile turning bland. Okay, Aza wasn’t entirely wrong, but honestly, he worked hard to be able to wear the robes legitimately...

“Have that look, don’t I?” He mused, drawing his hood back down and folding his hands back into his sleeves. Maybe he should try another angle - the need to be friendly with another Miqo’te who didn’t actively avoid him overrid Aza’s weird and frankly alarming noises. “For all you know I’m hiding knives up my sleeves waiting to catch you unawares, Ser Aza.”

Godchild leaned out of his personal space, but Aza could tell he had hit a nerve. He... didn't feel guilty about it, exactly, but he did feel a twinge of something. He hadn't intended to cause offence, he just blurted the first thing that came to mind - an awful habit of his when his nerves ran shot.

He worried his bottom lip, feeling a bit wrong-footed now. Why was he even bothering to socialise with this weirdo, anyways? Ah, yeah, because there was nothing else to do until something tried to kill them... and, he supposed, Godchild wasn't that bad. Plenty weird, yeah, but he wasn't snooty like some Miqo'te could be. Some of those Gridanian Miqo'te could be cold, and don't get him started on the desert Miqo'te, who dared to call him a mongrel! Him! A mongrel!

Hm. In comparison to that, Godchild was...

"...yeah, you're super shady," Aza said, his tone a little odd. It lost some of its brusqueness, but it wasn't warm, exactly. With how he studiously avoided looking at Godchild, his tail twitching from side to side anxiously, he came across as almost shy, "I wouldn't be surprised if you stabbed me in the back for some weirdo cult thing. Or to sell my organs. I heard that's a new thing to do in Ul'dah these days."

Was he... making a very bad, tasteless joke? Was this his attempt at being friendly? Who knew.

Lo’kha stared at him, just losing enough to be on the edge of impoliteness, before laughing, any offense taken from earlier lifting from his body language.

“Oh no, no,” he grinned mischievously, remembering not to touch Aza this time; a traitorous voice at the back of his head whispered something about the other Miqo’te being adorable in spite of looking like he could slit Lo’kha’s throat before he could even say ‘benediction’, “I’ve already filled my organs quota for the week, so your kidneys are quite safe.”

If Aza was making the effort to accommodate him, then by Menphina, Lo’kha will bulldoze his way into making him a friend. Never mind that he might be sending the potential friend to his death, but such was life in Eorzea.

“Will you need to pick up anything in Black Brush?” he asked, knowing that the instant they set foot in the outpost, they would be marked for an ambush in the wilderness beyond.

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