Raz’as Jinjahl, of Balmung
Preferred Job (currently): Ninja
Raz’as woke up in softness. At least, that’s what it felt like to him. He’d never known beds could be this squishy, pillows this fluffy. Just a welcome change to life that happened recently, one of a few. He honestly thought he was still dreaming, and pinched himself on the ear. Nope.
Fully awake, now, the short Miqo’te hopped out of bed, looking around. This was one of the nicest inn rooms in Ul’dah, something he was only managing to pay for because… of the sheer luck, or perhaps pity, of the number of grim and gritty fighters at the Grindstone, that he’d won the grand prize. He still didn’t HOW he’d done it. A blessing of the Twelve? Pity? It could not be his meagre skills. They weren’t even worth much. Five years after the Calamity, after leaving his family, and the disillusionment that came with it, he’d had to learn what he could on the run, sometimes literally.
It was insanity, really. But he wasn’t going to look a gift Chocobo in the mouth, for fear of getting pecked. So he started dressing, frowning at his hair and the cowlick that KEPT GETTING IN HIS EYES, brushing his tail to prevent fur mats, and checked his knives, setting them on the floor and counting them. He inspected them all very carefully, eyeing the edges, the hilt, the guard of some. He imagined the knives appreciating being counted, being cared for. It was what most of his income, stealing and running and staying alive, had gone to. His dagger collection.
He always tried to keep thirty, though he’d had to buy some training ones for the Grindstone. Dulled daggers meant to punish rather than kill. So now he had sixty, which was far too many, but still, it made him feel, safer, despite how insane it sounded.
He was pretty sure it was unusual to have this many, but he felt better with them on. He’d spent more money making sure he had a wrap around leather under his coat to hold most of them, since only a few could go under the boot, on the bicep, under the sleeve, and in the sheaths.
He wrapped the dulled ones up, after counting them as well. Three counts each for both of the sets, and every one was cared for. Sure, they were just steel and wood and iron, some falling nearly apart, but it was something he had to do. Father would have disapproved, but then, who cared what Father thought, certainly not him, no sir.
It was strangely lonely, leaving the room, once all of this things were ready to go. He almost wished he’d lost so he could have talked to some of the other combatants a bit more. He’d not managed to talk much at all. He’d had some banter with his opponents, but there wasn’t much to say other than “Ow” or “I yield” or yells of pain. Five years mostly on his own. Well, he had his daggers, but they weren’t very good conversational partners. There were some people that he managed to talk to, the giant Roe in Black Armor. Greht, he thought the man’s name was, but… he didn’t see him at the end of the tournament. Or maybe the friendly Viera, he didn’t remember her name (How many times DID he get hit in the head? Names should be easier!) but she had shared a bit of meal before the fight had began. Same with the strange Lalafel in the chocobo mask, fighting with the Frying pan. Next time, perhaps, he’ll be better at the social… thing.
He shook himself as he paid and left a generous tip to the Lalafel inkeep. He had to find something to do, something that would… maybe make some more money. Could never have enough, right? In case Al’etas somehow found him again, he’d need something squared away. Just in case.
He headed over to the Market Board, dodging the bustling morning of the Steps of Thal, and saw a posting. Security needed, some Craft Fair in New Gridania needed some security. Well, that might get him some connections with some materials. And always good to see some new places! An Aethernet teleport ticket shouldn’t be too costly? Why not. New Gridania. He wondered how hot it was….