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It wasn’t a great job. Rysk knew it wasn’t a great job. In fact, it was a wildly shitty job. But Rysk hadn’t had proper work in a week, and she didn’t want to sleep on the ground in Hawker’s Alley yet again. She kept crossing paths with a smug miqo’te man there, and she was tired of trying to avoid him. He was too chatty for his own good; thought he was suave or something. What was with her and finding smartass miqo’tes around every corner?
So this horrifyingly shitty job was all she had. Every red flag Rysk had ever picked up on doing odd jobs was there, waving brightly in the ominous wind. Shady contact. Sparse location details. Money too good to be true. No payment up front. She read over the instructions one more time, sheltered from the steady rain by a stall’s awning. She pointedly ignored the exasperated sighs of the hyur behind the stall as she gave it all one last consideration. Rysk chewed the inside of her lip, hearing her father’s voice in the back of her head.
“ Yer smarter than that, Grym. Don’t take a job what’s too good to be true. Stick with what you know ,” he’d say. “ Yer not bright enough to get yerself out of a tight spot. Don’t take the risk. ”
“Drown him,” she cursed under her breath.
An annoyed voice cut in from behind her. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t see you around this hulking beast of a woman who has been standing here doin’ nothin’ the last ten minutes.”
Rysk sighed, rolling her eyes. “It’s been three minutes, at the most ,” she said, pocketing the note and stepping into the rain.
She could feel the glares of the shopkeep and customer on her back as she sulked across the plaza. She was going to take the job.
* * *
The whole thing went south immediately . The man she was supposed to be guarding demanded payment to "take her along" in spite of Rysk showing him her "letter of introduction." She had turned out her pockets to prove she literally had no gil, and she suspected that was the only reason she was still along for the ride rather than robbed and abandoned. Like she’d have let that happen. If she’d had any gil, she wouldn’t have been there anyway. She tagged along, bodyguard for the day so this man could make a clandestine exchange. If he made it back alive, Rysk got paid by her mysterious client. If he didn’t make it back alive, then the only instructions Rysk had were to kill the one who killed him. She wasn’t sure if she got paid for that bit.
They rode through the fields of La Noscea in an unmarked carriage until they came upon a decently secluded hill. The sea was on one side with more hills before and behind them. It was dusk, and they carried no lights. They wouldn’t be seen. They were the first to arrive, so Rysk led the man halfway up the side of the hill where the view was decent. Once the man had placed his goods down, Rysk clambered up a nearby boulder and perched there, looking over the land before them, her axe laid across her lap.
The rhythmic pat of chocobo feet caught Rysk’s attention, and she stood, axe in hand, to glance over the top of the hill. Adrenaline hummed through her in anticipation. She watched a little longer until three things happened all at once.
She found the chocobo—it was riderless.
She heard the unmistakable sound of steel unsheathed followed by a muffled cry.
She felt the white-hot burn of a knife in her back.
The most important of these three was the knife. Rysk let the pain flood through her, using it to fuel the furnace; to unleash that fire and deal with whatever lurked behind her. The world went red, and she roared, spinning to face an astonished hyur woman. The woman was unarmed now–her knife was still lodged between Rysk’s ribs. Rysk lost sight of her in a red rage and the flash of her axe in the rising moonlight. She didn't consider any other option. Old habits die hard.
The furnace burned hot, but this time it burned fast . It was already cooling by the time Rysk leapt down from the boulder. Her eyes met the point of a sword, already red with her assignment’s blood. She smacked the sword away with a clang of her axe, trying to keep the furnace burning. It wasn’t holding. And then, through a frame of faint red haze, she saw the man who wielded the sword. Though his face was currently a mask of frustration, it was usually a mask of smug superiority: the miqo’te from Hawker’s Alley.
Rysk growled at him, stepping back, and trying to get a sense of the damage inside of her. “What the hells are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I’d imagine much the same as you,” he said, still brandishing his sword. There was a cautious tension in his eyes. “I’m here for a job.”
“Yeah, all right,” Rysk said. “You gonna try to kill me?”
“Wasn’t in the contract. You gonna kill me?”
“I’m supposed to. But only since you killed him,” she glanced toward the man near the miqo’te’s feet.
The miqo’te took a searching step away, trying to make a decision.
“But,” Rysk continued, “You help me make it look like she–” she tilted her head to the dead hyur behind her “–killed him, and as far as I’m concerned we’re square.” She was losing steam fast, but she wasn't going to let this smug asshole see it.
The purple-haired man glanced back and forth rapidly between Rysk and the two bodies. Rysk could feel the furnace burn down to embers inside of her. Just enough to keep her on her feet with steel in her back. She hoped it had been enough; that she didn’t have to fight anymore.
“Okay,” the man finally said. He dropped his stance and pulled out a rag to clean his sword.
Rysk sighed in relief, letting the last of her defensive tension go. She did her best to clean her axe—moving was incredibly painful—and tried to hook it over her back again. The pain flashed, blinding. She screamed through clenched teeth and fell to her knees, catching herself with her palms on the dirt.
“Seven hells, you’ve got a knife in you!” the miqo’te man said.
“I’m aware, thanks!” Rysk panted as she pulled herself back to her feet, staggering. “Best it stay there for now; I s’spect it’s holdin’ in as much blood as it’s lettin’ out.” It probably wasn’t holding in enough. “C’mon, now, what’re we doin’ here?”
The miqo’te was already angling the man’s corpse toward the woman, working quickly to arrange them into a more believable scene. He looked around for a minute, then opened the crate the man had set down.
“Well, someone’s smiling on us today,” he grinned.
There were weapons in the crate. He pulled out a sword, reasonably similar to his own, and stabbed the man once more with it, coating it with relatively fresh blood. Then he placed it just beyond the woman’s hand.
“Come bleed over here a bit, too, would you?” he said.
Rysk walked slowly over and stood where the miqo’te man directed. She couldn’t feel the blood dripping from her leather tunic, but she did notice the trail she’d left walking around the hillside. That woman had an arm to slice through Rysk’s armor like that. Then again, Rysk desperately needed better armor.
“That’ll do.”
Rysk turned to face him. “Thanks. Didn’t feel up f’r ‘nother fight, honestly,” she said. She was feeling lightheaded, her words starting to blend together.
“Wonder why,” he answered with a wry smile.
“What’s y’re name?”
The miqo’te gave her one more studying look, then answered. “Tristolfo. You?”
“Grym–Nah. Rysk. Thanks f’r not killin’ me.”
“Same to you.”
Rysk trudged past Tristolfo toward the wagon, intending to take the driver’s seat. She made it as far as the open back before her strength left her. Her knees buckled, and she barely managed to catch herself on the wagon's edge.
“Drown me,” she cursed.
She tried to pull herself back to her feet. She’d been through worse, right? But she couldn’t do better than holding herself up unsteadily against the wagon’s frame. Everything felt too heavy; too sluggish.
Rysk heard Tristolfo approach with a sigh. “Get in, then. I’m heading back to Limsa.”
Rysk did not have the strength to argue. She slumped into the bed of the wagon, her shins hanging out of the back. She thought she could taste blood. She hoped she couldn’t She didn’t want to die like him. Tristolfo seemed to have no intention of killing her, thankfully. He took the driver’s seat and, with the crack of a whip, they started their way back to the city.
“Drowned, damnable idiot,” she whispered to herself.
* * *
“You owe me.”
Rysk pried her eyes open. The room was bright. Daytime. She felt lightheaded; untethered. Drunk. She turned her head toward the source of the sound. It was Tristolfo. His bright blue eyes seemed too bright in the daylight. Had she ever seen him in daylight? He was floating aimlessly before her. Or maybe she was floating.
“What?” she finally managed.
“I said you owe me.”
“How much? Ain’t got any gil…”
Tristolfo gave a dry chuckle. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“Mhmm…Hope you take I.O.U.s…” Rysk wanted to be asleep.
“That’s literally what this—" he sighed sharply. "Nevermind.” Tristolfo drifted upward in Rysk’s vision, and then he floated away with a wave.