World Tree MUSH

    Welcome to the Port at Balfonheim. This prosperous city on the Naldoan Sea has managed to keep its nose clean through the clash of empires, although it lies under Imperial Archadian territory. It offers its services to anyone who wants them, be they Archadians, Dalmascans, Rozarrians, or still others. Although its main industry is fishing, it's also famous for its shipwrights and seacraft, as well as those willing to deal in airship parts and maintenance, for a price.
    Physically, it's a handsome city on the coast, with stone-cobbled alleys winding between its structures, docks, quays, a few canals, and on the western side of the city, the manse of the Pirate King, Reddas, ostensibly the leader of this place. Reddas is no more, though, having perished a year ago; his manse is occupied instead by the next leaders of the place, equally dedicated to neutrality.
    In all, it's a pretty peaceful place, in a bustling, chaotic sort of way that all ports seem to be. There are also very good taverns on the shoreline. It is in one such very good tavern that can be found yet another sky pirate among many -- Balthier, dressed in his familiar white shirt, olive-and-gold vest, and black leggings. He's sitting on one of the outdoor tables, watching the clouds roll by over the sea. He's sitting alone, for once.
    Balthier lifts his glass, studying the contents -- a smoky sort of colour, almost a bluish-greenish, reminiscent of a clear pool of water -- and swilling it around a bit, even as he watches the ocean with feline disinterest.

     Amongst a port city steeped in, to outsiders, a very particular architectural style, those very outsiders may in turn seem to stand out just as equally. However, no matter how strange strangers might be, business is business and all should be well so long as there's no trouble started. As such, there are some relative newcomers to Ivalice that now walk the streets of Balfonheim. Such faces have made a few spotted appearances already; the only thing more obvious than the trio's faces are the airships that they fly. Thankfully, no matter how potentially hostile an area may be, those ships are rarely in any threat of being stolen. While the controls may be rather -different- to anyone able to manage entering a cockpit, the biometric locks and theft-protection protocol, while effective, do -not- lead to pretty results. Thankfully, such things have not created any incidents abroad yet. 

     As it stands, the three strangers -- a wolf man, a panther man, and a lizard man -- haunt the streets while learning more about the area, discussing potential business deals, asking after local jobs, and seeing what supplies and loot they have to offer for trade to interested parties that might fetch a decent price. Such talks likely include an amount haggling, but often results in a higher 'tip of gratuity' for those willing to be more forthcoming. Building bridges; if the money isn't good, perhaps goods and services count, too. 

     "We've been here for a while now," comments O'Donnell as the three leisurely walk along the waterfront. "We should see about wrapping things up. I don't want to be around here when the dead of night arrives." Wolf is dressed entirely the same as he was encountered before. His two companions wear more form-fitting flight suits, each unique compared to the other: The feline person, in example, bears the emblem of a rose on his chest. Both lizard and cat also bear knapsacks and satchels for carrying goods. 

     "I was hoping to get something proper to eat before our departure," adds the black-furred cat with a velvety voice that clearly marks him as being a remarkably smooth talker. "But I imagine you want to have a drink at a pub, Wolf." 

     "If they have a place that is suitable to my tastes," chimes in the lizard while placing his free hand upon his breast in dramatic flowery fashion, "then I shall have to concur with Panther. This time." 

     The three actually happen to start wandering by the location of a previous acquaintance -- at least for the one leading the way -- as they speak. "Fine, but I expect you two to be on your best behavior." It's like listening to a dad warning his children before sending them off on their own. This gets a snicker from the lizard and a look of indignant disappointment from the cat as if to say 'I'm hurt you don't trust me'.

    The strangers are indeed in a strange land. Fortunately, their features aren't as much cause for alarm as they may be in other worlds. Ivalice has its own animalistic races, although few of them are quite as specific as the space pirates. Those races are visible on Balfonheim's streets -- the lizard-like bangaa, the pig-lizard-like seeq, and tiny, winged moogles. There are also the rabbit-eared viera, like the sky pirate's own companion, although those appear to be vanishingly rare in any of Ivalice's great cities, with no more than a handful to be seen even in a melting pot like Balfonheim.
    Most of the work here has to do with fishing, but there is also an aerodrome, which seems to function like an airport anywhere else. Airships are parked here, maintained, repaired, upgraded, and directed on their flights to other points of interest in Ivalice. Even Star Wolf's fighters would be welcome to dock, with brand new berths set aside for foreigners. The ships might have earned a bit of staring, but no one is so crass (or brazen) as to try and swipe the things.
    Antagonizing the foreigners is frowned upon heavily by the new regime. Balfonheim's neutrality is legendary, and the sky pirate city is intent on keeping things that way.
    Balthier is content to sip at his drink and watch the hour grow late, as the sun stains the western sky in brilliant shades of orange, red, eventually giving way to dusky violet and soft dove-grey. He considers his glass every so often, and once or twice he even gestures for it to be topped off with whatever's in it. Definitely alcoholic, but it smells bizarrely sweet. Few things sweeter exist in Ivalice, as far as he's concerned.
    "I suppose it's only natural that you would have turned up here, sooner or later."
    The comment comes from the patio of a nearby tavern, which conveniently sells both food and drink, and the scuttlebutt on the docks suggests its food is actually one of the better offerings in town. Balthier leans back in his chair, looking unconcerned. His rifle is leaned up against the railing beside him, but he makes no move to reach for it, instead studying the space pirates through hooded hazel eyes. Each one gets a searching look. Leon's ostentatious mannerisms, Panther's self-assuredness, and Wolf's gruff confidence are each considered in turn.
    Shrugging, Balthier gestures toward the empty table next to his. This might be vocational suicide, or just plain suicide-suicide, but maybe he figures he can count on local support if things get ugly. Or maybe that rabbit-eared partner of his is hanging around with her bow in hand. Who knows? The sky pirate is definitely one to play his cards close to that expensive gold-embroidered vest of his.

     Those footfalls from the three space pirates, a group whose notoriety has far less sway outside their own piece of the World Tree, slow and then stop: Wolf does so first and the other two follow. O'Donnell does this as a matter of hearing a familiar voice and turning to look. The others do so more in contemplation, at least at first, since clearly there needs to be some discussion on where and when to meet back up if they are to split off. The cat and lizard, however, wind up turning to look where their boss stares. 

     The reaction to this meeting, on the lupine's behalf, is not immediately defensive nor does it smack of any real amount of aggression. Instead, the fellow slips a thumb into a front right pocket of his black leather pants and lifts his left hand to rub under his chin in thought. Unlike before, this individual does not wear a filtration mask and so the details of his face, including the more obvious scars, become visible. Neither does he wear that blue-lens headpiece. A simple black eye-patch covers that left eye; a detail far less grand. 

     "Well, fancy that. Yeah! Yeah... You go where the work is, where opportunity awaits, and where people are more open to doing business." 

     Panther Caluroso and Leon Powalski talk amongst themselves, quietly, as they ponder who this person could be and how their boss knows him. Those able to read mouths might be able to figure out that the lizard says something about 'kind of cute' and the cat replies with something about 'an air of style'. 

     "I was hoping to run into you again," admits Wolf as his course changes to approach the empty table as offered. He does not, yet, explain quite why he was so hoping for such a meeting. With a turn at the waist, just before sitting, a hand gestures to the other two that trail behind. "These are my associates: Leon. Panther." The shift in manual gesture swings to offer an open-handed palm-up in the nearby air pirate's direction. "This...is Balthier. Almost a pity your companion isn't here. I'm sure Panther would love to meet her." 

     A single rounded ear perks up from the feline at this. "Is that a fact?" inquires he just as the almost noodly figure of the middle-aged lizard steps forward perhaps about to say something to Balthier himself. 

     Wolf has a seat during this. Even sitting, his height and build is rather apparent. Tail tucked around unless so suited for those with them, he leans back and regards his partners sidelong. "Hey!" he barks to command attention from them. "Don't just gawk. Go inside and get your food already." That's...one way to tell them to get lost. The two trickle away, but not without the lizard wiggling a few fingers while flashing an arguably creepy grin. Maybe it's the eyes.

    Although his body language is nonchalant, Balthier is watching the others, hazel eyes as cold and still as they had been in the Necrohol of Nabudis. This is not a man who can be played like others, who can be moved by hot emotion or taunted into rash, foolhardy action.
    They're the eyes of a man who has learned to be still; a man who has learned the way of the hunter who stalks his prey not through rash action, but through patience and perception. A page taken from the book of his viera companion, perhaps, who looks much more the natural part of the hunter; who is, indeed, an expert in the realm of hunting, who moves like much more of a predator than those tall rabbit's-ears would imply.
    She isn't here, now, though. The others have no meterstick with which to measure this lone hume.
    Balthier doesn't smile. He simply watches the other three, taking in the details with no apparent change in expression. His eyes do flick from one to the other, though, taking the measure of their temperament. They seem like they're going to behave themselves. At least... for the time being.
    "Such is the life of a sky pirate." Balthier gestures nonchalantly with his left hand, the colourful rings on his middle and ring fingers glinting in the last of the dying light. In poor light they have the look of some kind of synthetic, but the way the sunlight plays off them suggests precious or semi-precious stone cut into a band. "I'm feeling generous, tonight, so I'll supply you with some advice: If you're looking to do business, this is one of the finest choices in Ivalice. Balfonheim answers to no authority but its own, as sky pirates are wont to do. You can find just about anything in these markets."
    As it turns out, a stance of stalwart neutrality is good for business, as much the legitimate kind as the shady kind. He leans back in his chair, although he's still watching his company. "Fran? She had a few errands to run. I've no doubt she'll be here once she's concluded her business. Not one for dilly-dalling, her." He pauses to punctuate his words with a sip of... whatever it is. He lifts a brow at Wolf's equal part introduction and observation. There's something of skepticism in the way he sighs, quietly, but he doesn't shoot down Panther's obvious enthusiasm.
    Nah. Fran can do that herself, whenever she turns up.
    The chameleon's creepy grin is met with a bland look from Balthier. He even lifts a hand, wiggling his fingers in an exaggerated wave. Yes, goodbye, creepy little lizard. Get lost.
    His hand drops once the other two are gone. "I suppose it's not worth wasting the breath to tell them that Fran has most probably marked their arrival, and can smell them from halfway across the port. The reek of fish is hardly a deterrent to her nose, I'm afraid."
    "Here." Balthier slides a drink menu to Wolf. "I'm going to guess you're no stranger to taverns. Following that assumption, which may or may not be true, you'll no doubt be on friendly terms with everything on the list."
    He settles in his chair, steepling his fingers. The sky pirate lifts a brow. "Have a nice stroll through the Necrohol, did you? Here to sell the proceeds?"

     Leon gets a light shove from Panther in the form of a hand against the shoulder to help usher him along and away. For having such divergent tastes in company, those two sure do seem to clash in a number of ways outside of their professional tolerance. If asked, they'd probably still call each other friend, although the definition implied with that word holds different for everybody. 

     So, for the moment, that leaves the Leading Man and the Big Boss with a modicum of private time to converse. "Yeah, but despite how they might act sometimes, they're adults. They know when to play nice." It was a very different story just a decade prior, at least with the wolf and chameleon. 

     As things are now, however, one might be relatively hard-pressed to see the motley three as the infamous group they represent without prior knowledge. Most of their dealings in other Worlds have been contractual and mostly legitimate, although that word's definition, too, can change depending on whose perspective is involved. It would be an outright lie to say they haven't set up means for illegal smuggling and trade which, as might surprise some, pays quite a lot in the long haul compared to the burst of funds one might get from pulling an armed heist. 

     Sitting in a position that places a comfortable distance between Wolf and Balthier for the sake of caution, yet, not so far that conversation cannot be casual, the lupine merc actually chuckles when the subject of pub-experience comes up. "Yeah, I've seen dives worse than the grimiest dungeons and ritzy clubs fancier than governmental dictatorial homes, but fermented brews and distillations often seem to be similar enough no matter where they pour it. Still, sometimes you come across some a real strange drink, you know. It looks safe, smells recognizable, but the flavor is a bit dangerously familiar despite the viscosity filming the inside of the glass. You can stare at it and wonder: can I conquer this drink or will it kick my tail or will it be something with a pleasant bite that offers a smooth aftertaste despite the intense warmth?" 

     Wolf isn't the best at metaphor. His attempt to imply reflection to Balthier and his operation is probably painfully obvious, but all more the matter of getting straight to the point. 

     "But, no, actually. I kept an eye on things while those other two poked around for whatever scraps they felt was worth taking and cashed in on the spear. I did ask around first, though, and presented a counter-offer to the client. He...was not happy. Yet, there I was with the Spear. It's hard to say no for some people when their prize is right there, you know? Speaking of..." 

     Wolf reaches for his belt, but it's the other side of his waist from where his large pistol is strapped. He produces a pouch and gives it a toss over toward the other table. "Here." While not as direct as having a coin flicked one's way, the sound it makes combined with the parabolic arch it draws through the air likely reveals its weight and contents: gil. It's but a fraction of the reward for its 'sale'; but it's a fraction given nonetheless. Only then does Wolf seek to make a drink order. No cocktails or mixers for him. He prefers his distillates served straight and without anything to cool it, unless so customary to be served cool normally.

    The wolf's commentary on the qualities of his companions earns no more than a shrug from the sky pirate. It isn't his place to comment on their relative level of maturity. They're strangers, and that marks them as potentially dangerous. It also marks them as a conversational topic of relatively little value for Balthier.
    "I've an acquaintance with a lizard of my own, although I daresay your companion is a sight more handsome. Ba'Gamnan is a bounty hunter, and supposedly one of the better ones. Not quite so good as to lay hands on me, I'm afraid, but his line of work does not for a pretty face make." Balthier's smile is tight. "I suspect those two would get along splendidly."
    Now that's a match made in purgatory. May he be halfway across the continent if that eventuality should happen.
    He shrugs again at the mention of other bars, and other locales. "I must confess to much the same. I would argue the point that there is a definite difference in quality, the further up one travels, but I suppose drink is drink." Balthier lifts his glass, regarding it hood-eyed and swilling it about a bit. "One does occasionally come across a drink that is a complete mystery." He swills his glass a little again, as though to underscore the observation.
    "I prefer something with a little sweetness. A fitting end to a productive day. Try the Bhujerban madhu," he adds, gesturing to the drink list. "I doubt you'll be disappointed." The corner of his mouth twists. "Fran's favourite drink, you know, but I wouldn't tell your friend that. It won't help his chances."
    Hazel eyes immediately snap down to follow Wolf's hands when the fellow pirate reaches for his belt. Although he never moves, there is a tension that settles about Balthier; the patient readiness of the hunter, like a cat waiting to spring. Yet his fingers never even tighten over the glass.
    His eyes follow the pouch's slide across the table, and he doesn't reach for the thing until it stops moving. He does so coolly, nonchalantly, but his eyes are half on the pouch and half on Wolf himself. Does he expect this to be some kind of trap, in the middle of a public venue? Why would he be that wary? Maybe that's just part and parcel with living a sky pirate's life, for whatever that may entail; maybe that's why people speak about him, and why the sky pirates within Balfonheim itself have avoided this table -- why there isn't even anyone else sitting at this patio.
    Or maybe it's just late, and folk are going about their business for the day. One never knows.
    Balthier scoops up the pouch and flicks it open with forefinger and thumb. He doesn't open it, nor does he spill its contents to count them. He only tucks it into one of the pouches at his belt with a single incline of his head, the motion curt but satisfied, the twist of silver in each ear clinking quietly against themselves. "Pleasure doing business, Mister O'Donnell." There is satisfaction in the man's smooth tone, and something that might be approval. "I'll be certain to inform you if any other opportunities arise. Ivalice is rich in opportunities, if a man knows where to look."

     "Heh." 

     The expression given, a simple exhalation in apparent amusement, is what Wolf O'Donnell replies with foremost regarding theoretical encounters and details of interest that might be appreciated (or not) regarding his wingmen. "I'm not a matchmaker; I'm not telling them squat on personal matters. Part of the fun is finding out for yourself." In other words, he's definitely going to leave Caluroso in the dark. 

     And, so, the pouch is handed over. Not a word is spoken regarding the why of it. Not a word needs to be spoken. The implicit notion of paying an amount for an equally implicit service simply is as it is. Wolf nods in acknowledgment to the statement of appreciation. This isn't to be buddy-buddy. It wasn't a gift of kindness despite the fact that O'Donnell was not obligated to share. But money and its worth can say more than any fumbled explanation can. Balthier and Fran cleared the way, left a trail easily followed, and simply relented the item in question. Service rendered, service paid. 

     "Yeah, I'll try the-" Fully leaning back, perhaps with an effort to rock the seat back if unsecured, the space pirate finally gives the drink list the attention it deserves after such patience in waiting. "Bhu...jerban madhu, you say?" 

     It's an uncertain name, so the echo is tinted with the inexperience of the local tongues. This, in turn, is to passed along to whichever server so graces the table next, along with, "And bartender's choice on something, eh, smoky or bitter that might complement the other." Some drinks have really thrown Wolf for a loop in his travels, but, in general, he's a big guy compared to most and it generally takes more to rival his constitution enough to have much effect. 

     Now that -that- is out of the way, one leg is lifted to place a large heavy boot atop a nearby chair. He looks, overall, generally relaxed. "Not a bad view from here," comments the one-eyed guy while passing that singular gaze off toward and over the water. "Almost reminds me of Zoness, before the Great War. If you like this, you would have loved it." Before. Would have. Past tense. "It's a planet, where I'm from. Casualty. Probably won't ever be the same. Buuuut, you know. War does that to places." And people. So, what...small talk?

    "Mayhap you'll come to meet him for yourself, but I've a feeling you won't botch your business in Ivalice so badly as to warrant the bounty hunters. They're far too busy chasing me." Balthier sighs, although there's a confidence in it that suggests amusement more than exasperation. "It's not easy being so popular, you know."
    He leans back in his chair, but he doesn't go so far as to kick his boots up on the table. Nothing so crude for him. The leading man must always maintain his dignity, after all, and exhibit elegance in all things. The masses enjoy a cultured gentleman, not a crude layabout. "Bhujerban madhu," the sky pirate clarifies. "It's a mixed drink, and despite its hint of sweet and its hint of spice, it goes down smoothly. Fran's favourite, and I don't find it half bad, either," he adds, lifting his glass and swilling it for emphasis. That must be what he's got there. "The exact ingredient list varies by region, but they all have just a pinch of magick in them, or so it's said."
    "Not that I believe that. I would, however, believe that the 'magick' is really just something exotic and mildly disgusting." Balthier tips his glass; takes a drink. "...I find I'm willing to live with some mysteries."
    At the comment on the view, the sky pirate glances out to sea, those still, hazel eyes watching the play of sky and sea. Clouds are curling off the ocean, and the lay of them spells a storm further out. The water is choppy close to harbour, but not unmanageable. Most of Balfonheim's prodigous fishing fleet is beginning to head out, heedless of the weather, and their lanterns light the way -- a pretty sight if ever there was one, with the way the lamps reflect off the choppy sea.
    "Balfonheim is closely connected to the sea," he says, by way of agreement. "Her greatest industries are fishing, and her shipwrights, although she does a booming business in international trade. It's hard to argue with a port that welcomes all comers. I prefer a more lofty view, myself. Bhujerba's are fantastic, although the Marquis Ondore is a bit less enthusiastic about sky pirates in his city-state's midst." When he finds out about them. Travelling to different places is hardly a problem for Balthier. He knows enough to get around without arousing suspicion, or he'd be a poor sky pirate indeed.

    He cocks a hazel eye back to Wolf, listening to the matter of Zoness with some interest. Not just realms, but entire planets. It's a foreign notion, but also an appealing one. With new territory comes new opportunities. Not so much that he would overstep his boundaries -- he would seem to respect Wolf as the authority on all things Lylat -- but the mention of war shakes his head.
    "War does have a way of doing that. We've Mist to thank for drastic changes, too, here in Ivalice. Harken back to Nabudis, transformed from vibrant palace to necrohol in less than a day. Not a soul escaped, or so it's said." Balthier gestures, nebulously.
    There's a slight shift in something. Balthier glances up, hazel eyes focused past the seated form of Wolf. "There you are. I was beginning to wonder."
    Fran is there, as though she had always been there, one hand resting casually on her hip. Her red-brown eyes look over the lupine captain flatly, opaque as chips of stone, though her expression is more neutral than anything else. She glances at Balthier almost dismissively. "There was trouble. On the docks. It was necessary to recover stolen property."
    "Ah. A pickpocket. Stupid of them," he sighs.
    "'Twas." Her attention swivels back to Wolf, even as she slides into the chair on Balthier's other side; the sky pirate lifts a hand, gesturing to the waitstaff. Somewhere between one instant and the next, another madhu appears on the table befor her.
    She takes it as automatically as though it were always there, eyeing Wolf and sipping the slightly sweet, somewhat spicy drink. "You come a long ways," she finally observes, exotic words strangely inflected, voice smoky and scratchy. "No sky pirate, you, but you smell of money, and freedom." Her expression shifts so subtly it could be missed; something almost, but not quite, approaching approval.

     There is an undeniable amount of humor found as Balthier shares an intuitive deduction of what 'magick' entails as an inclusion to the Bhujerban madhu leading Wolf to laugh and lift his other leg to cross atop the ankle of the one already resting upon that nearby chair. "I get young, eh, recruits from time to time. Those that may or may not have military training but have no experience roughing it. Put them out in the wild and drop a plate of food before them they can't recognize and all too often you'll hear the question 'what is it'. 'Well, kiddo, just try it first. There, now does it taste good? Good. Has it killed you yet? Good. Does it satisfy your need to eat? Good. Don't ask questions to which you don't want answers'." 

     The reclined O'Donnell, whose hands rest upon his belly in this position, spreads them in a lazy shrug. "Sometimes knowing takes all the enjoyment out of it. Not in all things, but...yeah." 

     Still, the matter of Zoness comes up, although he doesn't really describe the nature of the paradise it once was. Wolf doesn't explain how it was the second most-densely populated planet of the system, of how it was a tropical paradise with pristine waters, beautiful beaches, sunsrises and sunssets that would rival any other local planet, that served as a source of peace, relaxation, and social prosperity separate from the military presences that otherwise policed the star system. He doesn't speak of how it was one of the first places to change, possibly forever, through industrial pollution created by the Venomian war machine amidst a system-wide civil war. ...Wolf also fails to mention that he fought in the war on the side of the Venomians, mostly because his involvement (or lack thereof) wouldn't have changed the fate of Zoness one way or the other. 

     War and Cataclysm have a way of changing things. While those things may not be forever, they may as well be for what time most people have to reflect upon and experience them. 

     "It's unfortunate what happened to that city and to the people there," the lupine replies regarding Nabudis and what he was able to see of it himself aside from any details shared along with the request of retrieval for the item in question. It's almost a cold statement, really, and might seem somewhat unfeeling, but it's likely a matter of conditioning. While viewing tragedy never 'gets old', experiencing it can become common enough that it stops evoking the same reactions. 

     There is a focal shift, however, and Balthier's gaze beyond O'Donnell's seated position reveals the nature of it. A casual turn of the head from Wolf aims to peer in that direction but, well, the Viera is met not with the gaze of a purple-colored eye, but a black patch instead. He says nothing before or after the exchange regarding thievery issues, but is thankful that Fran's order comes along with his own...even if his order consists of two drinks and whatever that says about him. This...madhu stuff, the merc reaches out to grab his own even as Fran does, although his sampling may be a bit more than is intended for a casual sip. This draws a light grimace, then a questioning appraisal with a curious stare down into the glass before he speaks.

     "Yeah? Well, those two things aren't necessarily exclusive to one another. One leads to power and power leads to options and options are what define freedom. Usually. Unless you mean more, well, a state-of-mind freedom. Then, heh, no amount of money or power defines that, I suppose. A free person is only as free as they aspire to be." 

     The middle-aged and well-scarred space pirate lifts his brow as he continues to recline. From the issue of the eye and the deep scar lined down over it, the chunks of right ear missing, the nicks and marks otherwise drawn about his face and upper arms alone (with the rest of his form rather well-clothed) it can be safely assumed that he probably looks far worse off in total than is immediately apparent; he's seen his share of battles and has gotten his share of injuries. If freedom is something you have to fight to attain and fight harder to keep, then Wolf O'Donnell is most certainly steeped in the scent of money and freedom. 

     This potential observation is punctuated by a very simple statement along with a lifting of the drink in his hand: "I try. What more can we do?"

    "Ah, the naivety of youth," Balthier sighs, lifting his glass and regarding it through half-lidded eyes. "I used to know a fellow or two who fit that description. They tend not to last long in this profession."
    Idly, he has to wonder if Vaan continued his pursuits as an apiring sky pirate, or whether the boy could have even made the cut. Clumsy and crude, obvious as the nose on one's face... he certainly didn't seem too well suited to it. Who can tell? It makes no difference to him, so long as Vaan stays out of his way. That's all he really wants of anybody, really.
    On the issue of roughing it, the sky pirate snorts, although the sound is languid. Maybe the drink is getting to him, or maybe he's just that nonchalant about it. "I've had my fair share of that, as well, and decided I was through with that long ago. A sky pirate who can't support himself to the standards he's grown accustomed to isn't worth his skystone."
    here's a short pause. Balthier cocks a hazel eye at Wolf. Offworlder. He probably won't understand the colloquialisms.
    "That is to say, the thing that makes an airship an airship, and not a useless wreck. Magicite. Magick. It's channeled through a specialised ore, and the ship draws power from that. A common conveyance in Ivalice. Almost every major airship, and I'd wager all of the minor ones, use skystone."
    He shrugs, draining his glass. "There are other variants, as well, but those are the only ones that matter to me."
    Scorn magick though he may, he still depends on it in the most basic sense to keep the Strahl airborne. Ironic, that. 
    "Wise policy, at the end of the day," he concludes instead. "Some questions are better left unanswered."
    The empty glass is set down, and Balthier contents himself with adjusting the cuff of a sleeve. To outside appearances he hardly seems to pay any mind to the comings and goings of his viera partner. Her appearance doesn't seem to affect him at all; although a look passes between them, difficult to read.
    Red-brown eyes pass over the eyepatch as Fran takes in the mercenary. She studies him with the same scrutiny as her partner, but hers is less veiled. There is no hiding and no shame in her study; the study of one warrior to another. She is appraising him as he no doubt did in the Necrohol, perhaps for the sake of having a better look now that the situation isn't quite so tense. Or, maybe she's just silently revising her opinion of him, if she even has one. It's hard to say. One is about as difficult to read as the other, in different ways.
    Fran doesn't conceal her intent or her actions, but there is still a touch of mystery to her, perhaps because of her exotic features, and how much differently she seems to react to the world around her than the humes she is surrounded by. Balthier, on the other hand, has no mystery with which to surround himself, and so he is instead opaque -- he plays his cards close to that gold-embroidered vest, very close indeed, and he's learned the art of concealing his own reactions.
    He does raise a brow a bit at Wolf's generous sample. Bit too much, there? The quirk of his mouth is so faint as to be imperceptible, though, and he flicks a glance at Fran again. This time, it's simple shared amusement.

    "Careful. It does pack a bit of a punch if you aren't expecting it..."
    "No. They are not," Fran agrees. Mutually exclusive concepts, that is. Her head tilts very slightly, made more noticeable by the lay of her ears, and the way they lop slightly to that side. One remains stiffly upright, still listening. Her eyes settle on him, though, taking in the marks, the scars; every little visual detail that describes his life and his hard-won battles.
    She, and her hume partner, lack such scars, although it's difficult to say what hides beneath that embroidered silk shirt of Balthier's. He certainly bears none on his face or his hands, though, aside from the occasional, faint, scarred-over nick from an engineering mishap. Her observation, though, is strictly metaphorical. She has a habit of doing that, betimes, her patterns of speech bizarrely ordered and somewhat more archaic than her companion. "By no means."
    He spreads his hands in a gesture of contentment, coloured rings on his left catching the light again. "It is what it is, and there's naught I'd fain trade it for."

     Unlike the marked scrutiny that some possess in their observation with a means perhaps far more direct, the mostly unknown third of the group present in the otherwise fairly absent outside dining area observes on a level a lot more peripheral. Wolf's gaze may, at times, wander over to look toward the Viera or the Hume amidst conversation, but it largely stays in-line with his reclined form observing the choppy waters and the fishing vessels out upon it. This isn't to say that he isn't paying attention in his own way. Sure, his relaxed posture could be put-upon and ungenuine as some sort of act of subterfuge to seem more secure than he is, but he could just as easily simply NOT be all that worried. Yet, that one-eyed gaze is still paying attention indirectly... 

     The glass held in his hand slides until the bottom presses flat against his gloved palm while his fingers extend upward along the sides. His nails, which stick free of those gloves and in no way appear completely harmless, tap against the vessel very faintly as those digits settle into place. The position of his hand lowers after that raised-glass gesture until it cups into a resting spot on his chest just above the shiny pendant worn about his neck. The heat from his hand warms the glass and warms, in turn, the liquid within; through this, and this position with it not too far from his nose, Wolf is able to take in more of the natural aroma from the Bhujerban Madhu as a means to enjoy it, learn more about it, while seemingly relaxing. This is a well-practiced move. Wolf is a well-practiced drinker. 

     That free hand of O'Donnell's is lifted into almost a point in a firm direction of conversational topic to Fran. "You're both very serious," he starts and, as before, his gaze does not linger for long. "I mean, you have to be. I get it, but...you were really upset when I mentioned accepting the spear's value as partial payment for the reputation damage your operation caused my own. Weren't you?" Wolf absolutely caught Fran's cold tone of voice in her brief comment after he mentioned as much in the Treasury. "You are, heh, very protective of Mister Balthier here, I get the feeling." No questions, merely observation, but he's putting them out there even if they are mistaken. "I mean, you seem to be the quiet type. Calculating. Somehow I think if what I said had nothing to do with your partner, you wouldn't have said anything at all." 

     The leather and metal clad fellow lifts that drink to take a more equally measured sip the second time around. It's still not his usual tastes, but it's a new experience. "So, I gather, then, that it means you've both been through a lot, huh?"

    Both sky pirates regard the tapping of claws against the glass, but their regard seems more nonchalant than anything else. The shift of their gaze is not oblique, though. Evidently they want the mercenry to know that his gesture is marked and observed; so too is the potentiality of threat in the show of those nails.
    Fran's nails are long, longer still, but she seems to handle herself well with them through long practise. With their length, one wonders if they do in fact find use as gouges; or if she needn't bother, with the bow over her shoulder and the quiver at her hip. She's made no move to reach for either, though. As of yet there's been no need.
    The glass of madhu, however, is a nice enough distraction. Warmed, its spicy notes are a little more pronounced, and its sweetness reduced to more of an undertone. It smells a bit like cinnamon, like clove, or maybe a bit of something less familiar. It's not unpleasant, though. Balthier slowly, idly spins his glass around with its butt end balanced against the table, the last drop or two inside following the motion. He watches it just as idly, although every so often he glances back to Wolf. Just checking. He seems the kind to watch things constantly.
    "Hm." Fran tilts her head again, still aloof. Her ears bob slightly with the movment, and those red-brown eyes hood. "Then you mistake me. He is more than capable of looking after himself. There is no need. No; 'twas not that."
    "It was a matter of reputation," Balthier states, congenially, spreading his hands for a moment. He even smiles, languidly. "I wasn't about to let you pull one over on me in front of potential competition, now. Nothing personal, you understand. I am the leading man, after all." The way he says it is in part theatrical, and in part a sort of 'you know how it goes.'
    He shrugs. "I won't argue that she is the calculating type, though, and 'quiet' is just her way."
    "One could say." Fran's statement seems a concession, if only because Wolf's hit on a truth, and for all the skulduggery these two get into, it isn't in either of their nature to lie. She swills her drink and eyes it with feline disinterest.
    "We've been plying Ivalice's skies for near on eight years, now," Balthier offers, by way of loose explanation. The answer is most likely 'probably, yes, they've seen some things.' "Something like that."

     The inevitable result of that grimace-inducing first taste and the air swallowed along with it is at least a subtle one. The extra-heated liquor-tasting air that rises, brings about a soft throat-bound sound, before being exhaled away through parted jaws is both sharper and more muted in the qualities it possesses. This motion acts as a brief prelude to the smile that follows. While but a curl at the corners of the mouth upward with just a bit of teeth showing, it is notable enough for exactly what it is. 

     He could provide a rebuttal regarding his observation in the face of such objection: just because one is able to take care of one's self doesn't mean that another cannot feel protective about them. Wolf has both a professional and personal relationship with each of those that he hires. For the ones closest him, such as the two inside eating, he knows they are more than capable of taking care of themselves. But, ultimately, they are a functioning group built on trust. A pack. A family. And sometimes a part of that trust is standing up for another despite knowing they can handle themselves. 

     However, this point goes unspoken. The dynamic between Balthier and Fran, what very little Wolf has seen, could be vastly different. Or it may not be that different at all and this is all just a point of personal respect for each other lending to such an answer. The time it takes to think over such matters is not too long, but the duration of it is worn with that smile. 

     "Ah, reputation," echoes the reclining guy whose biker-punk attire would work well for a post-apoc wasteland. His free hand moves up and presses an ear out of the way to allow those nails to scratch along the roots of the white natural mohawk-like mane atop his head. "In case my claims of potential reputation loss in business dealings were garbage, hm? I get it, but you have to admit that's kind of funny when you think about it." 

     "Eight years..." Wolf O'Donnell echoes again, albeit spoken much slower with more thoughtful consideration on what it implies. "I suppose the whole 'extra dimensions' thing really changes the playing field for you about as much as it did for me." The glass held in hand shifts position, no longer lying flat against the meat of his inner grip, which allows him to tip it enough to peer into its confines once more in thought. He takes one more sip before reaching over to place the glass upon the table and, instead, pick up the other one to give it a sniff. Something woody, almost herbal; earthy?

     "I'm not sure how many sharing our philosophies are out there, connected to the rest of..." He pulls his hand on his head down over that ear before gesturing with a roll of the wrist to mean more than just Ivalice. "This. Or, heh, how many have the capabilities to maintain their personal ambitions and goals in the face of mounting competition. I'm not sure how long you've had exposure to being able to travel beyond your world, but trust me when I say that in the last year I've encountered a surprising number of like-minded individuals." And the point: "As of yet, none have joined me." 

     "Sure, I mean, some work with me. When the job is right and the pay is good. And it swings both ways, of course." Wolf turns his head to regard the pair plainly. "Mostly because those people feel it's a betrayal of personal freedom to be employed under another. Even if my own associates argue vehemently to the contrary." He can only offer a shrug to this. "Personal perspective and all that, am I right? Not that there's anything wrong with some friendly competition." Although it can debated how much money needs to be involved to stop being 'friendly'. "I'm sure we can find a way to be in touch, if you ever want to buy or sell information, or collaborate on a lucrative opportunity. Cheers." 

     Wolf tips his head back as he drains the double's amount of whiskey-looking liquor, before slamming the glass upon the table, pulling his crossed legs from the chair to stomp those boots against the ground, and doubles forward with the most disgusted face as he sputters, "GAH! ...s'like liquid charcoal!" 

     Wolf's one eye is wide-open now.

    For all their posturing, the sky pirates do seem close to an outside perspective. Even though their posture suggests independence and aloofness, subtleties speak louder than words for them. Something in the way they studiously avoid one another's direct attention suggests a great deal of trust. Fran studies everything in the immediate surroundings -- but she doesn't watch Balthier, nor do her ears even turn to him. Balthier, for his part, keeps an eye on the area as well -- but unless they're looking at each other to convey a message, he doesn't so much as look at her, most of the time.
    Given how wary and cautious the both of them seem to be, that suggests something more than mere partnership. These are two pirates who would go to the gates of hell for one another, and trust one another with the other's life. It's difficult to say how close they are beyond that, but it's definitely a healthy working relationship. Their dynamic is indeed not only trusted partners, but equals. Each would appear implicitly confident in the other's skill as much as their own.
    "Oh, you'll have your pay, or my name's not Balthier." Ironically, it isn't, but Wolf O'Donnell doesn't know that. Not yet. "No need to worry on that front. I may even chip in the location of a certain venture. I've no interest in it, but it might be useful to you and your... 'friends.'"
    Eight years. Balthier studies his empty glass, as though he were meditating on whether or not he wanted to order a second Madhu. He lifts his gaze at the mention of time past, though, and shakes his head. "Not so much as you'd think. I'll grant it, it's a complication. But a true sky pirate knows how to spin opportunity out of uncertainty." His smile is thin. "On the other hand, I've no syndicate to be looking after. Our choices are our own. There is a certain freedom in that... although I imagine the notion of such extensive support is a comforting one, betimes. Still. Not my cup of tea."
    How long have the dynamic duo been beyond the bounds of Ivalice? "A month. Mayhap two. Not much more than that, by my reckoning."
    He shows that thin smile again when Wolf laments none of the multiversal sorts joining forces. "No? I can't say I'm surprised about that. You've reached a truth, there: Passing few are fain willing to answer to another. Myself... I've no qualms over friendly competition. One stagnates without challenge."
    The sky pirate watches in silence as Wolf tips back whatever it is he'd ordered, his smile no more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth as the mercenary sputters and grimaces.
    "I believe they do in fact throw a pinch of charcoal into that," he offers, helpfully. Smug bastard. "I'm certain the Strahl will be in touch, if needed." He pushes himself to his feet, and Fran rises smoothly beside him, still watching the wolf-man.
    "In any case, don't let me keep you. I've business of my own to see to before I leave this port." Balthier turns, strolling away; Fran follows at his side. The hume of the pair lifts a hand, amicably, although he doesn't look back.
    "Until the next time, Mister O'Donnell."

     Despite the rather strong (to the point of being overpowering) aftertaste left behind from that drink (and is that a bit of grit he can feel between his teeth?), Wolf looks up as the two decide to make their exit. "Hey," he says, rather than a farewell, as he grabs the glass with the remaining madhu, drains that into his mouth, and swishes it around a bit before swallowing. Charming. He doesn't rise, though. "I hope you paid for your drinks, because you're not sticking them on me." 

     That glass also taps against the table as he replaces it, the sound empty and hollow, although with far less force than the other drink. "I'll be sure to pass along your warmest regards to Panther and Leon. They'll both be thrilled," is added as a light jab while otherwise watching the departure. Again. Some people love making an entrance. Wolf sure does. The more surprise involved, the more time is had to overwhelm an opponent before they can think or react. Others, well... 

     Some people love making an exit.

    The two aren't quite out of earshot when Wolf points out the issue of the tab. Balthier half-turns even as he walks, managing to somehow avoid passers-by making their way into the establishment; his spatial sense that borders on spooky. Must come of being a pilot; thinking in three dimensions instead of two. The sky pirate spreads his hands with a half-smile that's... almost nasty, but not quite, as he saunters back to the table.
    "Wouldn't you like to know?"
    His rifle is collected, leaned over a shoulder oh so casually, and he moves to rejoin Fran. Nobody's coming after him, though, so he must have taken care of the tab beforehand. That, or he keeps a running tab in this place. He passes under the shadow of the sign as he goes; the establishment being the Ship's Bell, apparently.
    Balthier offers no further clarification, though, and Fran declines to comment. Given the way people part out of the way for the pair, or at least the ones that look like they might be sky pirates, these two do enjoy something of a reputation in Ivalice... one that pays no mind to divisions of nationality, of species, or of financial means. At least, that respect lies among their fellow sky pirates.
    ...Archadian, Dalmascan, and Rozarrian authorities probably don't feel quite the same way.

     "Actually, how about I go find out?" 

     The reply comes with just as much sass as one might expect could be possible from such a rough-looking individual with such a gruff voice. With a soft grunt, Wolf rises from his seat and takes a moment to loosen up a bit; his tail even does a quick shake side to side. Making a face to himself (mostly because of the powered carbon still coating his tongue) in a manner of pressing the top of his tongue against his teeth in the hopes of scraping some of it away, the tall figure turns away to wander toward the entrance with a bare minimum wave in the direction of Balthier and Fran who likely don't even see the motion. Whether as a gesture of farewell or a gesture of dismissal is hard to say, so close could the two be according to nature of those involved in the odd meeting. 

     "Mmh, well, I don't hear any fighting yet. Guess the inside of this place feels close enough to Venom to warrant some small comfort," he remarks under his breath while reaching into his vest, smoothing a palm over his shirt, to rub underneath a pauldron at his shoulder with his fingertips. With a sigh, O'Donnell pushes past some of the locals -- with a bit of relative ease -- in order to find his companions, all with the goal of finding at least one type of liquor in this place that he really enjoys, as the marginally prolonged interaction with Balthier and Fran outside colors some of the perspective concerning him. 

     The lizard is dining alone, already afforded some natural space no doubt, while the cat seems to be employing his charms on a young-but-self-sufficient-looking Hume over some sort of cooked meat dish at a different table. Leon looks up as Wolf approaches. "How'd it go, Cap'n?" O'Donnell reaches for a chair at the same table as the chameleon, turns it about, and sits in it backwards while draping his arms over the top of the seatback. The boss is further greeted by the sound of an ale glass being pushed over before him. 

     Leon was expecting. Wolf is grateful. "Finished up a conversation that was started back on that Spear job. That's all." And that's all. Leon says nothing more about it and, instead, the two move on to other matters regarding plans made on where to head to next after the meal has been finished and the brew has been depleted.