Bricole Fabre

     Fabre exploded with laughter, doubling over with the sheer force of it. “Am- Am I good-” He couldn’t finish the sentence before once again being swept away in a fit of giggles. Several minutes passed before he straightened himself out, wiping tears of joy from his eyes and clearing his throat. 

     “No. I’m afraid not, friend.” He said with a smile. “I’m about as musically inclined as the day old droppings of an armless goobbue.” He paused for a moment to appreciate his nonsensical analogy. 

Louisoix: What is the greatest sacrifice my character has made?

     Bricole Fabre raised an eyebrow at the question. Shrugging, he grinned “I didn’t eat for an entire week so I could afford a new bit of tech, if that counts.” He took a long drink from his mug before sighing. “Why do you people insist upon following me about, asking such invasive questions? Can’t you see I’m sitting alone in a bar?” He made a sweeping gesture as he spoke, as if his interrogator may not have realized where they were. “No man sits alone in a bar when he’s full of cheer, does he? Were I seeking company,” He raised a finger, pausing for a moment. “Which, mind you, I’m not. But if I were, it certainly wouldn’t be the sort that asked me to dig deep for all sorts of emotional garbage!” With a loud harrumph and a slap to the table, Fabre stood.

     “If you’re asking for a story of grand sacrifice for the greater good, ask somewhere else.” His expression was suddenly grim, his eyes cast toward the floor. “I can not claim any sacrifice.” A solemn shake of the head and a deep breath allowed him to think for a moment. “No, the sacrifice was not mine. I crafted weapons for a good while. Weapons that were sold in order to fund my research.” He was clearly distraught, running his fingers through his hair near constantly. “The customers paid up all the same, regardless of quality… To meet the high demand, I was forced to craft weapons that didn’t live up to my standards. Or any standards, for that matter. They were trash.”

     Fabre moved to the exit, no longer feeling social. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” He spoke softly, no audience in mind. Musings of a depressed man. “How many of those weapons were used to kill innocents? Worse yet, how many were purchased by innocents for self defense, and malfunctioned, leading to their death?” His choked on his last words, hanging his head in shame. “I may as well have pulled the trigger myself, you know?” He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve and breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself. “As for your question… I’ve never sacrificed a thing. I made those poor men, women, and children give their lives for my work. So I’ll keep crafting. If only to some day make something that saves more lives than I’ve taken. It still won’t be enough, I know. But my judgement will take place after I’ve passed. Until then, I can only strive to make their unwilling sacrifice worth the price.” Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he stepped out into the Ishgardian night and was gone.

Raubahn: What scars does my character have?

     “I bet you’re hoping for a tale of battle, huh?” He joked with a smile. “Saving the fair maiden, slaying the demon that enthralled her? Maybe I got these scars from Ifrit himself?” With each suggestion he struck a different dramatic pose. From that of a stalwart knight, shield raised, to a fierce fighter crouching low, and finally a mock gesture of fear, trembling with arms held out before him. 

      “The truth may leave you wanting, I’m afraid.” He took the last bite of a sandwich he had been eating. “Buh tuh weh,” His words came out muffled by a mouth full of food. Signaling to wait a moment, he chewed a few more times then swallowed. Smiling, he forged on “By the way, how do you keep getting in here? You just sort of… show up and ask me these wild questions. I’d like to call you a friend, but I feel that requires both of us know something about the other. As it stands, you know much of me and I know nothing of you.” He paused for a moment, hoping for a response. A name? A small bit of history? Receiving nothing, he sighed and shrugged. “Right, strong silent type. I guess you give me something to think about, at the very least.”

      Fabre cleared his throat, brushing his hands on his pants as he did so. “Your question. Most of these scars” He pointed to the scars on his face and arms. “Are caused by my own stupidity.” His grin indicated he was quite proud of his ability to be just dumb enough to get hurt, but not dumb enough to die. “This one here,” He pointed to a nasty burn along his forearm. “Is from a smithing incident. So I’m carrying this length of red hot steel from the forge to the anvil, right?” He stretched his arms out and began to walk across the room, mimicking his story. “But I didn’t have the tongs quite right on the thing. So it began to slip.” His face took on a shocked expression as he fumbled his arms about. “Me being the smart guy I am, figured I ought to catch it. However, I didn’t want to burn my hand! You know, the hand with a protective mitt on it designed for occasions just like this one. Couldn’t burn that. So what I did,” He leaned down, stretching one arm out much further than the other. “Was try to catch the steel with my forearm. Less damage done that way, yeah?” He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “At this point, I really wish I could make some whimsical statement about ‘oh, to be young’ or some such. But to be honest, I’d probably still do the same thing were I placed in the same situation this afternoon. I’m a brilliant man, understand” He tapped the side of his head twice to accentuate his point. “Just not very smart.”