#feckless

Pathetic. Our USSS is a fucking joke. And, it’s obvious to everyone with eyes!

Gut it.

They eat it up like delicious milkshakes.

They won't win until they fall out of Love with losing.

Also. I think they re getting paid to lose.

March 3, 2024 - Exhortation

It's time. Don't fight. Get in the water. Let it come. Let it birth. Let it be messy. Let all see.

An intense battle is ahead of you! God is speaking loud and clear right now. There is a supernatural strength coming upon you to be instrumental in birthing the next wave of revival which will be super intense as it brings into the spiritual consciousness of the Laodicean Church the necessity of advancing His Kingdom through discipling believers into their Christ identity so they will be more effective in bearing fruit that remains. We will not fail to complete this assignment from Heaven.

God is sending helpers, angels of fire, and a new wave of prayer that will hit the apathetic, aimless, unambitious, indolent lifestyles of many in the Church. Is your obedience to Him worth the possible pain and suffering along the way? You must ask yourself if you're willing to lay it all down.

Zoissette came back to the Waking Sands, a silly but weak grin on her face and holding her arm close to her. Making her way to one of the tables, she sat down heavily. Arenvald held up a hand to pause the conversation he was in, and looked over, concerned.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Just the latest run to try to clear out Halatali. Ever been? The place is aspected to fire and lightning and back. I’ve never seen flame sprites so furious. Lotta the times you see an elemental sprite, it just sort of hovers around, minds its own business.”

As she spoke, she gingerly placed her arm on the table and pulled up her sleeve, revealing an angry red burn splotch on her forearm. With her good hand, she tried to set her scholar’s grimoire on the table, and flip it open to a specific section.

“…just needed a conjurer or an arcanist, and I’m arguably one of the latter, just… gotta find the right geometry…”

“Or you could let me take a look,” a voice interjected.

Zoissette looked up from where she was sitting.

“Archon. Oh. Uh. Hi… Archon Y’shtola.”

Y’shtola was already reaching to gently hold Zoissette’s arm with one hand and extending her other hand near the burn.

“Y’shtola will do. This is quite the nasty burn. How did you say it happened?”

Zoissette cleared her throat and quietly mumbled something.

“I know they teach you how to speak up, up there in Ishgard.”

“Door-to-wall clearing out Halitali,” groaned Zoissette, looking pointedly away from Y’shtola and up at the ceiling.

The soothing magics worked their way into her arm.

Y’shtola just sighed. “Feckless adventurers.”

Zoissette smiled sheepishly. “Usually I’m more careful, but our conjurer thought they could keep up with me.” She took her arm back, and flexed her hand experimentally. “…thanks. Much better and faster than I would have managed alone.”

“I should like to think so. Be more careful out there.”

Arenvald clapped Zoissette on the shoulder, and gave her a big warm smile.

“Thanks.”

Tyburn took one last puff and flicked the ember off as he held the smoke in. On his deck, covered in ash was the information for his latest case going to trial. A rich lord and his pompous son who always had been bought out of trouble, were seeking counsel and defense over simple assault. The not so simple bit was this was the eighth instance. None would take case for them and they thought trial by combat was below them and not an option.

Tyburn had an exorbitant amount of money pending his successful defense and at first he was all in until he read the list of charges this round, the victims statements and did some personal digging.

All of his effort culminated into less than a bell until trial, and a large amount of moko being smoked.

---------

Opening statements for the prosecution were damning but Tyburn knew how to work his magic. He just wasn't. He needed the payment, but sometimes the principle of the matter is worth far more. His time to make his opening statement was upon him. With a yawn he walked to the middle of the floor and huffed heavily.

"Dude, you did it. You know you did it. Chirurgeons bandaged your hands afterwards. You fucking did it. No contest, trial by combat if you so firmly believe you didn't." Tyburn threw his hands in the air and walked back to the podium, daggers stared in his direction by the Lord.

"Ser, know your place! We require adequate defense for this charge."

Feckless (adjective): lacking initiative or strength of character; irresponsible.

The Hunted: part 13 (tw: mention of past abuse.)

The rain had finally ceased, and Petrus tol Siricus smirked as he finished cleaning his hunting gunblade. Modified with a scope and a longer muzzle, it was the perfect weapon to hunt down the Nightingale. He watched from his study through a telescope, knowing eventually she would slip up in the harsh environment. A sharp rapping on the door indicated the servants had completed the preparations he'd asked of them. The manservant he kept entered, bowing before his master.

"Sir, your motorbike is ready, as asked. Sigurd finished the final check through moments ago," the servant said, head still bowed low. Petrus scoffed at hearing the young man's name. The Vieran boy had his heads in the clouds most day, it would be a wonder if everything he needed would be secured away.

"Check everything yourself, that boy is irresponsible. You'd have thought I would have beat it out of him after all these years," he mused as he continued his search of the horizon

"Have the lad sent back to the capital if you will. He can keep my wife company since she prefers him for whatever her own vile purposes are," his voice dripped with the venom of an unhappily arranged marriage. They despised each other, which was his original intent on having this hunting lodge constructed hundreds of miles south of his wife's home. Neither of them seemed to mind the far distance and did as they pleased. Sigurd was a favorite of hers, which brought him a small measure of glee when he stole the boy away for his journey. However, his annoyance had outgrown the young man's presence.