#zanbo

Pipi, the mammet companion of the man, produced a white crystal the size of a Lalafell’s fist from the core of its chest, setting it in its owner’s hand. The gears and cogs of the mammet whirred as its shape changed to make it look like a miniature version of the Primal Ifrit. The man lifted his Ifrit styled mask off his face for a moment, revealing the pale skin and twiggy mustache attached to the young face. The crystal was placed against his forehead and held in place by a special fastening installed on the mask when it was lowered back down to obscure his face. Another flip of a hidden switch lit the mask with a red glow along the horns and eyes, giving him the image of a Ifrit-blessed mortal; at least that was what he had hoped when he made the outfit.

With a steadying breath he spoke. “Three.... Two... One.... Let’s go.”

On the ground level of Ul’dah and across the street from the man stood a warehouse, belonging to a mining company that had been doing well as of late despite having two mines run dry on them. Through some night time rooftop spying the Lalafell had discovered that the success of the company was due to a different kind of rock being sold, one that the poor of Ul’dah paid hand over fist for due to an addiction that wrought havoc on them. Withdraws of the drug had gone poorly for those too poor to afford it, leaving withered husks in the streets of jeweled city; not that the Brass Blades cared to investigate. This warehouse had become the front of the operation, used as a distillery for the substance. This man had decided it was time to act and no longer stand on the sidelines.

With a grunt he leapt from his perch on the building and dropped towards the ground. As the balls of his feet connected with the ground he rocketed forward, crashing through the wooden doorway to the warehouse, and garnering the attention of the four men in the room.

Standing at a short height even for Lalafell men with a scrawny frame, Zanbo Blamabo, the masked vigilante, was not an imposing man. The two Hyur men stood double his height while the Elezen and Roegadyn men stood easily thrice the small stature, all four with what looked like more muscle than Zanbo weighed entirely. Despite the short comings that made it seem as an all out loss for Zanbo, he didn’t hesitate. The energy of the unaspected aether crystal flowing through his body more than made up for what he lacked in physical strength naturally.

“Halt, criminal scum of Ul’dah! For tonight the Primal Butler is serving up a dish of JUSTICE!” Zanbo shouted, effecting some strange pose he had practiced.

The men just looked confused at the tiny posing butler that had destroyed their door, gazes flicking from one to another. Zanbo didn’t wait for them to figure it out. The crystal only had so much aether stored. Zanbo disappeared from the sight of the four men, leaving only a cloud of dust in his wake. He reappeared sideways, standing on the pillar next to the Roegadyn man. His fist launched out in a punch, catching the man unaware as it connected with his jaw. The Roegadyn was pulled off the ground, thrown backwards to the wall of the warehouse and making a sizable dent. The three men gasped, preparing to move against the Lalafell man, but Zanbo was gone again. He was now behind the first Hyur, leaping into the air to kick him in the back. The Hyur careened into the crates in the back of the warehouse, smashing them apart with his face. Before the two remaining men could spin around to challenge the Lalafell, Zanbo was standing in front of the Elezen. The Elezen was agile enough to attempt a strike, kicking his leg out at the short vigilante. Zanbo caught the leg, his tiny grip like a mythril vise around the muscular limb. Zanbo’s arm flinched to the right, dragging the leg, and man attached to it, with the movement. The Elezen’s frame smashed against the floor of the warehouse, cracking the compacted dirt to resemble a broken mirror. One Hyur was left, though no longer in the warehouse. When Zanbo turned the Elezen into a flatter version of himself the Hyur had taken off in a run.

“sIr! One’S geTTiNg aWAy!” Pipi shouted from outside the building, clawed finger pointing out at the running Hyur.

“No one outruns this serving of JUSTICE!” Zanbo shouted after the man, propelling himself forward.

The four hadn’t been able to see what Zanbo did in his attack, but he had seen everything. At the speed he moved, when aided by the nonaspected aetherial energy, the world seemed to stop for him. He moved past the three he had struck without them even noticing, not even held back by gravity at his speed. He climbed walls and leapt from surface to surface without even falling. The men, all greatly over his size, weighed nothing in his grip. He had never felt this powerful, never so capable to fight back against the corruption in his city. But fighting back meant not letting anyone escape.

Outside of the warehouse, the world seemed to be frozen still. Vendors left their jaws hung open, mid-haggle with stubborn buyers. Birds hung in the air, wings outspread as they waited to beat them again and continue flight. The fleeing Hyur floated in the air, mid-stride with legs spread as he ran. Zanbo’s feet carried him to the man with ease, placing him directly before the man before Zanbo stopped running. The world caught up to him as he stopped, as if resuming from a spell that froze time.

The Hyur let out a scream as he was suddenly confronted with the properly dressed Primal that had appeared from nowhere. He ran directly into Zanbo, stopping as soon as if he had hit a solid wall of stone. The man felt like a leaf to Zanbo. Zanbo’s palm shot out, the flat of it striking the man in the chest. The man was launched backward, flying into the stall of a carpet vendor and breaking it as he landed in an unconscious slump.

“Justice is SERVED!” Zanbo shouted, striking another pose.

Onlookers stared at the masked vigilante and his victim, puzzles expressions trying to deduce what had happened. The vendor of the stall decided.

“Guards! Guards! This... CREATURE just attack this man and broke my stall!” He shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Zanbo.

“Guards! Someone call the Blades! Get the masked freak!” Others shouted.

Zanbo blanched, looking around as the crowd started growing increasingly louder. He glanced to the unconscious Hyur, trying to think of what to do. There were still three men in the warehouse, with the tables of their drugs waiting to be sold. If the guards were called on him, he’d never be able to take them to the wrongdoers. Worse than that, he could feel that his reservoir of energy within the crystal was depleting. Soon he would be just another Lalafell dressed ridiculously. He had to make a decision. He could hear the footfall of the Brass Blades rushing to him.

“Halt! In the name of the Sultana, you’re under arrest!” One of the armed men shouted.

He was surrounded. Blades made of steel, held ironically by the Brass Blades, were drawn and pointed at Zanbo. The Primal disguise creating more frantic worry among the people, which was understandable given the problem Primals created. Zanbo hadn’t expected his first meeting with the authorities to be as confrontational. He had to leave or find himself in a jail cell, which would all get worse when his mask was taken off.

“Check the warehouse down the road, my fair comrades! Then you will see what rang the bell summoning the Primal Butler with a dish of JUSTICE!” Zanbo shouted, making another pose in the midst of the swords.

He turned down a road in Ul’dah, making way towards the markets of the city. The smell of spices and oils lingered in the air around him, his nose twitching at the aromas. His fingers trailed against the stonework of the building walls as he followed his nose to the market.

He had come to realize things of difference in his life. He had seen his daughter’s birth and found a real connection with her, entirely unlike his tribe’s normal way of handling children, and felt like a real father. He found himself to be something of a hero and he liked it. When E’yline had been lost and in danger he was at her rescue immediately, charging into Azys Lla to find her. When Alaric had been harmed in war and only sent them a letter of his position, L’alor had been out into Coerthas immediately expecting to find a destroyed camp and injured man.

He slipped down an alley way, hoping to take a shortcut towards the markets. A cloaked figure stood at the end of the alley, back turned towards L’alor. L’alor paid him no mind but kept pace, though the interactions with Delvin had made him somewhat wary of strange people in alleyways.

He had learned new limits he had, further from what he had thought he had originally. When hunters from her home had come after Meziene, he hadn’t hesitated to strike them down and kill them. It had felt different then when he attacked Delvin or Fenralis. The taste of bile and disgust still came after it, but it had grown weaker after that time. There seemed to be fewer things he wouldn’t do for Meziene if need be.

At the end of the alleyway the cloaked figure turned, extending a cup out to L’alor.

“Gil for the poor, sir?” “Oh, ‘course,” L’alor said as he fished the coin from his pocket and dropped it in the cup. “Twelve blessing on you, sir.”

L’alor nodded to the man as he turned away from the alley and towards the marketplace. The smell of peppers and salt touched his nostrils, flaring them and drawing him closer. He always loved the markets. He came often enough to know where most of the best produce was, knew how to pull the best deals into the dinner he would make that night. Tonight he was thinking of roasted fruits and chicken, and there was only one good stall to get the right fruit at, Blamabo Orchards.

His fights with Meziene had changed as of late. She had told him she couldn’t trust him to keep promises and because of that he wasn’t enough for her. He had tried to help her by bringing E’yline into the house, who had accepted after some difficulty, but it hadn’t stopped hurting him to know he wasn’t enough. But those fights had ended with L’avla being born, his newest child. She was beautiful and perfect, just like Raltharis was. All of the fights still didn’t stick with him long, Meziene had said something to him a while back that made him feel stronger. She had called him indestructible.

Many things hurt him but only for a short time, they all drifted away when he thought of her saying that. He repeated it so himself when his mind drifted back to her words of him not being enough. Thinking of that line made him think he could grow into being enough.

“L’alor! I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t be coming back to my stall.”

L’alor blinked as he heard the voice, drawing himself from his contemplation as he walked. He turned to the side and smiled. He had reached the Blamabo Orchard stall without evening noticing it. It was a welcome surprise as he looked down to the Lalafellin attendant, Zanbo. It had been some time since L’alor visited but he was happy to rectify that.

“Oh, ye’. Sorry, Zanbo. Been a busy time an’ all, you know?” “Was it? Well, hopefully nothing a good bag of fruits can’t solve!” Zanbo spoke cheerfully, already piling a basket together for L’alor. “Had a kit, actually. My own daughter an’ all, she’s the cutest thing. Some different stuff beside tha’, but all good ye’ know?” “Oh I’m sure, you’re a pretty lucky man. Always glad to hear you’re doing well. That treasure hunting business doing good?” “It’s doing alright, could be better. But all in time, right?” “You know it!”

L’alor’s ears twitched as he heard three sharp cracks in the air. He looked down to Zanbo with a quirked brow but the man had a shocked expression. The wood of the stall in front of him had three holes in it, the edges splintered and blackened. The scent of something burning was in the air around him now, blurring out the smell of spices. His chest was sore for a brief moment before it felt like it was on fire, his muscles tightening in shock. He looked down to find what had spilled onto him and stumbled, the white of his pants were slowly giving way to the red of his blood as it spilled against him.

“L-L’alor?” Zanbo asked, staring at the wounded Miqo’te. “Zan…. Shit,” L’alor replied.

His knees gave way next, slamming down to the ground in a huff. His right arm was pressed against the roadway. He was trying to look up at Zanbo, to grab the stall and pull himself back up. He knew he needed to get home, Meziene could patch him up. His arms wouldn’t move though, his head wouldn’t turn. It felt like his head was on fire, his muscles felt like they were chains of hot iron.