Chapter Text
So this was the Seventh Astral Era.
I’m not sure what, if anything, I’d imagined the Seventh Dawn would be like, but the stink of burning ceruleum was so far not endearing it overmuch.
Three weeks past the battle, and the castrum fire was still blazing. How was there even aught to burn in there? The whole bloody place was cermet and metal and idiots. Idiots weren’t particularly flammable, though they’d burn in a pinch, I suppose. How much godsforsaken ceruleum had the fool Imperials kept in storage? Mayhap, like limestone, cermet could burn if it got hot enough? Hells, if that were true, no wonder the Praetorium had gone up like a bomb.
It didn’t seem there was anywhere on the star I could go to escape the smoke. Mayhap I deserved that. It could have been poetic: What the Black Wolf began in smoke and ashes ended there as well. Except the castrum was still there. Stinking to the seventh heaven. Singed Garlean legionnaires fleeing in all directions, mostly intending to come back for a counter-attack, if the noise over the aether-waves was any indication.
Naught had ended. Naught ever would.
Am I just making things worse?
Probably I needed to at least stop depressing myself. I reeled in my fishing line and whistled to get my chocobo to stop eating the last of the Ilsabardian Bass I’d given him. His whole face was covered in fish guts, red from beak to the crown of his head. He gave me a wide-eyed, innocent blink through the gore, as if to say, What? I have no idea how this fish got all over, anyone could have done it, mayhap we should start a search party. I’d need to give him a bath before we went anywhere civilized, or folk would think I was even more depraved than usual. His dark gray feathers, stained with blood and guts, gave him the look of a voidsent. If voidsent could be fluffy, happy-go-lucky kleptomaniacs.
Lightning arced from one of the sharp crystaline teeth of the Singing Shards, snapping and sizzling through the air before it connected with another spire. Mayhap I should’ve picked somewhere less grim to go fishing. I truly was just making things worse.
I climbed into the saddle and we jogged down the crystal-dusted road to the lake’s edge so I could make an earnest effort at un-bloodying my friend. He helped mainly by snapping at fish in the shallows while I splashed water on his face.
Once he was slightly presentable and I was thoroughly soaked, I took to the saddle and swung north into Revenant’s Toll. At the aetheryte plaza, I hesitated.
I had half intended to ride back to Vesper Bay. This was complicated by several factors, which in no particular order were: 1) that the sole road out of Mor Dhona not currently being squatted upon by a constipated Imperial castrum went through miserable, frozen, Twelve-forsaken Coerthas, and I would honestly rather take my chances charging through Castrum Centri again instead of traveling it, 2) there wasn’t any reason for me to go to Vesper Bay, as I’d already taken care of the one and only primal that’d been summoned since Operation Archon, and aught that was going on there was a lot of packing for the upcoming move which nobody wanted me around for, and also 3) F’lhaminn was there, and I just really didn’t want to be within a malm of her.
Of course we had taken an immediate disliking to one another. Of course we had.
I fervently hoped that nobody had realized that, Minfilia most of all. I don’t know what about me so instantly offended her mother—honestly, there’s too many perfectly good reasons to count—but F’lhaminn made a point of trying to snub me as much as possible. A feat which was complicated by the fact that I… didn’t particularly wish to interact with her to begin with, robbing her of most good opportunities for passive-aggressive slights. This only seemed to have put her even further out of sorts. I was the lone soul among the Scions not interested in currying favor with the famed Songstress of Ul’dah, and that was likely an unforgivable enough sin on its own, but I also found her attempts at acting motherly to everyone utterly preposterous. She’s only in her thirties, a scant few years older than me, so what is she going on about?
Well, I was happy enough to leave F’lhaminn and Minfilia to their reunion, and she could have the run of the Waking Sands all she liked. I had little desire to retread those halls that I had once found lined with still-warm bodies lying in pools of their own blood. I wished more than anything that I could stand in the Solar and not hear the sound of Noraxia’s final breath. The tiny little rustling of leaves falling still.
Then I remembered I was standing stupidly in the midst of the plaza, and turned my poor chocobo around… not entirely sure where I was going to go. Slafborn saw me and waved. I was not going to ask him for work. He’d be talking my ear off for the next six bells. But the memory came back to me, unbidden, of my last visit with the Guildsman. There had been that odd fellow lurking outside the Seventh Heaven. He’d looked like a hyur, save that hyur didn’t come that tall unless they were on stilts.
Or they were Garleans.
The reward? Naught less than the accumulated knowledge of a fallen civilization. The risk? A single misstep could cost you your life. But what is a little danger to a storied hero such as you?
Mayhap he was simply trying to get me killed, but it’s not as if I usually needed help with that. Saint Coinach’s Find, he’d said. I’d been that way a few times on leves. Lots of scholarly folk there who habitually got themselves menaced by gigas and hippogryphs, or lost equipment out in the rocky wastes.
What, exactly, were those scholars digging up? I’d never asked. I felt a pull at the thought, as if I were a fish on a hook, being reeled in. The unmistakable feeling of trouble.
Fine. I took the road south.
I had met Rammbroes, at least briefly, during several of the “please do something about the bloody hippogryphs” jobs I’d taken off the Guild’s books. He was a witheringly dry bespectacled Hellsguard with dark red-brown skin and a white Archon’s mark on the very top of his bald head. The only Archon I’d ever met outside the Scions, as a matter of fact. I was not wholly certain I understood what that mark signified in Sharlayan society, nor why he had opted to put his atop his head where hardly anyone would ever be able to see it. I had gotten the vague impression from Minfilia that it was evidence of some important scholarly distinction. I couldn’t help wondering if Archon Rammbroes found his inconvenient and embarrassing.
“Why, I was not expecting such a celebrated guest.” He greeted me as I slid out of my saddle. I caught the undertone of shouldn’t you be somewhere else right now? In his voice. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” at this, he cast a quick glance around, as my presence usually accompanied one or more of his associates getting chased by wildlife.
“Sketchy fellow in the Toll dressed like a House of Splendors rummage sale said you’d a risky opportunity in need of a stout blade?” In the entirety of Saint Coinach’s Find, at least so far as I had seen, not a single soul possessed even the rudiments of martial skill. Not even the most basic self defense. Apparently, How to avoid being eaten by gigas while looking at interesting ruins was not a class taught in any of the fancy schools up in Sharlayan.
Rammbroes was momentarily taken aback. “Quite how you could have been directed here is… curious. Knowledge of this project was supposed to be restricted to my organization…” But he rallied himself in an instant. My abrupt offer was saving him the trouble of trying to recruit sellswords for an apparently secretive endeavor, which could not have been a pleasant prospect. Adventurers particularly, amongst all types of hired blades, usually want their accomplishments known. Bragging rights are worth more than gil with most of that lot, and I have known many of my guildmates to turn down jobs that seemed unlikely to prop up their egos or reputation. “Well! Your services will, I am certain, prove invaluable. I must warn you, however, that the venture we have in mind is… no simple matter. It could, in fact, send the unwary on an unplanned journey to Thal’s solemn halls.”
I snorted, “Well, now I have to do it.” Two separate warnings that this was foolhardy and deadly? Along with the promise that nobody would ever hear tell of it? What was this, my nameday?
Rammbroes was about to launch into an explanation of whatever foolhardy venture I had just volunteered myself for when someone suddenly shouted my name, and I turned.
Cid was here.
I felt as though I were on the deck of an airship in the midst of a dive. Excitement mixed with a plunging sensation in the pit of my stomach. He was quite possibly the most welcome sight I’d seen in all the days since the Praetorium. Not only was he not at all likely to make a fuss over my blinding heroism, he was unlikely to ask me to go fight any primals, be they the one nobody wanted to acknowledge roaring during the Alliance Everything is Great Forever celebration or an imaginary moogle king. He was, in fact, one of the only souls I knew who was always glad to see me besides Minfilia, and did not consistently follow up hello with please go fight something for me.
But this was already sold to me twice as exceptionally dangerous, yes, even for you.
And that man loitering around the Toll had been Garlean. The Empire’d had eyes on Cid before. They’d known where he was even before he, himself had.
So how much danger was he in?
“Nobody’s told you anything, have they?” Cid laughed. He appeared greatly relieved by my unexpectedly volunteering for his secret undertaking, which did not make that crashing airship sensation diminish at all. He knew how bad this was, and it was far worse than Rammbroes was anticipating. He launched into an explanation of not just this particular venture, but every venture Saint Coinach’s Find was involved in to the minor mortification of the Archon standing nearby.
I had known the Sons of Saint Coinach were studying ruins out here in Mor Dhona. I had not realized until Cid said it, that they were exclusively dedicated to studying ancient Allag.
Well, now I knew why the Sons were hardly ever up in the Toll.
Half the adventurers in Revenant’s Toll were hoping to make their fortunes plundering the wrecks and ruins out here. The other half were hoping to fight the Empire, or mayhap any dragons that decided to boil up out of the lake like they had before. Neither group ought to be within two hundred malms of an Allagan ruin, and if they knew they were… seven hells.
And in this case, the ruin Cid and Rammbroes were investigating was the godsforsaken Crystal Tower. The giant spire clearly visible from everywhere in Mor Dhona. There was no keeping that a secret from anyone.
For a few panicked heartbeats, all I could think of was the pile of dead adventurers down in the bottom of the Copperbell Mines. So many, they had clearly climbed over the bodies of other dead adventurers to seize their chance at joining the heap themselves.
I know this is what we do, but…
Possibly, some of the alarm I was beginning to feel showed on my face, because Cid immediately hastened to reassure me. Sort of. “Now, if you’re thinking that you’ve little to offer on the subject of ancient Allag, I should remind you that the Ultima Weapon was built by the Allagans. Nero merely activated it.” He snorted a little derisively at the other Garlean’s name. “Giving you the most direct personal experience with an Allagan relic of anyone in our company.”
I had not been worrying about my lack of archaeological credentials in the slightest until this point. My concerns were much more about how in all the hells to keep an expedition safe both from whatever horrible threats lay within the tower and all the bloody fools who’d try to fight them and/or kill themselves trying to sneak in and loot said threats. Now, however, I was a little worried about my lack of education.
Aught I knew of Allag consisted of giant, clawed feet and the shattered Red Moon. That… wasn’t going to help much. Whatever the tower held, it probably wasn’t a moon.
Rhalgr’s levin arse, I hope not, at least.
“Cid, if I learnt aught about Allag by being shot at and exploded, then no one on this star ought ever t’be studying it.” I sighed.
He laughed, “I can’t say I disagree with you, there. The tower represents a formidable—and dangerous—repository of ancient knowledge which cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”
I snorted, “Quit tryin’ t’make this sound fun, already said I’d do it. What’s the trouble?”
Rammbroes gave us both a slightly alarmed look as Cid burst out laughing again. “We can’t so much as peep through the keyhole, much less get inside, that's what. The entrance is guarded by statues, carved into the likeness of giant swordsmen. The Eight Sentinels, as the Sons call them, is the first barrier we must clear.”
“Which you’ve solved already,” I rolled my eyes at him just a little, “you love breaking barriers.”
After a little more laughter from Cid and lot more concerned frowning from Rammbroes, I set out to obtain a bunch of perfect crystals used in primal summoning rituals.
I was fairly certain I could just… ask Hamujj Gah if he could get one for me, and failing that, sneaking into and out of Zaharak and Xelphatol and U’Ghomoro would be a far better distraction from mine own thoughts than aught else I’d been doing lately.
I really shouldn’t have taken that second job at Copperbell Mines. Nor the one at that creepy manor in the Twelveswood. Dragging bodies out of a hellmouth twice in as many weeks had done little to make that incessant feeling that I was making things worse disappear.
I didn’t want to keep thinking of Dolorous Bear and his party. Of that idiot Avere. I kept hearing Momodi proudly declaring that I inspired other adventurers. Inspired them to rush to their deaths like fools, mostly. How am I supposed to stop folk from following my example? Or worse—trying to outdo my reckless stupidity. I can’t make myself invisible, I’m too bloody tall. By the Twelve, why couldn’t I have gotten, absolutely unmemorable to everyone instead of finds lost shite from the Echo?
Anyroad, I needed to quit worrying and collect rocks. The other three would be simple, but I had no idea where the Sahagin might keep their ritual summoning implements. I’d never seen them summon aught and was dearly hoping not to. Well, it would make for an interesting afternoon, probably.
*
Rhalgr’s arse, I need to never again think to myself the words, “this should be interesting.” Mayhap I can expunge them from my vocabulary. Rhalgr knows nobody would notice.
Collecting crystals was as simple as I’d expected, even though it turned out the Brotherhood of Ash couldn’t just give me one. (They were delighted to point me in the right direction, however, for pure the joy they took in spiting their enemies.) And the Sapsa Spawning Grounds were… unique, to put it mildly. I know Leviathan hit that part of La Noscea with a tidal wave before the Sahagin laid claim to it, but… the place looked like it was somehow still underwater. There were corals and anemones clinging to the cliffs like they thought they were a dozen fathoms below the waves. What… exactly did the Lord of the Whorl do to change the land that drastically?
The Spawning Grounds weren’t the troubling bit. The troubling bit was the aethersand.
Once Cid had the required crystals in hand, he needed the properly aspected material to grind them with. Aethersand of any variety is an unspeakable pain in the arse to get, I know that from experience. You can’t mine it directly, you’ve got to painstakingly extract it from rock with aether crystal in it—but not too much crystal, or you wouldn’t be able to break it down into sand, and not too little crystal, or it wouldn’t hold the bloody aether in the first place. And if you process it wrong, the sand breaks down and loses its aetheric properties entirely. It takes tonze of ore to extract just a hand-full. On the rare occasions my mother had needed even a speck of it for her goldsmithing work, I remember a lot of curses hurled in the direction of unreliable trade caravans, greedy merchants, lazy miners, lack-witted alchemists, the existence of all other artisans upon the star, and sometimes Byregot himself.
Of course Cid needed every single kind.
The first one was disarmingly simple to acquire, which I knew even before setting out was an ill omen. Rammbroes had already ordered it long before Cid had asked me to get the crystals. Aught I needed do was go and fetch it from Serendipity. Hopefully, while her mammet was not around being a creepy arsehole.
Biggs arrived while I was there, trying to buy the selfsame sand out from under me. Just not very well.
He was as surprised to hear of Cid’s endeavor as I was to learn that Cid apparently hadn’t told his team about it.
Did he think the tower too dangerous for them? Or he feared they were liable to blab about the secret project? Or, more likely… was he foreseeing that Garlemald might well send a legion to secure the bloody thing, and he was trying to keep Biggs and Wedge well away from them? The roegadyn engineer would, I knew, rather die than be returned to the Empire. Cid usually did whatever he could to keep both of his assistants as far from their former countrymen as possible.
Well, whatever he’d hoped to accomplish with his silence, I ruined it by once again being a big, awkward, obvious beacon for attracting trouble. Biggs volunteered himself and pointed me in the direction Wedge had last gone in.
It did not help at all that he told me I’d “inspired” Wedge to be bolder.
I am truly just making things worse everywhere I go.
Wedge had gone to Northern Thanalan. The part that not only reeks of still-burning castrum, but also ceruleum fumes from the processing plant there. It is the single worst place on the entire star that isn’t Ala Mhigo. And to make it even worse, I did not find him in Bluefog, as Biggs claimed I would.
The party of adventurers he’d hired for protection while he went to meet some sketchy merchant in the wilds were of a surprisingly high caliber. Mayhap the time he’d spent in the Waking Sands had given Wedge an eye for sellswords. It’s hard to know what you’re getting when you hire an adventurer, but in general you can guess how good they’ll be by the armor on their backs. Greenhorns are usually clad in piecemeal gear bought or salvaged bit by bit as they can afford it. Blowhards tend to have fancy kit with a lot of spikes or useless embellishments that can accidentally guide blades straight into the joints of your armor. These were all geared well, and clearly no strangers to battle.
They were, however, collapsed in a heap near the gate, gasping for breath and nursing wounds.
Their leader pointed me towards what she claimed was a bandit stronghold where Wedge had, for some godsforsaken reason, chosen to pursue the folk who’d supposedly stolen the aethersand wholly upon the word of the sort of merchant who has to conduct business in the middle of a wasteland to avoid detection. Upon arriving there, I instantly reconsidered my previous estimation of the adventurers’ qualifications.
The outskirts of the old mythril mine were not, as she had said, a “bandit camp.” They were a cultist compound. This was likely why the adventurers had been so readily overwhelmed when the alarums were raised. Bandits will defend their hideouts and loot fiercely enough, but they are yet motivated by coin. If you put up enough of a fight that it looks like they won’t profit from their wounds, they usually break and run. Cultists. Do not. They will try to fight you to the death because they think the moon told them to, or because bleeding out on the floor is a holy act, or quite possibly because they are simply possessed by ashkin or voidsent.
How did she not… immediately see these folk weren’t bandits? Did the robes and the muttering not tip her off?
Admittedly, the Yellowjackets can’t tell the difference between pirates and tempered thralls of Leviathan, so perhaps I oughtn’t be so judgmental.
It was a mess of half-ruined outbuildings for the abandoned mine, shrouded in the stinking clouds of burning castrum smoke, crawling with dangerous fools and even more dangerous fiends, and I couldn’t entirely blame the adventurers for not trying to search the place for a tiny, terrified lalafell. I did a little bit. This was their job. It reflected badly upon all of us when adventurers abandoned a contract. But. It likely would have been the death of them. And as angry as I was that they’d left Wedge behind, I was far more relieved that I didn’t have to drag three more dead adventurers out for burial.
How many years did it take for me to realize that nobody else could look about and see where things could be? That no one else felt something out of place, or something important is here like an itch that can’t be scratched. Far too many. For a truly embarrassing amount of time, I’d just assumed other folk enjoyed wandering about in a leisurely manner instead of going straight to whatever they sought. Savoring the journey more, I suppose. If I’d had to search the ruins, I could’ve easily been spotted and caused enough of a frenzy among the cultists that they’d stumble upon Wedge in the chaos. But I didn’t have to search. I never do.
Nearly all my success as an adventurer is due to flagrantly cheating, and while I do feel a little bad about that, it’s not as if I can stop having weird, unfortunate, extra-sensory perception. Gods know I’ve tried.
I picked my way around the patrols of agitated cultists, to the mostly-intact old shed where Wedge was hunkered down cursing himself. It took very little coaxing to get him to return with me to Bluefog—after I’d gone and found the aethersand he’d dropped in the confusion, anyroad. And Wedge, too, decided to enthusiastically suspend his own plans in order to join Cid in doing something Cid had probably deliberately not told him about.
Gods, I really am just making this worse.
*
I teleported back to the Toll, retrieved my chocobo from the stables where he was attempting to pick a stablehand’s pockets as per usual, apologized to the aforementioned stablehand and returned his partially-eaten Mamook pear, then took to the saddle and rode southeast.
A fog had rolled in off the lake. A normal fog, thankfully, and not the other kind this place was prone to. Grey and dismal and, of course, smelling slightly of burnt Garleans. I had my eyes on the road, barely noting the wreckage of the Agrias littering the shore, guided through the fog by the light of the corrupted crystal covering the landscape up ahead.
Dizziness all but overwhelmed me for a moment. I reigned my chocobo in, and we stopped just upon the edge of the crystallization that spread out from Dalamud’s shard. Was the aether getting to me? I’d spent at least the past moon in Mor Dhona, running about on errands, finding lost researchers, chasing away gigas, and fishing, and I’d never felt even a little bit aether sick. A lot of folk suffered bouts of it upon first coming to Eorzea, and when I had arrived in Ul’dah that’s what most souls had assumed my collapsing from visions was. Was that more, or less, humiliating than the truth? I still didn’t know. But I ought to be acclimated by now, aye? I’d been in Eorzea nearly a year. I think. I think it was a year? Before that… before that… where had I been?
My stomach dropped like I was falling from a height. I perfectly remembered the South Sea Isles. The little port tavern where I’d been when that crew of Lominsan Sea Wolves came in, talking about, of all possible things, Ala Mhigo. It’d been years since anyone had even uttered the name of my homeland within earshot, so that instantly drew my full attention, and these sailors were full of news that a second Twelve-forsaken Legion had just joined the Black Wolf in the capital.
Seven hells. They were going to march again.
The dragon rising up out of nowhere, crushing their prized flagship, and slaughtering most of their fleet had forced the Garleans to call a halt to their expansion years ago. But there was no other reason to send the VIIth Legion into that salt-encrusted piss hole of a city except thence to launch them elsewhere. And suddenly, I knew down to the marrow of my bones that I had to go back. I had to. If I didn’t return to Eorzea now, I would never get another chance. A door in front of me was about to slam shut forever. I didn’t even harbor any fond memories of the place, and yet… that door about to close on me hurt like a reopened wound.
I recalled that moment, that feeling of certainty, the intense pull upon my heart that had almost made me burst out weeping at the table where I was failing to get paid for my last job escorting scholars through some old ruin full of traps. But I could not, for the life of me, remember anything after that. And that… the White Raven going to Eorzea had been five bloody years ago. So where had I been between that instant and falling asleep on a chocobo cart full of travelers in Thanalan last year?
Come to think of it… how had I gotten on to the chocobo cart? Where had I boarded it? Alphinaud and his sister must have just arrived from Sharlayan, they’d have made port in Limsa and gone overland from there. Had I been in La Noscea? What had I been doing there and why could I not recall doing it?
A loud, annoyed, “Wark!” reminded me that I was just sitting in the middle of the road in a region where gigas habitually attacked folk. I gave my bird an apologetic scritch and urged him onward.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known before that something was wrong with me. A lot. A lot of things were wrong with me. But I had somehow managed not to think about how much that truly was, nor why. A whole Calamity, for instance, had been news to me. Surely I had at least heard about the moon falling from the sky? No matter where I was at the time, that must have been known to everybody?
What did it mean that I hadn’t?
We passed through an archway of crystal and the camp came into view.
Saint Coinach’s Find had always been smack in the middle of a ruined building of some sort, but I’d never truly looked at it before. Everything in Mor Dhona was rubble of some sort, this blended right in. Was this Allagan architecture? The bits of paving stone underfoot were naught special, but the carving at the old road’s edge was elaborate. The style was different, of course, but… gods that reminded me of the Highroad. Nobody else on this continent built stone roadways, let alone prettied them up with carving, and crenellations, and decorative merlons, because why would you? Who goes about admiring the road while they’re walking on it?
So why had my people adopted a habit that only seemed shared by Allag?
Minfilia’s face came to me, the horror in her eyes as she looked down from the deck of the fleeing Enterprise at the Ultima Weapon in the castrum below. It is a relic of ancient Allag, excavated from its resting place deep beneath Ala Mhigo. She’d said.
That thing had come from my homeland. Which meant… what? That Allag must have had a weapons manufactory or military base or laboratory there once. Seven hells, were fancy roads the only thing we’d retained from that bygone era? What else of Allag’s influence was left etched upon my people? Weren’t we bad enough on our own without inheriting aught from the folk who’d caused two Calamities and counting?
That swirling motif in the road… was that meant to be the Lifestream?
Rammbroes greeted me as I swung out of the saddle, eager to collect whatever I’d brought back, even if it was only bad news.
“Two varieties of sand, then.” Rammbroes had a habit of rubbing the top of his head when he was anxious, I noticed. Which was most of the time. “Two more than I’d expected, and half of what I’d hoped.” Seven hells, but that was an extremely Sharlayan sort of joke. He sounded like Alphinaud trying to be clever. Possibly, some of that thought bled through my expression because he apologized immediately. “Forgive my flippancy. We are grateful, truly.” He handed the bags of aethersand—actual bags of the stuff. At least a ponze each—to Cid who looked like a kid let loose in a candy shop.
“Now this I’ve been looking forward to.” Cid hefted the fire-touched sand in his gloved hand, heavy leather insulating his fingers from the warmth radiating through the bag. That was… probably half a million gil in fancy dust right there. “One does not encounter material like this every day. Where did you find the second type? It’s hardly the sort of thing left lying around.”
“About that.” I found myself intently staring at the paving again. Damn, but that was some fancy paving. I bet it was supposed to channel aether in some fashion. “If you had, perhaps, not wanted Biggs an’ Wedge t’come horn in on this venture… ah… sorry?”
I missed whatever expression crossed Cid’s face because I just… was so deeply interested in looking at the stonework. After a moment of complete silence, he burst out laughing. “All right, old friend, you know you can’t leave it at that. What in blazes happened?”
“So… I guess the pair of ‘em were building a new sort of airship, an’ they needed aethersand for it,” Mayhap I shouldn’t have said the word airship, because Cid suddenly stood at attention like a hound that’d caught sight of a squirrel. “Ran into Biggs tryin’ to buy the earth-touched out from under me. Poorly. An’ he pointed me at Wedge, who’d found the fire-type. And now. They really want to join us.” How had they not beaten me here? They were both attuned to the aetheryte in Revenant’s Toll, weren’t they? They ought to have easily outpaced me while I stood around being traumatized in the middle of the road for no reason. Or… they were Garlean expatriates. And I know purebloods like Cid can’t use a typical aetheryte, but neither one of them were purebloods. Had they simply… never thought to try it because Cid didn’t?
Gods, they probably hadn’t.
Cid was now beaming like a proud parent. “Trust them to go off and design a revolutionary new engine the moment I turn my back.” He waved a hand a bit dismissively. “I didn’t inform them of this project because they’re supposed to be on holiday, relaxing after all their hard work prior to Operation Archon. Naturally, they had to use their time off to outdo me. Bloody typical!” He turned to Rammbroes, who had been watching the two of us with an expression that was either alarmed or simply confused. I didn’t know him all that well. Could’ve been both. And I couldn’t image what about this conversation could inspire either emotion, honestly. “As a matter of professional pride, let’s endeavor to find the rest of the aethersand before they arrive. Have we any information on where the water and wind aspected types might be hiding?”
The hellsguard’s expression now turned from whatever muddle of emotions it had been to crystal clear disgruntlement. “I have made certain… arrangements. We shall see if my efforts have borne any fruit soon, I hope.” Every single word of that answer came out slightly more annoyed than the last.
Cid and I exchanged a look.
“If there’s a complication that could jeopardize the expedition…” Cid began before Rammbroes cut him off with a deep sigh, which, coming from the depths of a roegadyn chest, sounded like a bellows being pumped out.
“I had hoped we might take a moment to celebrate the success we have enjoyed thus far before… this part.” Rammbroes rubbed the top of his head again. Mayhap that was how he lost his hair in the first place. “Some days ago now, I asked a Sharlayan acquaintance of mine to travel to Gridania and inquire at the market there about the necessary materials. And have since heard nary a whisper from him.”
I stared at him for a moment. So… his colleague had been missing. For several days. And he hadn’t led with that? Visions of the Sons fleeing into the Toll, chased by entire flocks of angry hippogryphs—never mind how they managed to enrage a whole flock in the first place—flashed before my eyes. With the notable exceptions of Thancred, Y’shtola, and Papalymo, Sharlayan scholars did not appear to have any survival skills or instincts whatsoever.
Yda doesn’t count. She's Ala Mhigan. And I don’t know what, exactly, she studies, but it seems to be simply punching shite.
“D'you…” I struggled to find a way to ask this that wasn’t going sound like, are you out of your mind? “want me to go look for the fellow? There’s a lot of…” bandits, poachers, cultists, voidsent, vicious wildlife, Ixal, angry Gridanians, elementals, all of bloody Coerthas, “trouble between here and Old Gridania’s markets.” I finished.
Another bellows-emptying sigh escaped him, “This lack of communication is not… entirely uncharacteristic.” He sounded as if he were picking his words with care, trying to be diplomatic, but I heard, he is easily distracted by shiny objects as clearly as if he’d said it aloud. “But I cannot discount the possibility that something ill has befallen the man.” He gave up rubbing his scalp to remove his spectacles and rub his eyes with weary frustration. “Alas, we simply do not have the time to search for him. The more we delay, the more likely it is the Crystal Tower’s secrets will fall into the wrong hands.” Rammbroes returned his spectacles to his face, pushed them back into place, and straightened. “Therefore, I must entrust you with the same mission I assigned my friend. Please, seek out Master Parsemontret. If anyone knows where aethersand might be bought, it is he.”
Cid clapped me on the shoulder. “And if anyone can find what we’re looking for, you can.” And yes, I knew he was not talking solely about the sand.
Fine. I would simply have to find not one, not two, but three needles in potentially endless haystacks. Simultaneously. In Gridania, of all places. At least it should keep the afternoon interesting.
Why did I let myself think that again? Shite.