Chapter LXXXIII: Bastokan Round Table

“So,” Cid asked as he took a seat around the roughly-hewn table, “how did you make it from San d'Oria to Bastok?” And so the story of their journey from the demon-overrun kingdom began.

Emblim looked around at the faces of those gathered. Gratitude to Altana’s mercy had swept through him after Cid had shown him through to the temporary refuge of Bastok’s citizens. When they had come upon the city, swarming with demons and Quadav, despair had gripped him. Now his hopes were climbing, though still tempered with the news the Chief Engineer had shared. However, seeing the people who had made it out and were now working to resist the Dynamis invasion, he could still believe they would succeed.

At the head of their makeshift meeting table was President Hrichter Karst himself. The elected leader of Bastok was an easily recognizable figure. Diminutive in height, he made up for his lack of stature in the way he carried himself. In most situations, Emblim would see the President garbed in the finest regalia, suits of Eastern silk tailored specifically to his dimensions. Adornments of office decorated his clothes, along with precious gems which he boasted represented the boundless wealth of Bastok's mines. Meticulously groomed and styled, his mustache was also as defining a characteristic as any. Though he was closing in on fifty, the politician looked as spry and able as a man many years his junior. He had worked many years to radiate an aura of authority, and it had worked admirably. The President was a formidable foe for his opponents in the Senate, and, in Emblim's experience, a great boon to the people of Bastok. Though he was hard to get along with, and preoccupied with notions of class and status, he nonetheless worked tirelessly to promote the welfare of the Republic.

He retained his air of dignity, but his clothing looked a bit worse for the wear. He had traded in his fine coats and suits for a drab cloth shirt and simple breeches, though he maintained his ornaments of rank. That famous mustache was looking fairly untrimmed, and his face was showing creases of worry and strain. Karst's most ridiculous article of clothing, in Emblim's opinion, was the foppish purple hat he insisted on wearing. Now even that appeared worn, and with an obvious tear down one of the seams. It had been some months now since the initial incursion of Dynamis. It was clear that time had worn hard upon the President.


Standing beside Bastok's leader was his personal bodyguard, Iron Eater. Ever present guarding the office of the President, the bulky Galka had not changed his occupation following the outset of the crisis. Heavily armored and wielding a massive great axe, he stood by Karst's side, solemn and unmoving. Short-cropped brown hair protruded from his armored face mask, and he had his tree-trunk arms folded in front of a barrel-thick chest. Not a single movement escaped his quick brown eyes as the meeting unfolded around him.

Seated next to Karst was Emblim's direct superior, Volker. Bastok's greatest warrior, the hero whom had struck the killing blow against the Shadow Lord himself during the Crystal War. The Mythril Musketeer's leader wore his standard battle armor, a sword strapped to his side. Tattoos marked his face, and his hair was intricately braided in a style not often seen outside the Far West. Volker's presence was a great relief to everyone gathered. He was a hero among heroes in the Republic, a Hume warrior to be feared and respected by his foes.

Equally formidable in prowess, yet not nearly so comforting in presence, was the Dark Knight who remained standing, back to the cave wall. Arms folded in front of his chest, he watched silently through his ebon mask as the meeting progressed. A pitch-black great sword was slung across his back, matching the hue of the steel armor he sported. No one was quite sure what to make of the tight-lipped Galka, but they opted not to question his attendance. Still, Emblim occasionally found his eyes drifting towards Zeid, uncertain as to what motivated the enigmatic man.

Cid sat to Karst's left, and beside him were Naji and Ayame. The raven-haired Samurai was dressed in red and black, her great katana laid respectfully down on the wooden table. Ayame was stiff-backed and made eye contact with every speaker, her voice clear and her points concise. Naji neglected to speak at all, only dutifully following in whatever Ayame said. More than once, however, Emblim noted his sharp eyes moving to catch a gesture or exchanged glance that no one else took notice of. The young Musketeer was held back far more by his lack of confidence than any inability to perform his job. Emblim found himself comparing him to Etrien, and wondering if, when all this was over, he couldn't set the adventurous young villager up as a new recruit.

Rounding out Karst's assemblage was Bastok's greatest tactical mind, Invincible Shield. The brown-haired, heavily armored Galka sat to the left of Naji, thick fingers pyramided before him. The brazen, blunt-spoken soldier wore little in the way of decoration. His armor was made for war, not parades, as he often told his men. As the Legatus of Bastok's 3rd Division, he was among the highest-ranking officers in the entire military. He had been a hero in the Crystal War, and maintained a powerful presence ever since. While his greatest achievements were those won in naval combat, his skills on land were never in doubt.


The rest of the table was filled out by Emblim's own entourage. Erilan, Atreides, and Feldin sat together. The San d'Orians had been given time to wash and eat, giving them a far more rested appearance than their last few harrowing days would have otherwise afforded them. Atreides had taken time to properly care for his raiment, regaining the simple, quietly forceful aura befitting a man of the cloth. Erilan had worked out the dents in his armor, burnishing it to a suitable military gleam, if not perfection. For his part, Feldin simply sat where he was and glowered, moving little and speaking less. The blond-haired, pointy-eared trio provided what they could in the way of answers, for there were many questions for them.

Emblim sat opposite the President, with Erilan on one side of him and Etrien on the other. Rummaging through the supplies of Bastok's stores had yielded a serviceable lorica for the boy to use as armor. Red plates of steel were sewn in over a black leather breastplate, providing far better protection than the simple scale mail he had been wearing. He had managed to straighten his dirty blond hair and clean his face, the unlined visage reminding everyone at the table he was ten years younger than the next youngest person there. At his side he had two brand new axes, the short-handled weapons sharpened and ready for battle.

"So, that's our story, Mr. President." Erilan concluded. "After we killed the Marquis Decarabia, Etrien told us about the raft which ferries back and forth between Palborough and Zeruhn, and that's how we got to where we were."

"A fantastic story," Karst mused, two fingers drifting over his mustache. "If even half of it can be believed." He leaned forward, placing an arm on the table as he peered across at Emblim. "Captain, I'd like to hear from you now. Several questions remain unanswered."

"Yes, sir," Emblim said automatically, straightening in his seat.

Karst's hazel eyes looked him over, and then passed to Erilan, Atreides, and Feldin in turn. Slowly they shifted back to the Paladin as the President lifted up his chin. "You have said repeatedly that you simply walked into Palborough and waited for the ferry to arrive. How is it that you were not overcome by the hordes of Quadav which reside there?"

Emblim nodded. It was a fair question. "There were none, sir. The Quadav have left Palborough Mines."

Karst's eyebrow climed upwards. "Left, you say?"

"We suspect," he looked at the others, and they nodded affirmation of what he was about to say. They had discussed the theory many times upon discovering the mines abandoned. "We believe the Quadav have willingly joined forces with the demons. The group we encountered in Zeruhn Mines were not the nightmarish breed we've seen wandering the city. They were normal Quadav."

"The fools . . . " Zeid murmured, and several sets of eyes fell on him in surprise before Invincible Shield began talking over him.

"Those blasphemous, ugly, cretinous . . . " the old soldier's fingers dug into the table as he placed them palm-first on its surface. "Quadav wandering the streets of Bastok. The very thought of it sickens me down to the bone."

"Steady, Ginuva," Volker said softly. The seasoned veteran looked over at Emblim with flashing eyes and an expressionless face. He had always found it impossible to tell what the man was thinking, and now was no exception. "Emblim, if you made it into Zeruhn Mines without a problem, how did the Quadav discover you?"

"It was my fault," Etrien replied hastily. "I misjudged when the raft would start floating back, and it made a lot of noise along the chains, and the Quadav came to investigate and - "

"No," he raised a single hand, cutting the young warrior off. "Securing transportation and infiltrating Zeruhn went flawlessly. It was my fault we were discovered."

"Oh?" Karst gestured for him to continue.

Emblim took a deep breath. Erilan clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly, and he offered the other Paladin a weak smile. Not making eye contact with anyone else at the table, he told them the truth. "I had to see it," he said simply.

"Had to see what, Captain?" Naji asked, and Ayame rolled her eyes.

"Bastok," he responded, looking off distantly. "I only saw it from afar, in Gustaberg. Zeruhn lets out directly into the mining district, I . . . I just wanted to see the city again." Once more he lowered his head at the memory of what he had found.

"Emb," Cid's voice was low, "what's happening in Bastok?"

"It's . . . " his voice left him. He realized he was trembling, and took a steadying breath. His nerves as calm as they were getting, he told them.

He told them about the Quadav roaming the streets freely. The tall, gray-skinned variety from Dynamis were massed in the mining district, overwhelming in number. Demons stalked across rooftops and flew through the skies, their hideous language filling the air. The regular Quadav troops patrolled the city, squads going back and forth as they exulted over the demolished buildings of their long-time foes. Everywhere he looked, there had been a smoldering ruin or burnt-out husk of their once-proud architecture. The sight of the Metalworks, high atop its perch looking over the city, engulfed in flames would stay with him longer than the lingering sent of heated cermet and melting darksteel. Their enemies in the city and their homes torn down was far from the worst of it, though.

Emblim took a good look around at the faces surrounding him as he spoke. President Karst was white with restrained fury, Cid held only a sad, mournful expression. Invincible Shield was visibly livid, and Iron Eater's eyes told of a similar fury. Naji looked close to tears, and from her hidden expression, Emblim guessed Ayame was in much the same state. Only Volker and Zeid remained unreadable, simply listening and learning.

So he told them about the bodies.

Some were stacked, like cordwood, awaiting their ultimate disposal. Some were simply left rotting in the streets. A few, here and there, had been strung up like warnings, but they were few and far between. It was clear there was nothing alive which required warning. He told them about the blood which stained the grounds of their city. Smeared handprints against white walls now stained brown, marking the desperate last moments of those they belonged to. Fighting the lump in his throat, he described as precisely as he could the corpses of every man, woman, and child whom the Dynamis horde had found. Splinters of wooden doors told of those whom had been forcibly torn from their homes and cut down in the streets. Piles of bodies in a dead-end alleyway spoke of a chase and a futile, panic-filled flight. Left to rot in the open air, vermin and birds feasted upon their desecrated remains. People Emblim recognized, some he even knew, were strewn like garbage across their own city. With as much detail as he could remember, he told them what he saw.

He told them about the families. He could not escape the picture of what he had seen in the streets of Bastok Mines. A father desperately clutching his son beneath him both laid face down, the ground stained with their blood. The older man's back was torn down to the bone where he had tried to use himself to shield his child.. Even after death, he had kept the boy underneath him, away from the swords and claws which had torn him apart. Still lodged in his body was the broken handle of the spear they had simply shoved through him to impale the boy. A mother lay face up, her stomach exposed, dried entrails rotting in the open air against her bloodied dress. A few feet away from her was a little girl, or at least the top half of her. Eyes stared blankly into nothing through tumbling blonde tresses matted together with blood from her mother's severed hand, which was still in the little girl's grasp.

Those who had not escaped Bastok found no refuge within it walls. Without exception, they were massacred by the demons.

His words cut off abruptly as he realized he had lost the will to speak them. Every eye was focused on him, but he could not go on. The gruesome sight which had greeted him when he tried to sneak into the city was etched into his mind forever. The wanton slaughter of Bastok's citizens had stilled his voice. Helplessly, he looked out at those assembled, hoping they realized what it took for him to describe what he had.

"Emblim," Atreides said from beside him, his hands clenched in silent prayer, "you have said enough. You do not have to remember any more."

He nodded, even knowing that the images would haunt him yet. "That is my report," he managed. "They discovered me outside the mines and gave chase. That is how we ended up here. It was my fault." Never had the thought of something made him feel so completely powerless. Hundreds of pairs of unblinking eyes stared up at him from Bastok's bloodied streets. His hands clenched across the mail lining his gauntlets as he tightly shut his mind to the memory.

Nobody at the table spoke. The silence hung over them like a shroud. Pale faces greeted Emblim's news. Cid was visibly shaken by the news, and Karst had his white-knuckled hands digging into the table. Iron Eater and Invincible Shield avoided looking directly at anyone, and even Zeid had his eyes downcast. Volker accepted the news with a silent, blank visage, though his shoulders trembled at Emblim's words.

It was Karst who broke the silence, clearing his throat as he rose. His almond-colored eyes glanced around the assemblage, and then he spoke.

"So that settles that. It's time to move on." He cast his eyes upwards towards his hulking bodyguard. "Iron Eater, begin making preparations. Alert the camp. We head out immediately."

"Yes, sir," the Galka replied quietly, excusing himself from the table.

"What's going on?" Emblim queried, confused as to what had just happened.

"Hm?" Karst looked back at him, as if he hadn't heard. It took him a moment to register the Paladin's question. His mind was clearly elsewhere. "Oh, yes. Well, I'm busy now. Cid, you explain. I expect everyone to make preparations for departure as soon as you're done here. Meeting adjourned." The President of Bastok gave a perfunctory nod of his head, and then followed behind Iron Eater down into the twisting tunnels where the survivors of Bastok lay hidden.

"Cid?" Emblim asked suspiciously. "What's this all about?"

Solemnly, the Chief stood, looking gravely at the others. "Come with me," he beckoned, gesturing them to follow him down the caverns of Korroloka Tunnel. Emblim and the others looked around, exchanging glances of uncertainty.

"I see no point in this, we can simply be told whatever we need to know," Feldin murmured.

"Some things can only be believed by seeing them, though," Atreides countered.

Feldin scoffed. "A fine sentiment for a man of the cloth." he quipped.

The White Mage stood, quirking an eyebrow. "Don't be obstinate simply for the sake of it, Sorcerer. I'm going to follow Chief Cid."

"Aye, there's nothing to be gained from sitting here any longer, clearly," Erilan acknowledged as he rose from his chair. "Whatever's going on, we'll likely need to know about it." The Paladin adjusted his sword strap, looking over at Emblim. "Coming?"

The dark-haired Hume nodded. "Etrien, you come with us, too."

The boy looked startled. "Me?"

"Of course." He turned to face the sandy-haired youth. "You can't go back to Konschtat now with the tunnel blocked. You're with us, now."

"Oh . . . " his face made it plain he had not considered that aspect of his situation, but then it quickly brightened again. "Alright then, sir, I'll make the Mythril Musketeers proud."

Emblim smiled. "I have no doubt."

"Glorious," Feldin sighed. "I believe I shall follow the engineer, if only to escape the fear of retching." The blond Elvaan pushed his seat out, smoothing his dark robes before marching off after Cid. They all followed shortly thereafter, wisely keeping their distance from the irritated Black Mage.

When they caught up to Cid, he was in the base camp of the Bastokan survivors. There were a scattering of military standards and rough lean-tos, but mostly just tents backed up against the walls of the tunnel. There were crude firepits dug around communcal cooking areas. Guards formed a circle around the encampment, fending off the wandering monsters which inhabited the tunnel. Against so large a gathering, they steered clear anyway, merely watching curiously from afar. People waved to the Paladin as he passed by, smiling and bowing. Two boys ran in a circle around him, laughing as they played their game of knights and goblins. Emblim was taken aback by the number of women and children, or elderly and infirm amongst their numbers. Able-bodied men seemed to be the minority by a vast number. He was about to ask why that was when Cid began speaking.

"Y'see, Bastok's got a pretty darn good set of emergency procedures. You should know about them, Emblim."

He nodded. "I was actually hoping to find some survivors in the tunnel." He looked back at the San d'Orians, noting their curious eyes. "Bastokans have a standard evacuation procedure for civilians in the event of invasion. Just like I noted you have in San d'Oria."

Erilan confirmed the truth of it. "Yes, we have tunnels set up through the royal Chateau which can be accessed through several points. But this time the invasion came from inside the city - the demons just started appearing in the southern district."

Cid nodded, leading them forward. "It was the same here. One minute it's all quiet, the next the mines are overrun." He hung his head with a sigh. "We would've saved a lot more if they'd shown up in the Markets district, or the port, or . . . " he trailed off. Straightening himself, the old engineer hurried on. "C'mon, we're almost there."

"You were saying, about the evacuation?"

"Right," Cid responded to Emblim, "right. So, the Metalworks naturally has a number of escape routes. So do the barracks, and there's another out through the residential district. We keep another in the Chocobo Stables, thank Altana for that one, and one hidden in the Auction House at the markets. Those are just a few - Bastok's designed to keep its people safe."

"So why are there so few of us here, Cid?" Emblim gestured back at the camp. "Did something happen to the tunnels?"

A half-grin broke out on the Chief's face. "Nope, the escape routes are fine."

"Then . . "

"We did make it out, Cid. A lot of us. Everyone in Metalworks, practically, except for the Musketeers who stayed behind. Everywhere except the mines, soldiers were our biggest casualties, because they were fighting to get the civilians out."

Emblim scratched his head. "I don't understand. Where is everybody?"

"We moved 'em out, Emb. We're already out in Rabao. Got 'em out into Altepa, and then out to safety. We were staying behind to make sure there weren't any stragglers. Once you came and let us know about the people in the city . . . " he sighed somberly, shaking his head. "Well, ain't no more point to staying here now. No one else will be joining us."

"Mr. Chief?" Etrien spoke up, and they turned to face him. "There were other survivors, sir. In the outlying villages, a lot of us got away. Once Sir Emblim and Sir Erilan freed us from the Marquis Decarabia, the villagers in Konschtat got away, too."

"That's real good, lad," Cid said, offering him a smile. "and I hope the best for 'em out there, but with the tunnel blown we're on our own now." He noted the crestfallen look on Etrien's face. "Don't make any mistake, it warms my heart to know there's more Bastokans out there. And one day we'll get 'em all back, too."

"Cid, this is great though," Emblim said excitedly, raising a gauntlet to shield his eyes as they stepped out into sunlight. He realized they had exited the tunnel, and the scathing winds of the Altepa Desert started whipping at his skin. Above them the sun still burned brightly, not yet touched by the pall of Dynamis. Atreides smiled broadly, closing his eyes and raising his face to the light. Even Feldin sighed with relief, letting the heat wash over him. They stood on a precipice, high above the bleached desert, its rolling dunes sweeping out in front of them for miles. "If we've got so many in Rabao, we can take the time to reorganize and counter-attack. I'm sure we can clear the tunnel, or find another way around. Once we're ready we can march into Bastok and reclaim the city."

Cid squinted into the distance. "There's a problem with your plan, Emb." He raised a finger out towards the horizon. "One we didn't know about until after we'd already put nearly all our people smack in the middle of it."

Puzzled, Emblim followed Cid's finger with his eyes. Peering forward, he covered his eyes and stared hard into the endless twirling sands of Altepa.

His heart froze within him as he saw what Cid was indicating.

Battle standards, just barely visible on the edge of the undulating sands. At first he thought it might be a mirage, an illusion brought on by the heat and fatigue, but when they began moving he knew there was no mistake. There was an army out there, carpeting the horizon, slowly moving across Altepa.

"No," Emblim whispered, but Cid's dour look confirmed his fears.

"It's the Anticans, Emb. They're massin' together in numbers we ain't seen since the Crystal War." He looked the Paladin square in the eye, making sure he understood the situation. "The largest Beastman army in Vana'diel is on the move, and we put the people of Bastok square in their path."

Desert winds assailed the Paladin as he looked out at the distant, slowly-moving black mass. Emblim stared at their numbers. They were miles and miles away, just a speck on the horizon, but so great that they occupied all of what the eye could see. A great sea of blond sands gave way to a line of black, spread out against the edges of the desert.

"Alright," the Bastokan said, his voice even, "so. How do we beat them?"

Erilan laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder as Cid gave him an incredulous look. With the sun climbing high overhead, Emblim made it clear that after all they had gone through, there was no way he was about to stop fighting now.

Chapter VI: Flight From Bastok

Children on the streets of Port Bastok clapped with delight as the enormous Galka brought the two torches up to his mouth, taking a deep breath before exhaling into the fire, shooting a stream of flame several feet up into the air. Another Galka demonstrated with a mysterious air the nature of ninja tools, conjuring up mysterious powders and grinding them in his fist, throwing them forward to make the audience “ooh” and “aah” as they became crackles of electricity of streams of water from nowhere. People laughed and pointed at the antics of an Elvaan mime, and tapped their feet in time to a minstrel troupe which played in the background. The entire city delighted whenever the famous traveling performers, renowned throughout all of Mindartia and Quon, passed through. They had added this year a tinkerer claiming to be from the Far East, and just today a man who claimed to dance folk jigs of various regions had appeared, moving with surprising grace and style as the music played behind him.

The mime, the fire-breather, the minstrels, a trick-archer and a shadowy ninja, there was something for everyone in the traveling circus. The tinkerer demonstrated fantastic inventions geared towards the children, who had the most control over the purse-strings of their parents. Wonderful toys such as a wooden spinner which shot up into the air and flew when you pulled a string out of it, dolls with clockwork gears inside which let them move of their own accord, and a series of other mechanical wonders all grabbed the attention of Bastok’s youth, be they Hume or Galka. The most popular attraction from the tinkerer, without a doubt, was the two-wheeled ride he was advertising, a contraption of wood and iron which the children had a delight riding – for a fee- trying to keep their balance and move the pedals as fast as they could in the small space set aside for it.

The circus performers held the city youth in their grasp with amazement, and profits were tremendous as they collected the gil dropped into collection baskets or tossed at their feet. The jig-dancer, in particular, attracted a great deal of attention, most notably due to the fact that he incorporated knives into his act. As he stylishly moved to the music, so did his twin blades spin and dance along with him, dazzling the audience with his dexterity. Occasionally, he would toss a knife in the air, scoop up a handful of coins from the ground, and then catch the knife upon its’ return, never once looking to see where the short blade was. People clapped and applauded, and it may well have gone on for the rest of the day if the shouting had not started.

“That’s him!” The dancer heard, and grimaced at the voice. He knew what was coming next. “That’s the man, officers, he’s stolen my precious jewels!”

“Dammit,” thought the dancer, “I was sure a pompous jerk like that guy would never come to the circus.”

The fat jewel merchant, Wahid, pushed his way through the crowd, waving his finger angrily as the jig-dancer slowed to a halt, the music dying down. “This is him!” raged Wahid. “He burgled my gems! Take him away!”

“Now, now sir,” said the dancer, holding his palms up to show that they were empty, “I’m afraid you can’t just go accusing people of theft with no proof. That simply isn’t good business.”

“Shut up!” Wahid fumed. “Officers, officers! Take this man away!”

A duo of Bastokan guards appeared through the crowd, which had fallen silent in the face of these unwarranted antics. “This is him?” one of them asked, thrusting his spear forward towards the jig-dancer, who took a step back in the face of it.

“Yes, yes!” Wahid screamed. “Search him immediately! Take back my jewels and throw this man in irons!”

“Alright you,” said the other, stepping forward towards where the dancer stood, “turn around and turn out your pockets. Let’s have the truth of this.”

Sighing, the thief Ayn turned his back on the officers, lowered his arms, and then immediately sprung forward, leaping past the band and dashing over the line which encircled the area set aside for the tinkerer’s toys. “Truth isn’t easy enough to come by that I can just hand it to you!” said Ayn as he shoved a child off of the tinkerer’s two-wheeled vehicle and hopped onto the seat. “Find me something as valuable as these gems, and maybe we can trade for it!” Smirking evilly, the thief pushed the pedals forward and took off as the angered guards and the red-faced Wahid shouted after him, now joined by the voice of the tinkerer.

“Hey!” He screamed. “Jigger stole my bike!”

Ayn laughed as they fell out of sight, pushing the Eastern device as fast as it would go, spinning around a corner and skidding to a halt as he came to the massive stone steps leading up towards Bastok Markets. Leaping off of the bicycle, he tossed it aside and bounded up the stairs three at a time, his nimble legs taking him further and faster than the city guards could follow. He still heard them screaming after him, but soon he’d be out of sight.

That was still what he was thinking up until the Galka appeared in his path, two Hume members of the Iron Musketeers flanking him. They were blocking the entrance to Bastok Markets in front of him, and behind him the guards from before were beginning to catch up. Boxed in, Ayn spun his daggers out into his hands and leaped forward, thinking on the fly. The Musketeers made for him, drawing their swords and dashing at the thief, but as soon as they got close Ayn dropped down into a slide, thanking Altana for the smooth cobblestone streets of Bastok. He easily slid through the first guard’s legs, and immediately after coming through leaped in the air, pushing his feet into the man’s back and hurtling him to the ground even as Ayn himself sprung into the air, clearing the other two Musketeers and landing on the bridge. Then it was time to get fancy.

“Stop him!” He heard them shout as they rounded on him, weapons drawn and closing in fast. Ayn but smiled; this chase was about to end.

The guards cried out as a burst of wind and dust suddenly flew up around Ayn’s feet, and like a shot he took off, running like a coeurl through the streets. He blew by people and up stairs, went like an arrow freshly loosed from the bowstring by the shops and hawking merchants in the street, not slowing down until he was on the other side of the enormous stone fountain in the center of Bastok Markets. The city was an ideal place for a thief such as him. Bastok was a city of industry and commerce, built upon trade and labor. The entire city was littered with construction sites, busy streets, narrow alleyways, and a populace that couldn’t care less about a thief taking merchandise from a fat jeweler. Ayn stopped to catch his breath, the magnificent fountain, one of the few areas in Bastok not made for a purely practical reason, providing him some cover as it was a popular gathering spot.

With an appraising eye, Ayn drew out from the pouch hidden inside his sleeve the Siren’s Tear and the Dangruf Stone; the two stones would draw thousands in Windurst or Rabao. Once he found a place to lay low for the evening, he could make his escape during under cover of nightfall, and then –

“There! There, by the fountain!”

“Crap,” Ayn said sourly, slipping the two jewels back into safety. He looked left and right, and saw more of Bastok’s city guard coming in on his position. Being a thief these days was getting to be hard work.

The pursuit continued, and it seemed half the city guard was after him. Wahid, it would appear, had a sizable sphere of influence. Everywhere he turned, Ayn was greeted by an angry face and a Musketeer’s badge, and no matter which way he ducked or dodged, there was no way to escape. He rounded a corner, checking behind him, and then stopped cold. There was nothing in front of him except the side wall of a house, no alley to escape down or place in which he could hide. Quickly, he turned to escape the dead end, but too late, as the sound of a sword being drawn told him.

“Far enough, Thief.” Spoke one of the guards angrily, and at a glance Ayn saw there must have been at least nine or ten of them before him, blocking every way out. “Put your hands up and drop your weapons. You’re coming with us.”

“Alright officer, alright,” said Ayn dejectedly. With a heavy sigh, he loosened his grip on his knives, showing that he had no intention of using them, and then slowly raised his arms. He got about as far as midway before he flung them completely upwards, sending his knives shooting into the air, where a pair of invisible hands snatched them from nowhere.

“What’s this?!” exclaimed one of the guardsmen as suddenly, the sound of two feet touching the ground came from behind them, and then cried out as a foot caught him solidly in the side. The illusion technique was broken, and a Mithra in black chainmail appeared in a puff of smoke, already in motion. The guards quickly tried to recover from the attack, but the ninja was too fast, and Ayn was no slouch himself, leapfrogging over one baffled guardsman and coming down on his feet behind the line they had drawn.

“Tiki, let’s go!” he shouted, and the ninja nodded in response.

“You’re lucky you’re cute enough to make me go through all this trouble,” said the ninja Tikinas as they ran, shouts of anger brewing behind them. Ayn shot her a smile in return, and the two rounded the steps past the protests of Bastokans they left in their dust, headed down towards the Mines, where they could vanish until they felt like leaving town. Ayn and Tikinas, the most daring duo to ever pilfer a prize, would live to elude capture another day.

By the time the wind which hit them subsided, they would have to wonder if that was a good thing or not.


For his entire life, Zealot Zachus wanted only one thing; to become the greatest warrior ever to walk Vana’diel. For years he had traveled across the land from one end to another, battling strange creatures, obtaining rare weapons and armor which had been enhanced with the power of the crystals, seeking out everything he could to improve his ability to do one thing; hit whatever he was aiming at, and hit it so hard that it died. There was nary a weapon which had escaped his notice, training with new techniques and fighting styles a way of life for him. For the time being, he had been camped outside of Bastok, planning to venture through the Korroloka Tunnel and see what he could find in the vast caves and ruins scattered throughout Altepa.

Now, as he stood up in front of the gates to the Bastok Mines, having been knocked down by the intense wind which had suddenly come strong and hot through the entire region, his plans evaporated in the face of the monstrous swirl of lightning-spewing clouds surrounding the dark tear which had appeared in the sky over Bastok. The tall, white-haired Elvaan looked on in shock as what appeared to be Quadav, only bigger, and somehow stonier, dropped from the hole to the ground, accompanied by an impossibly large flight of demons which came down upon the populace of Bastok in force. Zealot stood rooted in place, unsure of what to do, almost too terrified to move. He might have remained there until a demon took him had he not suddenly been run down by a black-haired Hume, who gave a shout as he collided with the armored Elvaan. Less than a second later, a Mithra skidded to a halt in front of them, leaping with one foot upon their two piled bodies and cartwheeling over, landing on her feet in front of them.

“Hey!” Coughed Zealot as he came to his feet, spitting out dirt, the smaller Hume rolling backwards and nipping up, a knife drawn.

“Watch where I’m going!” the Hume said angrily, and then cast a fearful eye up towards the sky. “Do yourself a favor,” he said, already turning, “and get the hell out of here.”

No sooner had he spoken the words than the ground crunched under the feet of a demon as it dropped out of the sky, a wicked blade drawn and glowing yellow eyes fixed on the trio. The Mithra gave a shriek, hand-vaulting backwards and coming up with a shuriken in her hand, letting it fly ineffectually into the skin of the demon. It brought its’ sword down with a crash, slicing the Mithra through, but as its’ blade touched the ground, the stricken body vanished in a cloud of smoke, naught but a shadow.

The real Mithra was already a few yards away, twin blades drawn as the demon came forward. It roared its’ dreadful shriek, and the ninja staggered as she felt the baleful waves of energy sweep across her. Whipping its’ sword back, the demon prepared to strike again, and then suddenly staggered, as if its’ knees had given out on it.

“Too late,” the Hume said with a bitter twinge in his voice, pulling the knife he had stuck in its’ back out, and then dropping it with a cry as he realized the demons’ blood was eating through the metal. The demon slowly rounded on him, still having the strength to raise its’ arm, and the Hume looked up with dread as the demon’s terrible fangs dripped in front of him.

With a crash, it flew to the side, colliding with the nearby rocks and dropping down, shattered. Zealot, the Great Axe which had just smashed the demons’ insides into shreds in his hands, spun the weapon around and up into a defensive position. The demons were concentrating on the city, but if this one deviated into the open fields, it would not be long before all of Gustaberg was crawling with them.

“Are you alright?” Zealot asked of the Hume, turning his attention between him and the Mithra who had already appeared at his side.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, looking at the Mithra beside him, “but there’s no time for talk, we have to move.”

“Right,” said Zealot, “we’re too exposed out here in the open. I know a place we can hide for the time being.”

The two stared at him as if he were speaking gibberish. “I’m sorry, what?” said the Mithra, her tone a mixture of shock and revulsion. “You can’t be suggesting we travel together.”

“Fine,” Zealot replied, lowering his enormous weapon and taking off at a brisk walk past them. “I’ll just go to where it’s safe; you two can stay out here without the guy holding the gigantic axe.”

“We don’t have time to argue,” snapped the Hume. “We’ve got to move, that’s all that’s important. You say you know somewhere, take me to it, I’ll decide for myself if it’s safe or not afterwards.”

“Fair enough,” Zealot decided, and quickly accelerated his pace, heading north. It might not be the safest place in Vana’diel, but as the trio fled the demons ahead of the hordes of people running from the city, everything about the screams coming from Bastok told him that Movalpolas was the preferable place to be.