Chapter LCVII: Stories

"I do not like the look of this souffle," the chef complained, fretting over the half-risen lump. "Perhaps there is too much gravity in the oven?"

Ayn looked across the mess hall irritably. As busy as Norg was in these troubled times, only he and a single Galka were seated in the dining area. Yet even with two people to feed, the woman behind the counter was still having a great deal of trouble getting their food out to them.

"I didn't order a souffle," the Galka said, tapping his fingers against the counter. Ayn had opted for a private table, hoping to avoid conversation. As the sturdy-looking man turned towards him, he felt that hope crumbling to dust. "You didn't order a souffle, did you?"

With a sigh, he sank back into the wooden chair where he sat. "No," he replied.

Staring flatly at the chef, the Galka turned back to her. "So neither of us ordered a souffle."

She looked at him blankly. "But souffles are delicious."

Rubbing a hand down his face, he clenched it into a fist as it sank to the counter. "Look, woman, I'm a Bard. I need to take good care of my voice, and part of that is a proper diet. Now all I'm after is some chamomille tea and a salad."

The chef wiped her hands on the white apron she was wearing, looking again at the crumbled mass inside the oven. "Souffles are made from eggs, you know. They're very healthy."

"I ordered my tea half an hour ago!" She seemed unfazed by his shouting. Eyes pleading, he turned to Ayn. The Thief was contemplating an escape from the room, but he was hungry. "Can you talk some sense into her, friend?"

"People keep using that word around me," he muttered. He was hungry, he decided, and he wanted no part of the sad-looking confection the auburn-haired woman was baing. "Miss, I wanted the red curry? How far along is it?"

"Oh that, you don't want that," she shook her head. "Give me a few minutes, I'll make you some fish."

He wondered inwardly how many generations it had been since her relatives married outside the family. "I know what I want or I wouldn't have ordered it. Now kindly do your job and make me some red curry."

"But the flavor is just all wrong," she complained, looking genuinely upset. "The ingredients don't combine dynamically. There's no harmony to it."

"I'll tell you what is and isn't harmony," the Bard rose from his stool, pushing down on the counter. "Now make me my tea!"

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Fine, fine, gravity looks to be holding down my souffle anyway." Peering again into the oven, she reluctantly began dousing the flames. "You know, space is full of gravity."

"For Altana's sake Quanteria, just boil some water for me and I'll put the tea in myself." Turning to Ayn, the Galka shoved a thumb in the chef's direction, shaking his head. "Can you believe this woman? It's like this in here every day."

Ayn displayed exactly how much he cared on his face, but to his dismay the Galka stood up and walked over to his table, pulling up an uninvited chair. "Don't - " he started to say, but it was too late.

"I'm Gaard," he introduced himself, "traveler extraordinaire, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Looking back at Quanteria, humming away as she threw things haphazardly in a bowl behind the counter, Ayn's hunger began to seem less important.

"Look," he told the Galka, "I'm very hungry and this conversation has a good chance of being very boring. I'd rather avoid it if I could."

To his surprise, Gaard erupted in a deep belly laugh, slapping the table in amusement. The utensils upon is shook and clattered, nearly falling to the floor. "I'm a Bard, pirate, it's my job to be entertaining. And I'm very good at my job."

"I'm not a pirate," Ayn rebuked indignantly.

"Oh?" Gaard raised an eyebrow as Quanteria walked to the table, setting down a pewter platter with a steaming cup atop it. "Aren't you Ayn, the Pirate President's son?" He smirked, taking a sip, but then sputtering and spitting out the dark liquid. "Quanteria!" He fumed at the woman as she walked away. "This is chai!"

"Chai is better for your auras than tea." She called back.

Gaard's face sank into his hands. "Of all the places I could have been stuck, it had to be here."

"The Boss isn't my father," Ayn told him darkly. "He just knows good talent when he sees it. How do you know me?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, to which Gaard smiled again, blowing on his unwanted beverage.

"I collect stories, like most Bards, and this place is always talking about you." He looked down at his cup, flicking his eyes briefly back up towards Ayn before taking a sip. "They say you're about to undertake a secret mission for the President."

"Ha," Ayn scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Hardly. More like running an errand for him." He folded his arms, tilting his head back. As with most things in Norg, the mess hall was inside a cave, with wooden planks laid down to simulate an actual floor and walls. The ceiling was left bare, however, and a craggy gray surface stared back at him. "So, you're a Bard." He gave up, realizing the hefty Galka wasn't going anywhere. "Seen anything interesting?"

"Anything interesting?" Gaard exclaimed. "I've walked through the libraries of Adoulin. I've seen the totem pole dances of Ulbuku. I sang at the princess's naming-day ceremony for the royal family in Olzhirya. Even tried to get up to Rahzowa, once, but my ship was attacked by Gigases from the shore. I drifted at sea for weeks after that, eventually finding myself rescued by an Imperial ship in Arrapago. From there I - "

"You could've just said no." Ayn stabbed his fork into the table, the shaft springing back and forth with the impact. "Where is that curry?" He demanded.

Gaard was laughing again. "I see you're not an easy man to please." He sipped at his chai, sighing as he peered into the cup. "Why such a chip on your shoulder, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do," he replied as Quanteria came by again, setting down a steaming hot bowl of distinctly yellow curry in front of him. Ayn's knife was half-drawn before he told himself it wouldn't be worth it, and sighed as he plucked his fork free from the table. The Hume woman hummed to herself, oblivious, as she walked back into the kitchen.

Sighing, Gaard leaned back in his chair. He placed his near-empty cup back on the tray, giving Ayn a contemplative stare. "As usual, the source of the story is the hardest person to get information from. This is why so many Bard's tales are full of things so hard to believe. We try to talk to the people actually involved, but they're always so damned unapproachable that we end up hearing everything second or thirdhand, and the story gets a little more exaggerated every time."

"Sounds like a hard life." Ayn had to begrudgingly admit that the curry wasn't at all bad, even if it was not what he ordered. Hunger was definitely the best sauce, he decided.

"Ha, you see there? I can now record your sardonic wit into any songs or stories about your exploits. That aspect of your personality might have been lost to history otherwise."

"You know," he replied in a bemused voice, "I am really amazed at how this place finds a new way to make me hate it every day I'm here." Pushing aside his dish to let it cool a bit, he placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. "I don't want to talk to you, or anybody in this stupid place. I want to do whatever it is my Boss needs me for and get back to living my own life. If you want to make me happy, go spread a song around Norg called "Don't Bother Ayn," I'd be an instant fan."

Once again surprising him, he found Gaard now staring at him intently. "Would that make you happy, Ayn? If everybody left you alone?"

"Oh for the love of - " he was just about to finish his sentence when the double doors to the mess hall swung open, and a noisy procession followed.

"Buona sera!" A ringing voice announced. With a flourish, a dashing figure in brilliantly shining armor burst into the room. It was Celtico, one of the crewmen of President's Charybdis. He stood stock still , one arm extended in the air, the other planted on his hip. Unmoving, he stared at the ceiling, until a burst of smoke billowed from behind him with a loud "poof," and in the next moment four more figures had appeared, stretching their arms out dramatically.

"Ta-da!" They all cried at once.

Ayn pushed his face into his palm. "Just what I needed," he moaned.

Argentina's personal retainers approached the counter separating the dining portion of the room from the kitchen. Celtico was in the lead, striding confidently forward in his heavy armor, meticulously styled silver hair cascading down his Elvaan ears. The two other Elvaan, Illidan and Aramyl, followed close behind him. Aramyl had been in Norg for as long as Ayn could remember, serving under Gilgamesh before being transferred to President's operation. He wore thick, black armor not unlike Zealot's, and carried two axes on either side of his waist. His hair was graying, and his face starting to show his age, but he still wore a wide smile. Illidan, by contrast, was younger by a good ten years, his hair still jet black. Most of his armament was a seemingly random assortment of armor with stiff plates covering his shoulders and joints, with a long great katana as his weapon of choice.

Behind the three Elvaan were Kyraska and Tigs. The former was a Hume with black hair, wearing the signature tabard and hat practitioners of the school of Red Mages gravitated towards. Greyheart's own garb was similar, but Kyraska's included a skirt instead of breeches, and was far more form-fitting. Tigs, on the other hand, was a Mithra in very conservative blue robes, leaving much of her figure to the imagination. As close as Ayn could discern, all five of them originated from the same place, and their native tongue was a language highly dissimilar from his own. Fortunately, they knew a few words here and there, so communication was not impossible.

"Quanteria, signora," Celtico spread his hands out on the counter. "Your cooking, signora, such a thing of beauty, stupendo!" The Elvaan brought the tips of his fingers together and kissed them to emphasize his point. "Your pescatora, I have never tasted its like on this side of the ocean. And your meatballs!"

"Deliziso!" Illidan exclaimed, and the others nodded in agreement.

"You're all so kind," she smiled at the pirates. "What can I get for you today?"

"Meatballs!"

"Fettuccine!"

"Pasta!"

"Slow down, slow down," the auburn-haired woman began writing down their orders, stopping only to argue with them about their choices.

Gaard was watching the group with some speculation as Ayn regretted ordering the curry. It was far too spicy for him to wolf down and leave while the Galka was distracted. Sighing, he ate a bit more, half-watching the antics of the foreigners as Quanteria tried to make their menu for them.

"That must be an interesting story." The Bard tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about that lot?"

"They're loud and they eat a lot," Ayn blew on a forkful of his own meal before chewing on it. "What do you care, anyway?"

"Being a Bard is competitive work, Ayn. You always have to be on the lookout for the next subject of a song or tale, or there won't be any demand for your work."

Something about that actually piqued his interest. "I would've thought people only cared about hearing things they're familiar with. The classics."

Gaard shrugged, spreading his hands. "Sure, sure, there's a lot of that, but mostly from the older crowd. The young ones, they want to hear about the latest exploits of the great adventurers and linkshells. They want something to aspire to, the way I see it." With a satisfied sip, he finished off the last of his chai, setting the cup down as he leaned forward. "Have you never heard adventure beckon, Ayn? Is there no greater calling you want to follow?"

Ayn bit down on his dish, tearing it from the fork while keeping his eyes on Gaard. He chewed slowly, dark eyes directing an unsettling gaze the Bard's way, before he swallowed and took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his chair back, he stood, looking down his nose at the Galka.

"We're done here. Goodbye, Bard."

Gaard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head. "Remember, Ayn, we all leave a story behind." Ayn rose slowly, acutely aware of the piercing eyes upon him. "Will yours be worth telling?"

Ayn said nothing, leaving behind the half-finished dish. He had lost his appetite.


"Stupid Bard," he muttered to himself as he wandered the caverns of Norg. The last thing he wanted was people telling stories about him. All he wanted was to be left alone and answerable to nobody but himself. His entire life, it seemed, one person or another was pulling his strings, and just before this demon business got started he had finally started to make his own way in the world. Now he was right back in it, working for other people. Be it his father, his first mentor, or even President, everybody was concerned only with how Ayn could benefit them.

Well no more, he promised himself. He would do the last job President gave him and then catch the first ship headed east. That would take him away from all the grand manipulators trying to use him as well as the idiots he had to deal with along the way.

As if summoned by the thought, Ayn rounded a corner only to nearly collide with Greyheart Hiralda. The Red Mage stopped just short of the Thief, who almost stumbled forward in halting himself. "Ah, Master Ayn," the Elvaan bowed deeply. "So sorry I didn't see you there. Ah, tell me," he glanced about furtively. "Has Miss Kyraska ventured this way? She's a Red Mage you see, from a distant land, and I thought perhaps a . . . cultural exchange would be beneficial."

"Where's Tikinas?" He ignored the gray-haired Elvaan's idiocy. "For that matter, why are you out of your cell?"

Greyheart gave a soft smile. "Yes, that. It seems after ascertaining the stability of the fire crystal, Sir Klistel and Madam Tomiko returned here and were received by Gilgamesh. After hearing the whole story about our encounter with the Duke, it was decided that your . . . fears, shall we say, about us were finally put to rest. We are now allowed to roam Norg freely."

"How great for you." Ayn said flatly. Wonderful, he thought to himself. The crazy dragon lady and her hippy friend were here now, too. "Have you seen Tikinas or not?"

The Elvaan shrugged. "Can she be seen if she doesn't wish to be?" He paused thoughtfully, staring into the distance for a moment. "Though now that I consider the matter, while I was following Miss Pinkfae I heard her - " he stopped, looking at Ayn, and then nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his belt. "That is to say, our Paladin companion spends much time with Lady Tikinas. Find one and you may find the other - and Miss Pinkfae was on her way to see President."

"Ugh." Ayn's head drooped back, and he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. He drew a frustrated hand down the length of his face.

"Is everything alright?" Greyheart sounded concerned. "Do you need to talk about anything, Ayn?"

"Altana, no," he said emphatically. "Why do people want to talk to me today? Just . . . go make yourself useful somewhere. Get out of my sight."

"Suit yourself," the Red Mage shrugged, "but do be aware that the offer stands, if you ever do - "

"I won't." Ayn brushed past him. He could feel the Elvaan's eyes on him as he walked away, but ignored it. He had nothing to say. Hopefully he'd be able to find Pinkfae easily and avoid talking to President.

Being located within a seaside cave as it was, Norg was a fairly small town. Busy at is was now with pirates, thieves, and spies moving back and forth constantly to try and prepare for war, the central section had become noisy and crowded. For almost two straight weeks it seemed, the harbor was always full with ships moving in or out. Some were carrying refugees brought in from Mindartia or Quon. Others brought in weapons of war, ready to be distributed - for a price, naturally. Occasionally a ship flying a foreign flag would lay anchor, allies from afar called in by Gilgamesh or President. Familiar faces waved at Ayn or shouted greetings as he brushed past the bustle of activity.

Eventually he managed to break through without anyone else trying to stop and talk to him. He thanked Altana for small blessings as he stood before the heavy doors leading to President's office. With a sigh which made his shoulders slump, he rapped on the door, awaiting a response.

It opened a crack at first, and then swung open wide. The stocky, black-coated figure of President stood in the doorway, smiling broadly. "Ayn! Come on in, son, come in." He gestured for him to follow, even as he walked back inside. "Wasn't expectin' ye. Getcha a cup of tea? Brandy?"

"No, thanks," he looked around the room carefully. Besides some basic furniture and a sea chart tacked to the wall, it was practically bare. The only ostentation was an intricately crafted statue resting on the pirate's desk. A black dragon perhaps two feet across was mounted on a wooden stand, gleaming under the torchlight. From the look of it, the scales were actual onyx, and the spikes on its tail fashioned from real ivory. It took him only a moment to realize that two small emeralds made up the eyes, and the teeth were all carefully cut diamonds. The tiny thing probably would have been worth a fortune simply for the level of detail. With all the precious stones involved, Ayn imagined he could buy the port of Mhaura and still have change left over.

He then took a look at President himself as he sat down behind the thick oak desk. With his tattered hat and plain, nondescript clothes, the only thing that stood out about him was his coat. The black-and-gold garment was a masterpiece, probably a greater symbol of authority than any crown or scepter. That was President's way, it seemed. With his room and himself, he picked one thing to stand out, but in a way which left no doubt as to his position.

"I can't stay," he said quickly, "I was just coming to see if Tiki was here. It looks like she isn't so . . . "

"Sit, sit," President gestured towards a chair in front of him. He lit a match, igniting a pipe pressed to his lips and puffing at it slowly. "We've got things to discuss."

"No, I'm really just looking for Tikinas - "

"Ayn." His voice was hard. "Take a seat."

He stood where he was, returning President's flinty gaze. "Look," he began, "I've already agreed to go run your errands for you. There's nothing else to talk about. I only came back to Norg because I had to - as soon as this is done, I'm taking a ship east and forgetting all this ever happened. So I don't have to - "

The knife lodged itself in the wall beside Ayn's ear with a solid thunk, and then a slight ringing sound as the metal vibrated in the wood. He had not even seen the old man move. Even now, he sat at his desk, still calmly puffing his pipe.

"When ye can catch that knife, yer ready t' be calling yer own shots. Until then," he indicated the chair again with the stem of his pipe. "And bring my knife back to me, will ye?"

Ayn felt his face turning red. He had to keep his body from shaking as he reached up, tearing the small blade free. Splinters of the wall came out with it, and with an angered toss Ayn sent it arching through the air, landing point-down in President's desk. The dagger was not nearly as sharp as Ayn's gaze as he sat down.

President shook his head, thin rings of smoke puffing out from his pipe. "Yer so angry at th' world lately," he criticized. "Ain't ye happy to be so useful?"

"Useful," Ayn repeated darkly. "It still means being used."

Tossing back his head, President let out a sigh which sounded more like a growl. His boots stamped on the ground as he leaned forward quickly, taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping ash out into a tray on his desk. "Ye never got over bein' so suspicious of th' whole damn world. I know ye didn't get that from yer father, which means that first master o' yers musta drilled it into yer thick head."

"Let's not bring him up." His tone bordered on acidic. "What do you want to talk to me about?"

President stared hard at him, eyebrows knitting together as his teeth ground down the stem of his pipe. "Fine, son," he finally shook his head, putting another match up to the mouth. "Fine." The old man took a moment to enjoy another long puff, and then his visage drew into the look he always wore when talking business. Ayn had seen it more than enough to recognize the shark-like gleam in his eye.

"Th' first thing I oughtta do is ask ye why we had three people who saved th' whole damn island locked up." He bit into the stem of his pipe again. "But I know ye'll just say somthin' flippant an' brush it off, so, we'll move on." Ayn was a little wounded by that. He had thought of a great flippant response and now it was going to waste. "So let's get down t' th' heart a th' matter. Yer going t' th' Temple a Uggaleppih. Yer takin' th' others with ye, too, because we both know it'll be too dangerous for just you 'n Tiki."

"It's the Temple of Uggalepih, even the monsters in there usually stay clear of people. Don't you need people here? With so many out to sea the security here looks like a skeleton crew."

President shook his head. "We'll be fine. I don't think Norg's gonna fall under attack. But with th' demons stirrin' things up, th' Tonberries are like t' be restless. Take yer friends."

"They're not - ugh, fine." He tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. "Why am I going there in the first place? What in that stupid temple could be so important, anyway?"

"Not what," President corrected, "who."

"Who?" Ayn raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "Only Tonberries live in the Temple."

"Almost true." President took another puff from his pipe before again tapping out the ash. He laid it aside, folding his fingers together as he spoke. "There's one fella in th' deepest, darkest part, an' that sure enough is who yer after."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all, Ayn. I'm sendin' ye in t' go meet th' South Wind, an' Altana willin', bring him back with ye, too."

Chapter XLVII: Executive Order

There was no other place in Vana’diel quite like the pirate town of Norg. The staggering dichotomy of the location was perhaps impossible to describe if speaking to a person that had never visited the hidden village, nestled far in the mountainous, volcanic peaks of Kazham, then further concealed by the deadly catacombs of Sea Serpent Grotto. Only by crossing the wild jungles of Yuhtunga and then braving the Sahagin’s lair could you reach Norg by land, and only by accessing the port open only to the pirates and Tenshodo could you find passage by sea. The former was difficult. If you were not an invited guest, the latter was impossible.

These things were perhaps to be expected from a place of such ill repute, but what one would not foresee was the old-fashioned, honest and sincere warm nature of the people inside. They were rough around the edges to be sure, but to their fellow pirates and smugglers, every inhabitant of Norg was family and to be treated as such. Thus when the man known primarily by the honorific “President” stepped back onto solid ground with Ayn behind him, the reaction throughout the hidden village was electric. Zealot could hardly believe the reception.

Therein lay an even deeper layer of the confounding Norg concept. These welcome, warm, open people who massed at the docks to see a native son return home, were also some of the basest, calculating, manipulative, and dangerous criminals in all the west. Any random person walking the shadowed streets of Norg could tell you three different ways to kill a man before they could tell you what day of the week it was. Yet here they were, gushing over the returning Ayn with all the warmth of a family reunited.

Middle-aged women crowded in and inquired about his health and shouted at him to come visit for dinner. Men slapped him on the back as he walked by, asking after Tikinas with sly winks. Some he stopped and nodded to, others he even shook hands with, but by and large the Thief appeared as wholly uncomfortable being universally praised by the people of Norg as he had being completely reviled by his traveling companions of the past few weeks. Men with thick scars smiled with crooked teeth, burly armed sailors laughed heartily at suggestions of what the long-absent Thief had been up to all this time. President laughed and jibed right along with them, and even Argentina had a wry smirk on her full lips as she stood at the side of her captain.

“This is really something,” Greyheart remarked as he stepped off of the Charybdis, the spray of the sea coming in from the shoreline splashing against his red-and-black trousers.

Zealot raised his mass of silver hair away from his face, looking out in the cavernous village and whistled. “I’ve heard about Norg, but I’ve never seen it before. A whole pirate town hidden from the rest of the world.”

“They seem like really nice people,” The Red Mage observed, indicating the small mob scene gathering around Ayn and President.

“You think they’ll help us out?” Zealot inquired of the grey-maned Elvaan.

“Nah man,” he replied, raising his chained hands up for balance as Celtico pushed the both of them forward, “we’re gonna die.”

“No talking!” Tikinas snapped, and the Red Mage lowered his head with a sigh.


Dusk had come and gone in Norg when Ayn was finally able to escape the seemingly endless throng of pirates and criminals who for some reason had nothing better to do than catch up with him and talk about how life was going. For a village built on the concepts of theft and murder, the inhabitants could be irritatingly friendly. After what felt like an eternity of having to endure blatantly exaggerated stories of high seas adventures and a stream of one bawdy joke after another, he was finally able to make his way from the assembled groups of so-called friends and compatriots he barely remembered and find a quiet corner to duck into. Fortunately for him, Norg had no lack of those.

“I thought you’d never get free,” a voice beckoned from behind him.

Ayn didn’t turn around, only shook his bowed head as Tikinas’s hand slipped over his shoulder from the shadows. The ninja seemed a part of the darkness, only her gleaming eyes giving her any more presence than a wraith. Her form-fitting black garb, draped over with a carefully darkened and fitted suit of mail, was untouched by the torchlight flickering from all directions nearby. Ayn knew there was some sort of trick to doing that, but he was always too busy to ask Tikinas exactly how she performed her ninjutsu. As long as she knew how to do it, he supposed, it had worked out for them so far.

“None of them ever stopped to suppose there was a reason I stayed away from here for so long,” he grumbled, “and nothing short of the apocalypse brought me back.” He closed his eyes, trying to turn his thoughts away from being back in Norg. “How’s your friend?” he asked, forcing a change in subject.

Tikinas let her arm drop with a weary sigh as she leaned against the rocky wall behind them. Most of Norg had been carved out of the caverns of Sea Serpent Grotto rather than actually built. “She’s got enough strength now to walk about, but she still doesn’t know where she is or understand how she got here.” The ninja shook her head, peeling back the mask she wore to let a mass of white hair tumble free. “She’s resting again now. Hopefully we can get her some real help now.”

Since she had started coming to her senses regularly aboard the Charybdis, Pinkfae had exhibited no memory of how she came to be in Movalpolas, or what had happened to her to put her in such a state. Frequently she became confused and tired, and still slept whole days away. Tikinas worried about her fellow Mithra constantly, and in light of recent events, Ayn could hardly blame her. Somewhere inside of him, he was relieved to find that whatever happened back in Bastok had not spread to Norg, but he told himself it was simply because it was good to know he still had a safe place to lay low until it all blew over.

His hand shot up as soon as he heard the whistle in the air, but a second too late to stop the knife heading towards him. It shot straight over his shoulder and embedded itself in the wall with a resounding “thunk.” Unconsciously, Ayn ground his teeth together in consternation. In between the time it had taken Ayn to raise his arm and the knife to hit the wall, Tikinas had drawn her twin kunai blades, but rolled her eyes as she relaxed her stance, knowing all too well what was going on.

“Still too slow, lad,” laughed a resonant voice nearby, and the familiar lined face of President came stepping into view, the lusty Argentina behind him. Garbed in his plainly well-made black-and-gold coat, the sleeves pouring over the backs of his scarred and weathered hands, he came forward with a smile. His eyes were bright and sharp, and his salt-and-pepper hair was mostly covered by the simple cap he wore. Unlike Argentina, only President’s fine coat gave any indication of station or rank, the rest of his garb was summarily plain. For her part, the red-headed first mate looked like she had stepped straight out of a storybook fantasy of high seas marauders.

Ayn took a hold of his mentor’s hand as it was extended, clasping it in a firm embrace which was immediately pulled into a rough hug by the older man. “Ye’ll catch it someday, Ayn,” President encouraged, releasing the Thief as he pulled his knife from the wall, replacing it beneath his coat. For close to ten years now he’d been saying that, but it seemed in the span of that decade President’s skills had improved right alongside Ayn’s, and he’d never been able to pass that last particular test. “So how’s it feel t’be back home?”

“Nauseating,” Ayn replied sourly, folding his arms. “And it’s noisier here than I remember.” The faint sound of echoing footfalls in the distance put truth to his complaint. Normally Norg by night rivaled mortuaries for tranquility.

“Aye, near every pirate on the seas has put down anchor here since this whole business with the demons started on the mainland.” The link between the pirates of Norg and the Tenshodo rubbed his chin as a worried look creased his brow. “All of ‘em had their routes disrupted by th’ attack ‘n fled for what seemed safest. Just about every sea dog and buccaneer for a thousand leagues an’ their crews are holed up here now. Ain’t been a disruption o’ business this catastrophic since the Crystal War, lad, and by th’ looks of things, it ain’t aiming t’ get any better.”

Ayn moved his shoulders uncomfortably, and Tikinas placed her hands over him again. President smiled warmly at the sight of them together. “Things will get better though,” the ninja asked, “right?”

President opened his mouth to respond, but instead cast a sidelong look at Argentina. The tall woman shared a grimace with him, and then the two looked back at the duo in front of them.

“You’d better come with us,” Argentina said.

“HE wants to see you.”

Ayn felt a knot forming in his stomach. It was going to get a lot harder to be a thief before the day was out.


The interior most chamber in Norg was also its most impressive. Tapestries depicting battles so ancient that they were no longer in written recorded history flowed down off of walls made of finely hewn oak, one of the few places in Norg where an actual man-made structure existed. Behind the large wooden desk in the middle of the room, most of which was covered by a thick and luxurious carpet sewn a hundred years past and which had once rested in Chateau d’Oraguille, the banner of Norg hung from the ceiling, a pronouncement to all who entered. Here and there chests lined the walls, some empty and dusty, others brimming with coin and gems. Paintings Ayn could not quite decipher were hung with care from the wall, filled with images of everything from the Goddess Altana to shadowy and confusing paintings that emanated a sense of dread. A Samurai’s kabuto sat atop the desk, empty eye holes staring out into nothing. The one thing every item in the room from the silver candlesticks to the standing suit of armor had in common was that they had all at one point belonged to someone else, and that their original owner had not willingly parted with them.

In the middle of the room was its owner, the brain behind the nerve center of Norg. His one good eye peered out as President entered, followed by Argentina, and then Ayn and Tikinas. His arms were folded in a stance that suggested he had a knife in each white-gloved hand waiting to be delivered. All of what he wore was either black or white, even the thick mane of hair tied back behind his head. Only the red leather patch covering his vacant socket varied in color. The old Elvaan man did not look aged so much as he did weathered, like a rock which had faced he elements for years without number. His voice, a harsh rasp of gravel on glass, played perfectly into the image.

“Welcome back,” the Elvaan greeted with a nod, not unfolding his arms.

“Gilgamesh,” President said with an incline of his head to the man who was in all respects a business partner, “we received your summons, and here we are.” He shifted his glance meaningfully back towards Ayn and Tikinas. “All of us.”

“So ye’re finally back,” he said in a snarl, the smile on his face more closely resembling a wolf baring its teeth than any sort of reflection of joy. “I was beginnin’ t’ think ye’d been tossed in some dungeon somewhere, what with how little ye send word.”

“I’ve been keeping myself busy,” Ayn replied with practiced avoidance. Fortunately that kind of attitude was rarely questioned in Norg. “Now seemed like the time to come home, Gilgamesh.”

“Aye, that it is,” Gilgamesh replied. The undisputed leader of all the pirates in western waters, the old man commanded the wealth and power of empires, and ran it all from a village that could fit inside the central square of Bastok Markets. “I won’t lie t’ ye, Ayn, th’ situation is grim. There’s foul magic runnin’ amok, and it’s only location that’s saved us thus far, an’ we know it won’t last.”

“Gilgamesh has opened Norg to any refugee that can be found,” Argentina said, stepping forward to the pirate’s side as he craned his neck slightly to look her in the eye. “The news we get from the mainland is increasingly bad. Whole villages have been wiped out, and the ones that are enslaved wish they had been. Jeuno, San d’Oria, and Bastok have all gone dark, and we fear the worst. Only Windurst is still standing, but everything we hear from our agents that make it back to us from there tells us that won’t be the case for long.”

“So it’s time to pack up and move east?” Ayn wondered, looking about the room.

President shook his head. “Maybe if this were a normal war of men, I’d be like t’ agree with ye, but this concerns everyone on Vana’diel that walks in Altana’s light.”

“Walking in the light isn’t part of what we do.”

President shared a look with Gilgamesh and Argentina, and then the two looked back at Ayn. Tikinas unconsciously took a guarding step closer to him as two and a half sets of eyes fell upon them.

“Bein’ perfectly frank, lad,” Gilgamesh said, President and Argentina both beside him now, “I’ve been doin’ a lot of readin’ up on what’s goin’ on, ‘n it don’t look good for us. Sittin’ here across th’ sea won’t keep us safe for long, and headin’ east’ll just delay th’ inevitable. Dynamis has come t’ Vana’diel, Ayn, an’ it won’t stop until all who live ‘n breath are consumed by an ever-lasting nightmare. Their first strike hit us hard, bloodied us up, but we ain’t sunk yet. We’re mobilizin’ here as best we can, tryin’ t’ be smart about it.”

“As it stands now, Ayn,” President said grimly, “we’re the resistance.” He rubbed a thick finger across his chin, assessing the increasingly wary look in the eyes of his apprentice. “An’ we’d like t’ know that we can count on ye t’ help us out.”

Just like that, the trap closed shut around him. He should’ve known, he thought to himself, you don’t go in to a nest of vipers without one of them trying to bite you. Now the three most venomous snakes in the pit were coiled around him, and as President, Argentina, and Gilgamesh stared at him, he could feel their fangs sinking in. He didn’t care what the situation with the world was. They were trying to drag him back into the life he had railed against since the day he left Norg. He meant to be his own man, not some tool to be used by the Tenshodo or anyone else. Once someone like Gilgamesh, or even President, he admitted to himself, was in control of your fate, your life would never be your own again.

“You’ve got a lot of people here now,” he said, shifting his weight towards the door as Tikinas slid imperceptibly closer to him, her fingers twitching. “I don’t think one more is going to make a difference at this point.”

“Ayn, I know how you feel about this business, an’ I respect it,” President said solemnly, “but this is no damn time t’ be actin’ like a stubborn mule. Everyone here is doin’ their part, and if you’re gonna stay here, you’re gonna pitch in, too.”

“Saving the world isn’t any of my business,” the thief said flatly, putting up a hand as he turned away. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

“We’ll do our part while we’re here in Norg,” Tikinas added, now clearly in front of Ayn, a buffer between him and the other three, “but we made it clear a long time ago that we were done with accepting missions. We have our own problems.”

“I don’t want ye t’ save th’ world,” Gilgamesh said darkly, lowering his brow, “I want ye t’ save Norg.”

Ayn and Tikinas looked at each other sharply, and then back at the pirate king.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told ye before,” he replied to Ayn, “it’s only a matter a’ time before what hit Mindartia and Quon comes here, an’ it might already be too late.”

“Something’s happening in Ifrit’s Cauldron,” Argentina said gravely, her slim fingers dancing across the hilt of her curved blue-and-black blade. “Everyone with a touch of magic in them says it’s unnatural, and it’s getting stronger.”

“We’re doin’ what we can here, Ayn,” President put forward, “but if someone workin’ for th’ other side buries Sea Serpent Grotto in a river of lava, or brings th’ whole blasted island down into th’ sea, that’s the end of all of us, and from everything we’ve seen so far, you’d better believe it’s something they can do.”

“All we’re askin’, lad,” Gilgamesh concluded, “is that ye go up to th’ volcano and see what ye can find. If it’s somethin’ big, ye can run back here ‘n tell us, an’ we’ll take care of it. We just can’t spare the manpower right now without bein’ sure it’s a clear ‘n present threat t’ what we’re doin’ here.”

“Ifrit’s Cauldron is the most dangerous place in the world,” Tikinas objected. “If something went wrong the two of us wouldn’t stand a chance of making it out alive.”

Once again, President and Argentina exchanged a look. Ayn wondered if he and Tikinas would ever reach the point where they had entire conversations in a glance.

“Well ye see,” President half-mumbled, scratching the back of his head as he suddenly turned to examine a painting on the wall far away from eye contact with Ayn, “we weren’t thinkin’ you’d be going alone . . . “

It took Ayn a moment to appreciate the implication. “Oh no,” he said with a voice of indignation, “you can’t be serious.”

Gilgamesh’s single eye seemed intent on drilling a hole through Ayn as Tikinas’s arms drooped helplessly to her side. “You can’t possibly mean,” she started, “it’s just . . . it’s too cruel . . .”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely necessary,” President replied sincerely.

“I won’t do it,” Ayn rejected, “I won’t. It just isn’t worth it. There’s no way. Absolutely no way.”


“Hooray!” Zealot said, lifting his arms up as the chains on them fell to the ground. “We’re best friends again.”

“Shut up,” Ayn snapped, trying hard to unclench his teeth as he walked past Greyheart and Menphis. Greyheart responded with a smile as he rubbed his sore wrists, Menphis only stared darkly. “You follow me, you don’t ask questions, and if you even look in a direction I don’t tell you to look in, your life ends. Those are the terms of your release. Tiki?”

The ninja wordlessly flashed a kunai into her hand, the gleaming surface reflecting the three faces of the Warrior, Red Mage, and Ranger. She had donned her mask again, two iron-hard eyes the Mithra’s only means of communication. They spoke volumes.

“No worries boss,” Greyheart said, the Elvaan nodding his head in acquiescence. “So where are we – “ he stopped himself as Ayn flashed him a burying look. “Ah, that is to say, lead the way, Master Ayn.”

“Good,” he growled. “Your things are being held outside. Get what you can grab and meet me at the gate up to the jungle. Tikinas will be watching you the whole time. You try to make a break for it, we’ll keep the foot you lead with as a souvenir.”

Menphis said nothing. The young Ranger rarely opened his mouth in the first place, since their untimely arrest at Ayn’s behest he had grown moodier still. Ayn quietly wondered about the wisdom of putting a gun back in his hands. Snatching his deep green cloak from the guard at the door, he slung it over his shoulders and walked out, eyes watching his every move. The thief snorted derisively at him.

“At least he’s moving. You stay here in this cell and I’ll lock you back in. Now get going.”

Zealot and Greyheart both looked at the Hume, then each other, and then immediately broke for the door.

Ayn ran a hand down his face, gazing up into the air for strength. He finally thought he was free of this group of morons, and they get thrust back into his lap.

He took a steadying breath and strode out, moving quickly towards the hidden tunnels leading out of the village and into the jungles above. It was going to be a long, long trip to Ifrit’s Cauldron.