Aden's latest trial is a bold prospect, but one he's uniquely suited for.
![[Image: tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png]](https://40.media.tumblr.com/ad3bee96533553de4327d8fcd1defd67/tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png)
He's come armed with as little as he thinks he needs--the thinnest reference guide that covers the area's flora, notebooks and charcoals and a scant palette of colored chalks. They are not the weapons of a would-be dragoon, though he carries those as well, can hardly be parted from them any more. But he isn't sitting at the airship landing getting a quick and dirty crash course in calibrating aetherometers to become a dragoon--he's here in the audacious hope that Dragoon will become in part what he's doing here.
The first day he discovers the aetherometers need extra padding to survive the satchel slamming against his armor at the end of a jump. But at least when his commander laughs and berates her soldiers, equal parts amused and horrified at the damage, he is not the only one to make the mistake, nor the worst. His only needs the glass replaced.
The first night he spends alone, as expected--there have been no sneers or jeers, only stark, cold professionalism. It's better than he expected, though he came armed against the inevitable, too--I stood at the walls of Ishgard with House Caileur, where were you?
The second night he does not sleep, enraptured by the stars, how close they seem, how vibrant, how many--at midnight he hears dragons roaring in the distance, he remembers searing heat across his skin and the bone-deep caress of claws across his back, the full-body vibration and skull-splitting shriek of his armor tearing like wet paper.
He makes a poor landing in the rain the next day, nearly twists his ankle but for a reeling jerk of his tail righting him, and he wonders why they still claim elezen are better at this. It's a fleeting thought; he has more important things to do, like picking and preserving plant samples to send back to a botanist. He'll have to make the sketches from memory, somewhere dry.
Aden returns home to the Lodge two days of every week, and it's not enough time, it's too much time--he feels as though he's living in two worlds, one solid and real and his; the other some strange, ethereal fantasy where he's become one of the explorers he's spent his whole life reading about. It's not quite the same as hunting, or adventuring, but a close cousin, and it's something he hadn't considered within the realm of possibility to pursue. And yet here he is, the thing he knows in his heart he must become colliding with something once beyond hope.
He left this aetherometer tucked in the corner of a ruin, hidden from sight by a scraggly plant pushing up through cobblestones, and he finds it precisely where he left it--but about three fulms higher in the air between the paws of a moogle.
Aden stills, as if he'd just walked up upon a fawn in the woods--and the moogle stills, too, save for the wiggle of its pom. For a long moment they stare at each other, or he thinks they do, it's hard to tell with the way the moogle squints at him.
"Can I have that back?" He isn't sure what language the moogles here speak, if it will understand him at all.
"Back?" The moogle shifts an ilm or two in the air, pom wiggling indignantly. "I found it here! Abandoned! Unwanted! It's salvage!"
"I left it here not two bells ago, to gather readings."
"Readings?" The moogle turns it over to look at the back, holds it up to the pale light of the sun through the clouds. "Reading what? Fortunes?"
"It's an aetherometer," Aden says, voice slow and measured as he pushes down his annoyance. "For telling changes in ambient aether levels."
"Ah, then you've passed my test! Of course I knew what this was for, I see them all the time!" The moogle shakes the aetherometer at him in gesture, and Aden jerks forward, barely restraining himself as the tiny paw seems on the verge of dropping it.
"Can I have it back, then?"
"No!" The moogle clutches it to his chest, approximating a sneer. "I found it, and--and I need it!"
Aden settles his hands behind his back, locking them together and shifting his stance--it helps him move to a different headspace, helps him keep his voice carefully neutral. "You have readings you need to take?"
"Yes!"
"One aetherometer won't be much use." Aden doesn't need to bite back a smile, tone remaining calm. "You need several in a grid pattern."
"Well, fortunately they're everywhere! It won't take me long at all to have enough!" The moogle bounces midair, gesturing violently with the aetherometer again.
"You've clearly got something very important to do with them--why don't you gather up as many as you need and I'll help you lay them back out where you want them?"
If possible the moogle's squint intensifies, and it leans forward slightly. "Why would you do that? Don't you want them?"
"You sound like you've got big ideas--" he clicks of his tongue, inclines his head, "--and I'm tired of listening to small-minded folk. So let's see what you've got."
"Oh, oh I know what that's like! Alright!" the moogle shouts, bouncing again. "Wait here, then!" And it flutters off as fast as it can.
He waits, pondering over the wisdom of this gamble--not wise at all, but it's not quite trying to trick a sylph, at least. The sun is beginning to set, and he needs to hurry if he's going to get his hour of sketching the night sky in. Soon enough the moogle returns, balancing a stack of aetherometers, and Aden counts them with a quick glance--exactly as many as he put out.
The moogle huffs and puffs with effort, tiny arms straining and the stack teetering precariously, but it manages and puts them down on the ground in front of him. "There." It seems to flop in mid air, wiping at its brow. "That should be enough!"
"I'll take it from here," Aden says, and he begins his usual routine of wrapping them and settling them carefully into his satchel.
After a moment the moogle recovers itself, though still breathless, and hovers over him. "What are you doing?"
"Wrapping them up. They're fragile."
"Oh." It wrings its little paws, still intent on what he's doing with its ill-gotten goods. "Why?"
"I'm going to carry them for you."
"Oh!"
He finishes and re-slings the bag over his shoulder, steps to the edge of the island to make the first jump--they don't trust him with a chocobo yet, despite his insistence they can contact his mentor for confirmation of his claimed experience--and the moogle does its best to keep up. It puffs with the effort, pom drooping, and is so worn out that it doesn't think to ask until they near the outpost--"H-hey! Where are we going?"
"I'm turning these in."
Then the moogle finds some inner well of incensed, betrayed strength, and zooms in front of him, shaking angrily. "You--those are mine! You said you'd help! Liar! Thief!"
Aden lashes out and grabs the moogle by the pom, eliciting a shriek as he tugs it close. His expression doesn't change, his tone stays utterly neutral, almost conversational. "Do you want to try saying that again?"
"I-i-i--was trying to--to teach you a lesson! Yes, a lesson! About the impermanence of possessions! You shouldn't be so attached to your things!" The next kupo it utters sounds more like a gulp.
"They're not mine," Aden says, "I'm merely responsible for them. I'm going to give them away to someone else, who doesn't own them, but has right to take care of them."
"Uh-uh-sharing?" When he shakes his head the moogle wriggles in frustration. "Alright! It was shiny and I wanted it!"
Aden lets go, brushes past the moogle and continues on his way, ignoring it calling after him.
Into the Mists
He's come armed with as little as he thinks he needs--the thinnest reference guide that covers the area's flora, notebooks and charcoals and a scant palette of colored chalks. They are not the weapons of a would-be dragoon, though he carries those as well, can hardly be parted from them any more. But he isn't sitting at the airship landing getting a quick and dirty crash course in calibrating aetherometers to become a dragoon--he's here in the audacious hope that Dragoon will become in part what he's doing here.
The first day he discovers the aetherometers need extra padding to survive the satchel slamming against his armor at the end of a jump. But at least when his commander laughs and berates her soldiers, equal parts amused and horrified at the damage, he is not the only one to make the mistake, nor the worst. His only needs the glass replaced.
The first night he spends alone, as expected--there have been no sneers or jeers, only stark, cold professionalism. It's better than he expected, though he came armed against the inevitable, too--I stood at the walls of Ishgard with House Caileur, where were you?
The second night he does not sleep, enraptured by the stars, how close they seem, how vibrant, how many--at midnight he hears dragons roaring in the distance, he remembers searing heat across his skin and the bone-deep caress of claws across his back, the full-body vibration and skull-splitting shriek of his armor tearing like wet paper.
He makes a poor landing in the rain the next day, nearly twists his ankle but for a reeling jerk of his tail righting him, and he wonders why they still claim elezen are better at this. It's a fleeting thought; he has more important things to do, like picking and preserving plant samples to send back to a botanist. He'll have to make the sketches from memory, somewhere dry.
Aden returns home to the Lodge two days of every week, and it's not enough time, it's too much time--he feels as though he's living in two worlds, one solid and real and his; the other some strange, ethereal fantasy where he's become one of the explorers he's spent his whole life reading about. It's not quite the same as hunting, or adventuring, but a close cousin, and it's something he hadn't considered within the realm of possibility to pursue. And yet here he is, the thing he knows in his heart he must become colliding with something once beyond hope.
He left this aetherometer tucked in the corner of a ruin, hidden from sight by a scraggly plant pushing up through cobblestones, and he finds it precisely where he left it--but about three fulms higher in the air between the paws of a moogle.
Aden stills, as if he'd just walked up upon a fawn in the woods--and the moogle stills, too, save for the wiggle of its pom. For a long moment they stare at each other, or he thinks they do, it's hard to tell with the way the moogle squints at him.
"Can I have that back?" He isn't sure what language the moogles here speak, if it will understand him at all.
"Back?" The moogle shifts an ilm or two in the air, pom wiggling indignantly. "I found it here! Abandoned! Unwanted! It's salvage!"
"I left it here not two bells ago, to gather readings."
"Readings?" The moogle turns it over to look at the back, holds it up to the pale light of the sun through the clouds. "Reading what? Fortunes?"
"It's an aetherometer," Aden says, voice slow and measured as he pushes down his annoyance. "For telling changes in ambient aether levels."
"Ah, then you've passed my test! Of course I knew what this was for, I see them all the time!" The moogle shakes the aetherometer at him in gesture, and Aden jerks forward, barely restraining himself as the tiny paw seems on the verge of dropping it.
"Can I have it back, then?"
"No!" The moogle clutches it to his chest, approximating a sneer. "I found it, and--and I need it!"
Aden settles his hands behind his back, locking them together and shifting his stance--it helps him move to a different headspace, helps him keep his voice carefully neutral. "You have readings you need to take?"
"Yes!"
"One aetherometer won't be much use." Aden doesn't need to bite back a smile, tone remaining calm. "You need several in a grid pattern."
"Well, fortunately they're everywhere! It won't take me long at all to have enough!" The moogle bounces midair, gesturing violently with the aetherometer again.
"You've clearly got something very important to do with them--why don't you gather up as many as you need and I'll help you lay them back out where you want them?"
If possible the moogle's squint intensifies, and it leans forward slightly. "Why would you do that? Don't you want them?"
"You sound like you've got big ideas--" he clicks of his tongue, inclines his head, "--and I'm tired of listening to small-minded folk. So let's see what you've got."
"Oh, oh I know what that's like! Alright!" the moogle shouts, bouncing again. "Wait here, then!" And it flutters off as fast as it can.
He waits, pondering over the wisdom of this gamble--not wise at all, but it's not quite trying to trick a sylph, at least. The sun is beginning to set, and he needs to hurry if he's going to get his hour of sketching the night sky in. Soon enough the moogle returns, balancing a stack of aetherometers, and Aden counts them with a quick glance--exactly as many as he put out.
The moogle huffs and puffs with effort, tiny arms straining and the stack teetering precariously, but it manages and puts them down on the ground in front of him. "There." It seems to flop in mid air, wiping at its brow. "That should be enough!"
"I'll take it from here," Aden says, and he begins his usual routine of wrapping them and settling them carefully into his satchel.
After a moment the moogle recovers itself, though still breathless, and hovers over him. "What are you doing?"
"Wrapping them up. They're fragile."
"Oh." It wrings its little paws, still intent on what he's doing with its ill-gotten goods. "Why?"
"I'm going to carry them for you."
"Oh!"
He finishes and re-slings the bag over his shoulder, steps to the edge of the island to make the first jump--they don't trust him with a chocobo yet, despite his insistence they can contact his mentor for confirmation of his claimed experience--and the moogle does its best to keep up. It puffs with the effort, pom drooping, and is so worn out that it doesn't think to ask until they near the outpost--"H-hey! Where are we going?"
"I'm turning these in."
Then the moogle finds some inner well of incensed, betrayed strength, and zooms in front of him, shaking angrily. "You--those are mine! You said you'd help! Liar! Thief!"
Aden lashes out and grabs the moogle by the pom, eliciting a shriek as he tugs it close. His expression doesn't change, his tone stays utterly neutral, almost conversational. "Do you want to try saying that again?"
"I-i-i--was trying to--to teach you a lesson! Yes, a lesson! About the impermanence of possessions! You shouldn't be so attached to your things!" The next kupo it utters sounds more like a gulp.
"They're not mine," Aden says, "I'm merely responsible for them. I'm going to give them away to someone else, who doesn't own them, but has right to take care of them."
"Uh-uh-sharing?" When he shakes his head the moogle wriggles in frustration. "Alright! It was shiny and I wanted it!"
Aden lets go, brushes past the moogle and continues on his way, ignoring it calling after him.
