Welcome to Gaia! ::

He chuckled, bouncing on his heel a bit at the mention of boats. "Man, I don't know the slightest about sea boats. Airships? I'd go for it. Sea vessels ain't my bag. I take it you're shipping something big?" He said with a certain confidence unfitting of a stranger. Perhaps it was Ray was already kinda twitchy, but it seemed Griff was reading that paranoia on his face like a book.

"Oh, I believe it. Had an airship for a while there. I was lucky the method I found it. Hell, all I had to do was keep putting Mana Ore into it, but that's pretty ********' expensive on it's own. Oh, and, of course, keeping up with the little worker bot thingers. Lots of maintenance. Lot's of it." Morivan reached now into his jacket, drawing a cigar case, extending it.

"Smoke?"

Griff practically started to glow. "God, do I love treasure hunting." He said, swapping out the cigar holder for a Business Card in an instant. "I deal in them, ya see."

"Sand beasts and daemons alike. Not to mention raiders and scavengers." He said concisely. Right to the point. "For a while there I ran with a gang of boys who used to hunt down people with them Keyblade thingers. They said they were evil, I just needed a paycheck. But we did a LOT of work out here in Barthavos, since a lot of bandits like to take refuge out there. Except for..."

He pointed, and his finger quite instinctively hit North by North East, as if it were an innate knowledge or some such. "The lane between Strata and Aekea is VERY well guarded by the caravan security folk. Particularly, my sisters work these lanes. And boyo, lemme tell ya. Between Quick Trigger and the Black Mage, those girls don't let Raiders try any s**t."

He chuckled quietly, leaning against the wall once again.

"Yep. Couple of beauties, those girls." He produced a picture, showing the three of them together. The gunslinger, younger, looked pretty ******** serious. The Black mage was the shy type. "It's a shame I don't get to see them often anymore, but with them working all the time... ya know how it is."

"They're on a caravan. They'll probably be back in a few weeks." He said idly, looking at the walls themselves. "I haven't the slightest. I know when I was a kid, they only really payed much mind to the gate to the north against the desert and the gates along the ocean front."

Another shrug. "But. I'm gonna go ahead and mosey. I've got a few things I gotta get arranged. Stop by the shop some time, man. It was a pleasure."

((mostly cause I'm tired, hah.))

Cigarette number twelve dropped to the sandy floor. Like clockwork came number thirteen.


Click.

A swill of sweet smoke, an exhalation, a sigh.

It did nothing for the restlessness.




Strata, 10:34 P.M.



Varro Rugieri was currently immersed in a heavy, leather-bound book. To call what he was doing 'reading' would essentially be a lie; page 27 had been meticulously half-read for the last hour.

The book, the shallow glass of amontillado, the cigarettes.

They were all essentially distractions from the catastrophic yet real possibility that tonight no one would walk through this quiet street corner.

He felt a small chill run through his spine. It had been a long time since he felt it. If it took 1000 years, the pang of fear would still come far too soon.



Aside from the creeping feeling of dread, things were rather comfortable. The thick robes he dressed himself in kept out the cool night air. The soft whistle of the wind was relaxing.

And most of all, the green pyre of earthy smoke smelled wonderful.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was an odd riddle, but one that he trusted would be easy to solve for anyone remotely familiar with Strata, and some of the finer pleasures in life.

Only The Best were the finest cigarette manufacturers in all of Strata. And to him, they were the best in the world. It was one of the primary reasons he'd chosen the sandy city as his home.

The merchants carried various textures and amoras, many of which, prior to their renowned abilities, were only capable of being produced in a cigar. Grayscale Moonlight and Wild Afternoon were their two most popular brands.

But for Varro, a man with over a century of experience in these matters, the greatest by far was Sweet Gaia.

It was a rather flashy blend, which, upon being ignited, burnt a bright green which wafted into the air for hundreds of feet before dissipating. The earthy yet soft texture instantly reminded one of spring. It tasted of it, it smelled of it, it was it.

And in front of him, piled into various small urns, were pounds upon pounds of the tobacco, burning steadily before him.

The fluorescent lightshow they produced carried far above the roofs of the city, and would be noticeable to even the untrained eye. For about a mile in each direction, though faint at the edges, the air was absolutely consumed with the scent.

And not a soul complained.

Strata had class.

Having obtained the comfort at last to abandon his book, Varro was simply content to breathe the air, finish off his lukewarm glass, lie back against the hard wall, and relax.

Strata’s cool evening air swirled, kicking up dust and sand. She was thankful for the cool breeze. Liliana was dressed in a pair of black and white striped bloomers, button up short sleeve shirt, and thigh high spatterdashes. Slung over one arm was a short, black jacket. Her long, beautiful hair was pulled off of her face in a braid. It hung over one shoulder like a limp snake. Her shoes crunched against the layer of sand that covered the streets.

As the steampunk warrior traveled the streets. She was here for a reason. In her satchel she carried a lighter. She didn’t understand the reason behind it, but she was sure she found out what the other part of the message. In the skies above there were pillars of smoke that were green in color that reminded her of the vibrant green colors that came in spring. Lili moved in the directions of these pillars of smoke. If she was wrong it wouldn’t hurt her. If she was right she’d find the man she needed to speak to.

***

It wasn’t that much longer when she reached her destination. There was a man there that was garbed in thick robes. He was leaning against the wall. The urns that were smoking with the pillars of smoke – that had brought her to this point in her destination – were all settled at her feet. Her green eyes settled on the man. “Hello,” she spoke kindly. “Are you the man I’m supposed to speak to?”