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The Book of Thursby: Scions of Numenor

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“Boredom is the birthmother of frivolity.  Given enough time a sufficiently unengaged people will give rise to the same trinkets and distractions as any other in history.  As well as the craft which makes them possible.”

-Osimira Miegs, “Technospectives.”

Ches sifted through the dirt with a soft brush from her kit until reaching solidly packed soil, hardened for a millenia or longer.  She replaced the brush to her leather dig kit.  Packed tools made for a quicker retreat if circumstances required.  Ches withdrew a small rock hammer.  The head was new to the handle, made of pure Mythril from the east.  It was a gift of sorts from a close associate who was bound to a pack of private mariner soldiers for hire. They were foster children to a venerated woman known as Mother Maxwell. There was a story, even a song about the broken hammer heads his kindred wore.  The unexpecting occasionally learned they were also not purely symbolic.  

The hammer made short work of the condensed dirt and a short while she came upon her quarry.  The soil had formed a pocket that protected it for until her arrival.  she packed wrapped the strange object in an oil rag and placed it in her long leather duster.  Satisfied her work was done, she adjusted the rim of her leather fedora and turned to leave.  Ches was confronted by a ring of men in the hall between her and the exit.

“Chocopoo.” she muttered.

Baxter Twinkinryker IV, “The Quad,” as his kindred Lalafel dubbed him, favored a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads and a rust hued fedora favored by his compatriots.  His broom like mustache was not common but seemed to complete the quasi academic look he favored.  

He awaited Ches’ return quietly outside the archway to the ruins.  The fat chocobo he rented from the porter in Ul’Dah cooed and pecked upward at the bait at the end stick riders would use to direct it along, hoping for a random bite.

Ches emerged in a sprint from the entrance.  As she passed Baxter and began to mount the Chocobo he asked, “Was it there?  Did you get it there?”

Not stopping, Ches reached down and in one motion grasped Baxter by his tastefully matched tweed vest and flung him into the rumble seat behind her.  “Yes it was, yes I did. We go home now.” Ches said, pulling the direction stick from it’s mount, spurring the Chocobo and reeling it to the left.  Baxter could hear the report of weapons and feet rising from the entrance to the ruins again as the great and fat bird lunged forward and away.  At once there was a sharp crack, then another, and the arch of the entrance collapsed.  Standing in his little seat behind Ches Baxter looked aghast at the runs all about seeming to fall pel mel. 

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Made friends and influenced people.” Ches replied.