#glee -- whimsey even

[silverskye13]

Every once in a while I like to relisten to Diabolical to remind myself that RnS's source material is the silliest thing on earth.

[vixien11]

Joy. Glee. Whimsey, even.

[whitherwanderer]

11 // preaching to the choir

Setting foot in the wild places where men had never quite found their foothold was an art of planning, preparation, and more often than not, adaptation. Nono was an expert in the former, as one would expect of a gatherer willing to tread to world’s end if only for the escape, while Ardeth erred on the side of whimsey and “making do”. Fortunately for his employer and her sanity, the instances his talents were required were seldom and sparse.

But there came days when the wilds called her with its siren song late into the day, with the promise of “just a little further” on her lips until their daylight was all but gone. Camp was easy enough to set up, but when rain came too suddenly for them to make it to a more ideal location, or the location was not as ideal as they’d hoped, it was always the Xaela who kept their operation going with some smalltalk and a bit of creativity.

Such things were necessary on the Steppe, he’d explain as he quickly fashioned a lean-to decent enough to keep them from being soaked to the bone. Even so, she wouldn’t be able to help but to lament their luck. Ardeth, for all his lackadaisy, would agree, in his own way.

“Aye, and here I was looking forward to seeing the stars,” he’d sigh with his terribly romantic wistfulness. Or, commenting on how Anarra, steadfast chocobo that she was, always provided them with a perfect place to rest their heads during the heat of a summer day. Or how the deep, cold water of the glacier runoff in spring would be the best water they’d taste all day.

But Nono would agree with him, and that’s all he could ask for during the harder parts of their treks into the wilderness.

And then when the sun returned and washed the dust from the rock, lined with veins of promising color, or when the riverbeds would glint with precious metals newly uncovered by a rush of rainwater, she would be giddy with glee at the small discoveries. And who would he be if he did not celebrate these with her, too?

“It was all worth it,” she would say as she’d decide which tools were right for the job and begin to chip at the rock until it shone in the light like a sunset, or the sea, or the green rivers of New World as described in the memoirs of explorers she admired. It was in these moments that she seemed to remember herself. And how could a loyal retainer deny her that?

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OOC Notes: I did not edit this, don't look at me.