The Djose Highroad was long, curving, and flat.
Or that's what he was supposed to think. Wasn't it, now? That was just the kind of deception that could persuade a man into letting down his guard. And Yaibal Monterray, proud Private of the Youth League, was no fool. Everything around him was an object of scrutiny and suspicion, and nothing would goad him into thinking that he should act otherwise.
So he kept his eyes open. Constantly. Every rock and pothole was measured with intense curiosity, as though either one might somehow leap up from the road and attack Yaibal – the fact that a pothole was not likely to perform such dramatic actions never bothered to cross his directed mind. No: for everything was an enemy now, and Yaibal knew that was the safest way of getting information home safely.
If rocks were granted this kind of notice, then any passer-bys met immediate hostility unless they proved to be allies of the League. Even then, Yaibal was cautious, and he bandied about in a diplomatic dance of intrigue and word games that generally left the other member of the conversation very confused.
Yaibal did not, however, manage to run into a particularly suspicious individual until two-thirds of the way down the road. The suspect was a tall, emaciated Hypello, whose bulbous eyes were concentrated firmly on a small river than ran along the length of the road. He did not so much as flinch as Yaibal approached, so enamoured was he with the river.
Yaibal patted the handle of his sword cautiously – it was ingeniously masked by a thin piece of cloth, an innovation Yaibal had thought up on his own to keep his purpose a secret, not that the sword gave him away anyways – and moved in towards the Hypello, feet dragging in the dirt. He did not want to be caught unawares by any sudden movements. The Hypello ignored him.
Yaibal stole a quick peak to the other side of the river. Aside from a lazy peasant – or what looked like a lazy peasant, for indeed, he seemed to have an untrustworthy gleam in his eye – who had his fishing pole extended deep into the water – or was it a fishing pole, Yaibal wasn't sure; he'd keep an eye on it – Yaibal saw nothing of note.
The young Leaguer cleared his throat, seeking attention. He gained none. He coughed again, rather dramatically, with no success. Even a nearly imperceptible poke rendered up few results, aside from a brief, reactionary twitch in the Hypello's elbow.
After several minutes, Yaibal knew he had no choice – he was forced to put himself in danger of exposing the mission (the enemy, no doubt, had very sophisticated ways of attaching voices to names, and subsequently, names to organizations) by addressing the Hypello directly. Verbal communication.
"Good day, citizen!" Yaibal nearly screamed.
The Hypello's head swivelled so slowly that Yaibal could have sworn it was being twisted involuntarily by a gust of wind. Tiny, reptilian slits blinked wearily at Yaibal, registering his presence for the first time. "I losht my wallet?" The tone of its odd, gyrating voice rose at the end, though it was stating fact, not querying over any matter.
Oh, you want to play the innocence game, do you? Right then: let's dance. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What, ah, happened to it, exactly?"
There was a moment of silence as the Hypello pondered the question. A high, squeaky 'hrrrrrm' flowed forth from its throat, taking Yaibal aback: was it preparing to attack? But, no: instead, it spat forth not fiery death but a dismayed answer. "I dropped it in the water." One finger, large and clumsy, rose lazily to point out the wallet's watery grave.
Yaibal gasped. His eyes flew open as he realized, with impressive speed, the hole in the Hypello's argument: the average Hypello was not at all adverse to getting wet. They were a highly amphibious species, after all, and excellent swimmers. The plot revealed!
"Aha!" Yaibal cried, springing back. His sudden movement caught the Hypello somewhat off-guard, and it stepped back in surprise, not noting a rock that had been situated behind its left leg and toppling backwards into a writhing heap. Yaibal grinned widely at this, for it gave him room to make good his escape. "You've revealed yourself now, Yevonite spy! You'll rue the day you messed with us!" With that Yaibal took off, pounding the dirt enthusiastically, dragging in his wake the invisible tenements of his faulty logic.
It took a good five minutes for the Hypello to regain its composure, casually brushing the dirt from its moist skin. It spoke to Yaibal, despite his absence: "Yoo shink I'm gonna shwim while there's a fiiiiend in there? Inconceivabable." It extended a dusty finger towards the surface of the river, and as if on cue, a huge, amply toothed Fiend leaped forth from the water, snapping at the air vigorously.
Puffing up its chest in pride at winning the argument that had already been abandoned, the Hypello settled down on the edge of the road, crossing its legs and watching the water with infinite patience. It was only a matter of time before the Fiend left. And, if not, he could just wait until it died of old age. And then the wallet would be his again. Oh yesh.
---
Yaibal, still frantic over his escapades with the Hypello, decided to skip past D'jose Temple for the moment. The fact that it had been recorded as being currently abandoned – aside from a few Al Bhed surveyors – did not allay his fears. The area was potentially volatile, as news of his discovery could have preceded Yaibal into the region. The Private spent his second night on the road huddled up in a tent on the path towards the Moonflow, nervously eying the forest around him lest more spies emerge to nab the diligent Leaguer. He slept fitfully, dreaming primarily of Hypello with huge, red eyes and slobbering jaws.
---
The Hypello, on the other hand, dreamt of a Shoopuf dancing on top of an umbrella.
---
Yaibal awoke the next morning to a distant pounding. Rhythmic and steady, it slowly gained in pitch and exuberance – by then, of course, the paranoid youth had packed up his tent and escaped without a trace into the forest.
Watching cautiously from the cover of a bush, Yaibal scratched his chin silently. The loud stomping was getting ever closer, curving amongst the forest slowly, all the while approaching his position. Within minutes of careful listening, Yaibal could discern a pair of voices, exchanging formalities – possibly in code. He wasn't sure. One shaky fingernail – partially from the pounding, and partially from nerves – scratched daintily at his posterior. What was going to emerge?
His answer came in short time: a huge, loping Shoopuf, flanked on both sides by conversing handlers. They seemed to be rather nonchalant about the whole affair as they led the Shoopuf, which was conveniently kept on track by a pair of thin, probably completely ineffectual leashes, down the dirt path. Yaibal only managed to catch a snippet of their conversation as they passed.
"Right, she's a hot one, eh? What I wouldn't do to-"
"Ha, sure. Like you stand a chance of ever getting in her bed."
"I bet I could. Even fame can't stand up to charm, ya?"
Yaibal, putting his incredible deductive skills to work once more, decided - after careful consideration, mind you – that the first voice was that of a Besaidian.
"Ha, charm? You're 'bout as charming as that pile of goo I stabbed to death a few miles ago."
"You callin' me a Fiend? Ohh, I'll have to whip you in cards for that one tonight, ya?"
"Ya, ya. You really should work on getting' rid of that accent, you know."
Yaibal's hypothesis stood verified. He scratched in pride, but kept low.
"Hey, up yours, ya? I'm proud o' mine heritage."
And then they were gone, voices drowned by the receding march of the Shoopuf. And Yaibal was left to thinking. What had they been doing, leading a Shoopuf around on land? For the most part, the huge animals were left to water work, with only a few exceptions. Yet Yaibal could not discern any sort of plot from the words the two men had exchanged.
What did it all mean? Why was there a Shoopuf loafing about on the road? And where did that Hypello fit into it all. . .?
---
The Hypello belched. Nobody blamed it for doing as much.
---
Yaibal shook his head. No, no, this did not matter right now. He didn't have enough evidence, so lurching off the trail assigned to him was not necessary. There was still a lot of road left to travel, and speaking of which. . . but what was that feeling that had suddenly blossomed in his rump?
For indeed, Yaibal had been scratching himself a great deal within the last few minutes, ever since he'd leapt bodily into the brush. Lifting himself up and gazing about, Yaibal studied his very immediate surroundings: a bush, rather voluminous, and covered in large, tri-pronged leafs. Kneeling in for a closer inspection – all the while scratching himself with a renewed vigour – Yaibal brought one leaf close to his face, taking a good, long whiff of it. Perhaps he could smell something wrong with it. . .?
Odd assumptions notwithstanding, the end of the leaf tickled his nose as it flicked about in the breeze invoked by his nostrils. A short, violent sneeze escaped his throat, and he fell back, landing with a gentle plop in the bush once more. As he did, the steady itch that had developed on the majority of his nether regions spread, with incredible voracity, to his face. Very soon, it became quite unbearable.
Yaibal began to panic. The urge to scratch was irresistible, so scratch he did: his face, his legs, his arms, his ears, and even – the poor man – his crotch. It became so bad that soon, he was rolling about wildly, yelping and scratching, scratching and yelping. His flailing became so frantic that he plummeted out onto the road, fingers travelling the entire length of his body and back, constantly seeking relief. They found only a temporary version of it. Soon, panicked, somewhat nonsensical yells of "Get it off! Get it off!" began to emerge from his lips. His frantic path began to etch long, swirling circles into the dirt of the road.
Several minutes of this torturous motion passed before an old man intercepted the beleaguered youth as he slowly plodded his way towards the Moonflow. He bore a cane and a light, tan pack. His face, once wizened yet cheerful, quickly dissolved into one of shock as he came upon the whirling Yaibal, whose calls of "Get it off!" had been reduced to animalistic yelps. As if sensing the old man, Yaibal rose in a frenzy, feet barely even touching the ground, and started forward. His manic dance greatly worried the old man, who decided it was best to left this insane lunatic behind and make a break for it – the Moonflow would still be there if he came back tomorrow instead.
But Yaibal was too quick. He'd always been a good runner, and now, when sheer desperation overrode normal, human limits, this normally cautious Private became a whirlwind of furious motion. A far more primeval form of instinct had overridden his intelligence, and that instinct demanded he make sure the old man – who, at current, represented some semblance of salvation – stay where he was. Thus, limbs flailing, mouth gyrating, Yaibal dove at the man, grabbing a hold of his pack and pleading for relief. Naught but gibberish emerged.
They struggled. The old man was absolutely horrified. He did his best to run, but his waning strength coupled with a delicate frame prevented any drastic measures. As such, Yaibal, in his haste for a cure, managed to send them both flying into the bushes with a mighty, ill-timed heave of his arms. The sufaces of those same arms had erupted into long streams of crimson bumps, a condition that was quickly being mirrored on the rest of his body.
It didn't take long before the old man, too, was performing a similar dance, spitting epithets he'd never thought possible and scrambling about in his backpack for the ivy cream he'd had the foresight to bring along on his trip. He only managed to relieve one of his arms, however, before Yaibal snatched up the canister from his hands and began to spray the contents across his body. As he did, the panic on his face melted away, replaced with sheer rapture. Without the slightest bit of shame he dropped a huge, runny lump of the stuff down the front of his pants, tossing the rest of the container away and running his hands up and down the lengths of his legs and the epicentre that connected them both. The cream formed a huge wet stain on the front of his trousers, a darkened blot that would soon be followed with another as Yaibal repeated the procedure on his rump. He made loud, appreciative sounds throughout it all, and would have appeared to most onlookers as though he'd just had an orgasm from every orifice in his body.
The old man, screaming loudly at Yaibal, made good his retreat, covering himself as much as he could with the contents of his largely depleted canister. Yaibal, in response to the death threats, gave a huge, satisfied smile, and collapsed into a dead faint on the road.
Or that's what he was supposed to think. Wasn't it, now? That was just the kind of deception that could persuade a man into letting down his guard. And Yaibal Monterray, proud Private of the Youth League, was no fool. Everything around him was an object of scrutiny and suspicion, and nothing would goad him into thinking that he should act otherwise.
So he kept his eyes open. Constantly. Every rock and pothole was measured with intense curiosity, as though either one might somehow leap up from the road and attack Yaibal – the fact that a pothole was not likely to perform such dramatic actions never bothered to cross his directed mind. No: for everything was an enemy now, and Yaibal knew that was the safest way of getting information home safely.
If rocks were granted this kind of notice, then any passer-bys met immediate hostility unless they proved to be allies of the League. Even then, Yaibal was cautious, and he bandied about in a diplomatic dance of intrigue and word games that generally left the other member of the conversation very confused.
Yaibal did not, however, manage to run into a particularly suspicious individual until two-thirds of the way down the road. The suspect was a tall, emaciated Hypello, whose bulbous eyes were concentrated firmly on a small river than ran along the length of the road. He did not so much as flinch as Yaibal approached, so enamoured was he with the river.
Yaibal patted the handle of his sword cautiously – it was ingeniously masked by a thin piece of cloth, an innovation Yaibal had thought up on his own to keep his purpose a secret, not that the sword gave him away anyways – and moved in towards the Hypello, feet dragging in the dirt. He did not want to be caught unawares by any sudden movements. The Hypello ignored him.
Yaibal stole a quick peak to the other side of the river. Aside from a lazy peasant – or what looked like a lazy peasant, for indeed, he seemed to have an untrustworthy gleam in his eye – who had his fishing pole extended deep into the water – or was it a fishing pole, Yaibal wasn't sure; he'd keep an eye on it – Yaibal saw nothing of note.
The young Leaguer cleared his throat, seeking attention. He gained none. He coughed again, rather dramatically, with no success. Even a nearly imperceptible poke rendered up few results, aside from a brief, reactionary twitch in the Hypello's elbow.
After several minutes, Yaibal knew he had no choice – he was forced to put himself in danger of exposing the mission (the enemy, no doubt, had very sophisticated ways of attaching voices to names, and subsequently, names to organizations) by addressing the Hypello directly. Verbal communication.
"Good day, citizen!" Yaibal nearly screamed.
The Hypello's head swivelled so slowly that Yaibal could have sworn it was being twisted involuntarily by a gust of wind. Tiny, reptilian slits blinked wearily at Yaibal, registering his presence for the first time. "I losht my wallet?" The tone of its odd, gyrating voice rose at the end, though it was stating fact, not querying over any matter.
Oh, you want to play the innocence game, do you? Right then: let's dance. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What, ah, happened to it, exactly?"
There was a moment of silence as the Hypello pondered the question. A high, squeaky 'hrrrrrm' flowed forth from its throat, taking Yaibal aback: was it preparing to attack? But, no: instead, it spat forth not fiery death but a dismayed answer. "I dropped it in the water." One finger, large and clumsy, rose lazily to point out the wallet's watery grave.
Yaibal gasped. His eyes flew open as he realized, with impressive speed, the hole in the Hypello's argument: the average Hypello was not at all adverse to getting wet. They were a highly amphibious species, after all, and excellent swimmers. The plot revealed!
"Aha!" Yaibal cried, springing back. His sudden movement caught the Hypello somewhat off-guard, and it stepped back in surprise, not noting a rock that had been situated behind its left leg and toppling backwards into a writhing heap. Yaibal grinned widely at this, for it gave him room to make good his escape. "You've revealed yourself now, Yevonite spy! You'll rue the day you messed with us!" With that Yaibal took off, pounding the dirt enthusiastically, dragging in his wake the invisible tenements of his faulty logic.
It took a good five minutes for the Hypello to regain its composure, casually brushing the dirt from its moist skin. It spoke to Yaibal, despite his absence: "Yoo shink I'm gonna shwim while there's a fiiiiend in there? Inconceivabable." It extended a dusty finger towards the surface of the river, and as if on cue, a huge, amply toothed Fiend leaped forth from the water, snapping at the air vigorously.
Puffing up its chest in pride at winning the argument that had already been abandoned, the Hypello settled down on the edge of the road, crossing its legs and watching the water with infinite patience. It was only a matter of time before the Fiend left. And, if not, he could just wait until it died of old age. And then the wallet would be his again. Oh yesh.
---
Yaibal, still frantic over his escapades with the Hypello, decided to skip past D'jose Temple for the moment. The fact that it had been recorded as being currently abandoned – aside from a few Al Bhed surveyors – did not allay his fears. The area was potentially volatile, as news of his discovery could have preceded Yaibal into the region. The Private spent his second night on the road huddled up in a tent on the path towards the Moonflow, nervously eying the forest around him lest more spies emerge to nab the diligent Leaguer. He slept fitfully, dreaming primarily of Hypello with huge, red eyes and slobbering jaws.
---
The Hypello, on the other hand, dreamt of a Shoopuf dancing on top of an umbrella.
---
Yaibal awoke the next morning to a distant pounding. Rhythmic and steady, it slowly gained in pitch and exuberance – by then, of course, the paranoid youth had packed up his tent and escaped without a trace into the forest.
Watching cautiously from the cover of a bush, Yaibal scratched his chin silently. The loud stomping was getting ever closer, curving amongst the forest slowly, all the while approaching his position. Within minutes of careful listening, Yaibal could discern a pair of voices, exchanging formalities – possibly in code. He wasn't sure. One shaky fingernail – partially from the pounding, and partially from nerves – scratched daintily at his posterior. What was going to emerge?
His answer came in short time: a huge, loping Shoopuf, flanked on both sides by conversing handlers. They seemed to be rather nonchalant about the whole affair as they led the Shoopuf, which was conveniently kept on track by a pair of thin, probably completely ineffectual leashes, down the dirt path. Yaibal only managed to catch a snippet of their conversation as they passed.
"Right, she's a hot one, eh? What I wouldn't do to-"
"Ha, sure. Like you stand a chance of ever getting in her bed."
"I bet I could. Even fame can't stand up to charm, ya?"
Yaibal, putting his incredible deductive skills to work once more, decided - after careful consideration, mind you – that the first voice was that of a Besaidian.
"Ha, charm? You're 'bout as charming as that pile of goo I stabbed to death a few miles ago."
"You callin' me a Fiend? Ohh, I'll have to whip you in cards for that one tonight, ya?"
"Ya, ya. You really should work on getting' rid of that accent, you know."
Yaibal's hypothesis stood verified. He scratched in pride, but kept low.
"Hey, up yours, ya? I'm proud o' mine heritage."
And then they were gone, voices drowned by the receding march of the Shoopuf. And Yaibal was left to thinking. What had they been doing, leading a Shoopuf around on land? For the most part, the huge animals were left to water work, with only a few exceptions. Yet Yaibal could not discern any sort of plot from the words the two men had exchanged.
What did it all mean? Why was there a Shoopuf loafing about on the road? And where did that Hypello fit into it all. . .?
---
The Hypello belched. Nobody blamed it for doing as much.
---
Yaibal shook his head. No, no, this did not matter right now. He didn't have enough evidence, so lurching off the trail assigned to him was not necessary. There was still a lot of road left to travel, and speaking of which. . . but what was that feeling that had suddenly blossomed in his rump?
For indeed, Yaibal had been scratching himself a great deal within the last few minutes, ever since he'd leapt bodily into the brush. Lifting himself up and gazing about, Yaibal studied his very immediate surroundings: a bush, rather voluminous, and covered in large, tri-pronged leafs. Kneeling in for a closer inspection – all the while scratching himself with a renewed vigour – Yaibal brought one leaf close to his face, taking a good, long whiff of it. Perhaps he could smell something wrong with it. . .?
Odd assumptions notwithstanding, the end of the leaf tickled his nose as it flicked about in the breeze invoked by his nostrils. A short, violent sneeze escaped his throat, and he fell back, landing with a gentle plop in the bush once more. As he did, the steady itch that had developed on the majority of his nether regions spread, with incredible voracity, to his face. Very soon, it became quite unbearable.
Yaibal began to panic. The urge to scratch was irresistible, so scratch he did: his face, his legs, his arms, his ears, and even – the poor man – his crotch. It became so bad that soon, he was rolling about wildly, yelping and scratching, scratching and yelping. His flailing became so frantic that he plummeted out onto the road, fingers travelling the entire length of his body and back, constantly seeking relief. They found only a temporary version of it. Soon, panicked, somewhat nonsensical yells of "Get it off! Get it off!" began to emerge from his lips. His frantic path began to etch long, swirling circles into the dirt of the road.
Several minutes of this torturous motion passed before an old man intercepted the beleaguered youth as he slowly plodded his way towards the Moonflow. He bore a cane and a light, tan pack. His face, once wizened yet cheerful, quickly dissolved into one of shock as he came upon the whirling Yaibal, whose calls of "Get it off!" had been reduced to animalistic yelps. As if sensing the old man, Yaibal rose in a frenzy, feet barely even touching the ground, and started forward. His manic dance greatly worried the old man, who decided it was best to left this insane lunatic behind and make a break for it – the Moonflow would still be there if he came back tomorrow instead.
But Yaibal was too quick. He'd always been a good runner, and now, when sheer desperation overrode normal, human limits, this normally cautious Private became a whirlwind of furious motion. A far more primeval form of instinct had overridden his intelligence, and that instinct demanded he make sure the old man – who, at current, represented some semblance of salvation – stay where he was. Thus, limbs flailing, mouth gyrating, Yaibal dove at the man, grabbing a hold of his pack and pleading for relief. Naught but gibberish emerged.
They struggled. The old man was absolutely horrified. He did his best to run, but his waning strength coupled with a delicate frame prevented any drastic measures. As such, Yaibal, in his haste for a cure, managed to send them both flying into the bushes with a mighty, ill-timed heave of his arms. The sufaces of those same arms had erupted into long streams of crimson bumps, a condition that was quickly being mirrored on the rest of his body.
It didn't take long before the old man, too, was performing a similar dance, spitting epithets he'd never thought possible and scrambling about in his backpack for the ivy cream he'd had the foresight to bring along on his trip. He only managed to relieve one of his arms, however, before Yaibal snatched up the canister from his hands and began to spray the contents across his body. As he did, the panic on his face melted away, replaced with sheer rapture. Without the slightest bit of shame he dropped a huge, runny lump of the stuff down the front of his pants, tossing the rest of the container away and running his hands up and down the lengths of his legs and the epicentre that connected them both. The cream formed a huge wet stain on the front of his trousers, a darkened blot that would soon be followed with another as Yaibal repeated the procedure on his rump. He made loud, appreciative sounds throughout it all, and would have appeared to most onlookers as though he'd just had an orgasm from every orifice in his body.
The old man, screaming loudly at Yaibal, made good his retreat, covering himself as much as he could with the contents of his largely depleted canister. Yaibal, in response to the death threats, gave a huge, satisfied smile, and collapsed into a dead faint on the road.