Yet to be Named
Chapter 1: Introduction
Freya was not in a good mood. In itself, that wasn't terribly unusual; her good moods had been few and far between lately. For even now, scant months after Kuja's defeat, Fratley was already missing again. Though that was a source of constant irritation, the dragoon no longer harbored any doubts that she would find him; no, her actively foul attitude was not due to Fratley's second disappearance, though she'd have a few, ah, choice words for him when she found him again.
She stopped walking long enough to unsling her spear – or rather, what had been her spear – and examine it for what seemed like the twelfth time in the past half hour. It was actually the fourteenth, but that's beside the point. Or, as in her present case, the lack of point. The shaft was broken just beneath where the point would be, leaving her with a six-foot staff that, with the removal of the weighted point, had terrible balance. But although that put an edge on her already irritated mood, even the fact that her primary weapon was now a stick was not the primary source of her anger. After all, she carried a number of long fighting knives, and was well-trained in their use. No, she was perturbed most at the sheer timing of the thing.
Why now? She complained to herself in silence. Now, as I cross the most dangerous of the ridges that border my homeland? Known locally as Falworth's Folly, the ridge was composed of a series of jagged-edged crags that made up a part of Burmecia's geographical boundary with the Cleyran Desert. Though it was fairly steep, the ridge never climbed much above 7,000 feet. However, its position between wet, cold Burmecia and the heat-baked desert sands made it a magnet for foul weather. More like a net, Freya mused to herself. Entire storm systems would often become trapped between a set of parallel ridges, wreaking havoc on the valleys below. Sudden, treacherous spring snow melts could bring rock-scouring mudslides with little or no warning, and sudden cold snaps in autumn could rival the temperatures of the far north. In all of the history of Burmecia, Falworth's Folly had never been successfully crossed by any major army. Smaller groups of soldiers could do it, keeping away from the more dangerous areas, but larger armies requiring supply wagons and the like had trouble. Paths large enough for the supply wagons were few, due in no small part to the general cragginess of the ridges. It was broken in only one place, where one could get through to the Cleyran Desert.
That, in fact, was how the ridge had gotten its name: a pioneer named Falworth had been utterly convinced that the sea lay directly on the other side of the ridges, and that a pass existed that would allow easy access. After some difficult travel and no few losses amongst his porters and guides, he found his pass – which lead, of course, directly to a sea of sand surrounded by more mountains. Folly. Thus, Falworth's Folly, except that the name had since been extended to the entire ridge.
Some years later, a caravan of dissidents was en route to Cleyra (before it became closed off by a sandstorm) when a freak accident in an unusual storm took out the chocobo-drawn water wagons they'd brought for the desert crossing. A squad of scouts had ventured into the dangerous Falworths, as they had become known, to find a suitable source of water to fill the wagons with while the others patched them up. However, they eventually found an unusual plateau deep within the ridge formation, and after much debate many of them formed a settlement there. It was nearly as isolated as Cleyra, but not nearly so lifeless. And unlike Cleyra, they'd have regular deluges to remind them of home. They christened it Thesdren, and over the years its isolation made it a haven for other refugees, Burmecian or not. It was the only major Burmecian settlement that had not been successfully attacked during what was already becoming known as the Eidolon War. And it was a place where Freya suspected a disoriented and confused dragoon such as her dear Fratley might go.
Unfortunately, Freya could not see much more than two meters away due to the unbelievably dense fog that blanketed the valley she was traversing. She remembered the direction she'd been going before the fog – but she couldn't be sure, since she had no trail to follow, and couldn't simply charge right through a thick grove of trees and brush. She had to go around, and it wasn't easy to figure out which direction she'd been traveling in once at the other side of the grove. Well, I do have enough emergency supplies in my pack for an extra day. But after that, I'll have to take the time to hunt or forage for food while I travel, which will make it take far longer . . . bugger, but I should've come prepared for something like this! The gathering darkness was made worse again by the fact that Freya had, for the past few miles, had the strange feeling that she was being followed.
I wish that I could dismiss this concern as the product of too much travel and fighting without enough rest or food, but all too often it seems that my instincts are cued by something lurking at the very edge of my perception . . . Her train of thought was interrupted as a twig snapped somewhere off to her left. The dragoon froze. Close. Very close, not more than six meters – and downwind of me. As quickly and quietly as she could, Freya drew two knives and prepared herself . . .