Yohoho. 'Tis been a long time since I updated this. Wait... A very long time. I apologize to all my readers for such a long pause. You can say I was 'extremely uninspired for quite some time'. Anyway. I'm back and rolling and you all know what time it is? I can't hear you! Yes! Time to kill, torture and obliterate our 'favorite' Half-Guado.
Note: not a single cat was harmed during the production of this chapter.
100 Ways to Kill Seymour. Death Number 3: Little Tonberry.
It was a sunny day in the Calm Lands. The sun was shining, the chocobos were wark-ing and Maester Seymour felt absolutely fabulous. Why, you ask? Well, for once, he was out of Bevelle and out of the grasp of the local fangi- ...ahem... worshipers (who really didn't care that the Grand Maester had made a vow of celibacy). Two – the location of his beloved Moonflow Lily was confirmed (ah, screw the vows).
Anyway. Seymour was having a good time just walking through the seemingly endless grasslands, stopping to smell the rare examples of the local flora and frying the not-so-rare-or-friendly fauna with a well-aimed Firaga. What could a man ever wish for? Oh, yes. The half-guado had to face-palm. Yuna. How could he forget?! Without a second thought and relying on his keen sixth sense, which allowed him to track the young summoner and her party anywhere, Seymour turned on his heels, allowing his antennae-shaped hair to pick up the lovely 'Yuna-waves'. North-east. There was no mistake about it. And so, the jolly Maester continued onwards, guided by his copyrighted (and highly disturbing) navigation system.
Skipping ahead a few hours. By the time the sun had reached its peak, Seymour was exhausted. And hot, and tired, and in a bad mood. And when the Maester is in a bad mood – bad things tend to happen. Like random massacres of heathen villages happening here-and-there, cats meowing in pain after being kicked... Yevon knows what would happen if you combine the two types of the guado's favorite targets... The cool shade of the Gagazet mountain range was a godsend, calming the somewhat irritated Seymour.
Crossing the shaky bridge and sighing with relief, Seymour looked around the small plateau. Just a boring clearing. To the left and below – another one, housing the entrance to the Cavern of the Stolen Fayth. The thought of exploring that place had been tempting the Maester for a long time. He once heard that this particular Fayth's Aeon asked for money and used a different type of attack depending on the amount of coins. A useful ally to a person who had the entire church's income of taxes and offerings at his disposal.
This train of extremely dangerous thoughts (dangerous for Yevon's worshiper's pockets, to be exact) was interrupted by a warrior-monk descending down the path leading to Ronso territory. There was something odd about that fellow... And the guado just couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the few-sizes-too-small uniform? But military fundings were decreasing, so possibly...
"Maester Seymour, ya!" the monk spoke in a strange accented voice. Probably a besaidian.
"What do you want?"
Ignoring the Maester's 'if you interrupt me again I will kill your family' look the monk continued.
"Our patrol saw summoner Yuna enter the cavern over there, ya," the 'y'-word had an instant effect on the guado.
Without saying 'thank you' or 'Yevon bless you' or whatever phrase was in style at the moment, the Maester simply jumped to the lower platform (holding down his robe from hitching up and possibly scarring any passers-by for life) and leaving a cloud of dust in his wake, ran into the Stolen Fayth's cavern.
Rushing past the pools of toxic liquid and clouds of deadly fumes, Seymour never doubted the oh-so-conveniently-placed arrows on the ground with the words 'over here' written on them in childish handwriting. Corridor after corridor, cave after cave, with every single step the Maester came closer to his target (and further away from the exit and the possibility of any leftover warrior-monks hearing his death-wails). Suddenly, an explosion, coming from the hall he had just passed, deafened him. Another one, smaller, rang from somewhere ahead. A deadly silence followed...
The sounds of a hundred tiny steps, rustling of fabric and strange squeaking noises echoed through the empty cave. Even with pyreflies as his only source of light, Seymour saw them. Tonberries, hundreds of them! Marching forward, seeking revenge on that damn Al-Bhed girl, who dared to disturb their nest. On second thought... The hive-mind of the little lizards clicked and snapped its attention to the weird human figure, which was desperately clawing at a fresh pile of rock made by a cave-in. The figure, apparently realizing the futility of its current actions, turned to the approaching fiends.
"S-stay away!" the person stuttered. "I-I'm warn you! Gyaaaaah! Ultima!"
Spira's strongest multi-target spell available for Black Mages hit the swarm of Tonberries like tidal wave... Bad move. Very bad. After picking up their lanterns and knives, the enraged lizards launched a group-counter-attack... Karma.
The moral of the story is: if you enjoy killing things on a daily besis, if you have your hands stained by the blood of uncountable lives, never, NEVER expect to survive the devastating might of over nine thousand points of damage inflicted by a few hundred karmic-retributions.