Author's Lament: I pity original characters. I really do. Do you know why? Because right from the starting gate, they have things rough. They are the destitute, orphaned minorities of the fanfiction world, and I sympathize with them. It is a sad day when you have to "learn to like" something, merely because you're conditioned to hate it. Original characters have earned a very bad name, my friends, and that name is "crap unworthy of my eyes' precious time". I pains me very, very much.

In case you happening to be wondering, that's why I'm so late in submitting this chapter. Days upon days, in fact. But two things influenced the final delayed submission: the first would be that I decided my duty to my readers was greater than my duty to my own self-doubt; the second is that I just said, "F-ck it" and Beck agreed. Enjoy.

One last order of business: this chapter is longer than the others for good reason.


"Fantastical Fable"

Hours after Balthier's abrupt escape from the imperials' clutches, he stepped out of the shower and dressed himself. While the shell of the Quill was less than stunning, the inside quite belied that truth. The room in which he stayed was lavishly yet tastefully decorated with weavings that hung from the walls. Every piece of finely varnished furniture was hand-carved mahogany, including the rather large, plush bed in which he had rested in upon their return.

"Must have taken her years to steal all this," he remarked to himself, feeling a tinge of jealousy.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Balthier strode across the carpet and unlatched the lock. A stout, portly man stood in the entrance with merry eyes, thinning hair, and a few scars running pale pinstripes down his cheeks. "The captain has invited you to dinner," he said.

"Has she?" Balthier tugged at his cuffs, feeling a grin play on his lips. "Well, I accept."

"Excellent, it is already prepared. Please follow me." Balthier did as he was implored and the two wound down narrow hallways, shoes clanking on the hollow metallic floor. He supposed that the mystery woman spent money only on the ship's cabins, for the rest was rather commonplace and even a bit destitute. Suddenly he was not the least bit envious.

Balthier was ushered into a room not much larger than the one he had been granted and thanked the man as he left. This room, too, was nicely decorated, though with much less detail. Wandering over to the small, circular table and taking a seat, he was pleased by the aroma of chicken soup and freshly baked bread. There was already a bowl set before him, with a spoon and a glass of wine near that.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait long before his newly acquired acquaintance entered the room. She took a seat opposite him and motioned to the display of food. "Please, help yourself."

Balthier was about to indulge in idle banter – perhaps to ask her name or the reason she had come to his aid – but felt the sudden pull of hunger deep within his stomach. Saving the questions for later, he instead followed her lead and began eloquently gorging himself.


After their dinner – which consisted of soup followed by roast chicken – was completed and the table cleared, the woman leaned back in her chair, resting her elbows comfortably on the arms and letting her hands dangle. "So, now that we've a good rest in our hearts and a fine meal in our stomachs, you may ask anything you like."

"A luxury for which I am most grateful," he drawled, but decided to set the sarcasm aside for the moment. "What is your name?" he asked instead.

She smiled. "I, Balthier Bunansa, am Drenne JacPride, sky pirate, privateer, and procurer of goods great and small."

"I can see that." He glanced around the room to emphasize his point. "I can also see you're rather fond of words."

She – Drenne – shrugged. "I've always had a rather particular fondness for language. And I see you're no stranger to eloquent speech yourself." She grinned. "It's for the better, as I've always fancied a man with a good vocabulary."

"I don't doubt it," he mumbled. "Why did you aid me onboard the Ixion?"

"Call it what it is, Balthier: I rescued you." He opened his mouth to protest, but she ignored him and continued. "I knew when I left you in that treasury that you'd be captured, and since I'd only just met you, that wouldn't have been very fun at all. Besides, had you been seen being taken to Nalbina in the Ixion, I fear you might've died of shame. Can't have prisoners mocking you, can we?"

Balthier scoffed. "Then what of the dagger? I'm sure there's quite the story behind that, since it was worth striking a perfect stranger unconscious and leaving him to rot." It wasn't that he found it purposeful not to mention the kiss, more so that it seemed insignificant to him (and most likely to her) now.

"You are no stranger, and much less a perfect one." Suddenly, her grin widened and her eyes seemed to dance with trickery. "However, I had been hoping you'd ask about the dagger. As it happens, there is quite a story behind it, one I've been simply dying to tell."

"And I suppose I am the chosen audience?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'm only playing the cards," Drenne reminded him, and he rolled his eyes.

"It seems the only one you play is the joker," he muttered.

She ignored him, and a meaningful silence ensued. She spoke again, her voice darker. "The dagger you found and I claimed in Sysril is one of much silent fame. As it would seem, I believe it to be quite the notorious relic, exhumed from a tomb two hundred years past with a history that far precedes that date."

"Oh?" Balthier wondered, though barely interested.

"Quite," she continued. "As it happens, the origins of that dagger date back to years before the reign of the Dynast-King. It is said that a wandering Dalmascan scholar was on a journey, and stopped just outside of the city of Bhujerba, which was then grounded. Seeking shelter, he found himself in a cave where he discovered the first findings of the Lhusu magicite mines. Intrigued by the shimmering stones and their magical properties, he extracted a few select shards from the mines to study.

Continuing his journey and arriving in Bhujerba, he concluded his research and gave the shards to a craftsman. The craftsman had been ordered by the scholar to form the shards into a dagger, which he did without fail or hindrance. However, unfamiliar to the allure of the magicks, he was drawn in by their beauty. When the scholar returned to claim the dagger and pay the craftsman, the man stated that it had been stolen. Sensing the lie, the scholar was outraged and demanded the dagger without payment. Enraged, the craftsman withdrew the dagger and plunged it into the scholar's heart, killing him."

By this time, Balthier found himself listening slightly more attentively. Noticing this, Drenne took another purposeful pause before continuing. "The next few years passed by with little incident. Overcome with the obsession to be the only one to behold its beauty, the craftsman hoarded the dagger until the day he died. Such was his love that in his will he demanded to be buried with it at his funeral. However, having never married and thus having never borne any sons nor daughters, it was his estranged sister who saw to the preparations of his funeral. She was to be the one to lay the dagger over him at the wake, and was to behold it no sooner than that very day.

However, curiosity overcame the woman and she sought the dagger, locating it of her own means. Upon unsheathing it, she too became vexed by its power. Taking the blade and cursing her brother for hiding such a fine thing, she stole away into the night and left Bhujerba. She traveled then to Rabanastre, where she had always wished to build a home. Through the Sandsea she was accompanied by nomads who accepted her as their charge and kept her safe from the various desert beasts.

One day, not long before they would arrive in Rabanastre, she was in the desert with friends she had made from the nomad village when they were attacked by fiends. They were greatly outnumbered, and so, frightened, she took the dagger from its scabbard to defend herself. The others, entranced by the dagger, could do nothing to help her. They could merely stand and stare at the blade as the fiends attacked and killed her.

Learning of the dagger, the chief of the nomads grew frightened. Discontinuing their journey to Rabanastre, they traveled instead to the Garif village in Jahara. There, they confronted the Garif gran-elder, who too feared the blade and shunned its existence. Giving the dagger to the most strong-willed of the Garif warriors, the elected messenger traveled to the Valley of the Dead under the elder's express instruction. There he found the most sacred and ancient tomb, braving the traps and fiends within it. It was there he laid the dagger to rest in the innermost chamber and fled.

So too was it there the blade rested for years until a rather crafty thief saw to its procurement. Following the doomed suit of the others before him, he also became bewitched by it. When the leader of the thieves syndicate demanded payment for a debt he owed, the only item to the thief's name was the dagger, but still he would not surrender it. Inflamed, the syndicate's leader killed the thief, but never looked upon the dagger. Instead, it was placed within the syndicate's treasury and never beheld for another many years.

Still many decades ago, the syndicate was infiltrated by imperial spies. With their suspicions of an organization of criminals confirmed, a raid was made on the syndicate. All members were arrested, and the treasure was divided between the five lords whose military forces had aided in the raid. It was thus that the portion containing the dagger went to Sysril and became the property of the then lord. That was its final resting place." Her face, having turned somber and serious, melted into a grin. " Until now."

Once her story had ended, Balthier stroked his chin in thought. "An interesting tale, though it seems to be quite the flight of fancy."

She shrugged. "It matters not to me, the past. What is important is that there are indeed fanciful minds that will pay a pretty price for that blade, more than three of Bryther's treasuries without it."

Already, Balthier's mind was concocting manners by which to reclaim the prize. Instead, he brushed off his pants and stood, giving her a regal bow. "I have quite enjoyed the evening, Lady Drenne. I believe I shall retire for the night."

"Would you like some company?" she suggested, an eyebrow cocked coquettishly.

He smirked. "Perhaps another night."

"I'll be counting on it," she told him, rising from her chair and heading for the door. "Good night, Balthier." She stopped, turning to him. "Oh, and should the need arise for you to try something crafty to get your hands on that blade, I may only warn you that I will get my blade on your hands before the thought ever comes to fruition." She then smiled, nodded, and disappeared into the hall.

Grinning, though slightly exasperated, Balthier let the steady hum of wine dull his already tired senses as he exited the dining room and found his way to his cabin.