Despite her injured leg Acis, the one of their two chocobos, was pulling them along fine, and they were well on schedule on route to Bervenia with the merchandise. Rumors of seeq bandits throughout the Desert were concerning but would in no way dissuade them from making good on their orders, as Gregory had firmly stated to the others before their setting out. With business as slow as it was for them, he said, they couldn't afford to worry too much about the likelihood of a hit on their caravan.

Klara, his sister and business partner, could only agree. But when the sun went down and night fell it cast a shroud black as pitch over what seemed the whole of the Bed Desert, and she became afraid. Tonight it was no different than the last, and Gregory, noticing Klara's trembling, starts to hum the melody of one of those songs their mother used to put them to bed with to soothe her nerves.

"Shh," Klara hisses at him. "Best not to with that." She looks about them. "Greg, stop!"

Gregory chuckles. "Oh you scaredy-cat," he replies. "Don't you think we'd hear them first if there really were those bandits about?" He turns to her. "You pay too much heed to these rumors, Klara. They are designed to deter business, but let's not us fall for that…"

But Klara remains silent. She thinks she hears something, and, turning to look—she can't see a thing in this dark—she trembles in her clothes.

Which makes Gregory chuckle again. "And besides," he adds, "I have my rifle in the back, against which their spears and knives are no match. Not to mention Alcmene and Acis here to defend us."

Eventually Klara persuades Gregory for them to stop and start a fire. If only to settle her nerves, Gregory agrees to this, and tends to the fire, as Klara feeds the chocobos from their grain supply. For all of Gregory's reassurance to the contrary, she just couldn't shake the feeling, that they were, in fact, being watched…

Gregory starts whistling one of his melodies, but stops when something—he can't quite make out what—seems to rush past him and go behind his back and out of the fire's light.

"Hey, hello?" he says, somewhat timidly now. Whatever it was was almost entirely soundless, making no sound whatsoever in the sand. Couldn't be a seeq then; those guys had loud feet. "Klara?" He turns around toward the caravan but sees nothing, only the chocobos, both of them making anxious whimpering sounds now.

But where was Klara? Surely, she was only in the back of the caravan now and hadn't heard him call out, likely rummaging through all the stuff there for that jar of mushrooms they had packed in there last minute.

"Klara, are you okay?" he calls out again, just to be sure. But still nothing.

He turns back to the fire and, just then, as quick as the crack of a whip, something leaps out at him from the shadows, putting its claws—cold as ice—round his neck to prevent him from calling out, and, with him fallen back now and flat on his back in the sand, it climbs up—almost weightless, it would seem, but strong as hell in its use of force—onto his chest, and sets itself down on it. It was as black as the night itself, and as far as Gregory can tell entirely featureless save for its bright yellow-glowing eyes which seemed to be searing themselves into his very soul. This was no seeq!

Ah!" he tries to shout, but the thing has his throat in its grip. What the hell was this thing?

But just before he can try to roll over onto his side and get on top of it, it pushes against him, and, it seems, into him. It was burrowing itself into him as a mole into the ground!

And taking possession of him! He was losing control of his arms and legs, and of his breathing, to it, feeling himself now losing control of his whole body—unable to resist it, yielding itself to it!

"No!" he tries shouting again, but even his voice was giving way now to the will of this creature. And before he knows what's next he sees his entire self change to black…

And his eyes fade out to nothing, before lighting back up again with an intense, yellow-white light…

The mood at the Orbonne Monastery had been a dark one, of late.

Father Barrebek was deep in his meditations when Theo, hesitant to interrupt but too knowing of the urgency of the situation, stepped into his quarters to inform him of Maiandros's arrival.

Maiandros Derrick, Sword Saint and Holy Knight of Limberry, is welcomed into the dining chamber on the second floor of the monastery. He steps inside warily, knowing quite well of the Church's historical vulnerability to noble intrigue, to see Barrebek seated alone at the end of the table enjoying a plate of asparagus and elk meat with a crystal goblet filled with red wine from the catacombs cellar.

"Sit, Maiandros," says Barrebek, waving him over. Maiandros knew Barrebek from his visits to the Duke in Limberry. As far as he knew—as far as he was meant to know—Barrebek was a man of integrity and honor, trusted by the Duke and the rest of his men with information that few others were privy to.

Maiandros bows his head. "Father Barrebek." And he approaches, sits at the table on Barrebek's right side. He had not bothered during his journey to speculate on Barrebek's intentions in sending for him; he would learn of them soon enough, and that time was now. "You sent for me, Father."

"That is correct," Barrebek replies, with a slight bow of his head. He gestures to the empty second goblet on the table, offering Maiandros its fill of the wine, but Maiandros, intuiting the matter of their conversation to be far too serious surely for him to indulge himself so now, declines.

Barrebek smiles at this. "Are you sure? It is a fine wine, aged to perfection here at the Orbonne." He takes a bite of his asparagus. "And no plate either, I take it? You lead hardly less of an ascetic life than most of us here, Maiandros, from what I hear." He pauses to chew. "Good food and drink are blessed, in moderation. These are evil times, surely, but even so the Lord provides us with certain mercies and it might be interpreted by some as an impertinence to refuse them."

Maiandros smiles politely. "No, thank you Father," he replies. "But food and drink of such quality would surely upset me, unaccustomed to it as I am. But I am humbled by your offering."

"Of course," says Barrebek, with a sip of wine to wash down his bite of food. "Not too humbled, I would hope."

Maiandros smiles and relaxes himself in his chair. "I am at your service, Father," he says, after a pause, "in my loyalty to Duke Ferris." He pauses again, to meet his eyes with Barrebek's. "But I am sworn too to justice, as I understand it, and will agree to no vile deed whether sanctioned by the Church or not. You understand me."

"Of course," Barrebek says, and helps himself to a sip of his wine. "But you need not worry over any such thing. This is a matter most befitting a Holy Knight such as yourself." He pauses, for the wine to go down. "Indeed, I have already assembled several other Holy Knights—from Lionel, Gallione—for the same purpose, which presently I will explain to you. But you must swear not to share any of the following information to anyone not similarly summoned, under no circumstances…"

Maiandros bows his head. "Of course," he says. "I swear it." This must be a matter of grave import indeed, he thinks to himself, to call for the summoning of several Holy Knights? A grave threat, indeed, this must be…

"I am sure you are aware of the recent unrest throughout the land," Barrebek begins. "The strange occurrences, the bursts of madness and violence among the townsfolk seemingly without any cause…"

Barrebek assumed correctly: Maiandros knew well of these, of course. Very strange events indeed, had been taking place all throughout the continent. Just the other day, for example, he had gotten wind of such an occurrence in Gariland, of a blacksmith's killing of his own kin seemingly without any motive or reason whatsoever; the blacksmith himself had no explanation to offer for this crime after he turned himself in, indeed said nothing—had gone full mute—robbed it would seem of all his higher faculties, all reason and even of his identity…

Which, as harrowing as this was, was not much to consider in and of itself. But such occurrences were growing increasingly frequent—a sort of madness or hysteria seemed to be sweeping the land without any identifiable cause.

"I am sure you know, Maiandros," Barrebek continues, "or have heard your share of talk… of the Heartless…?"

The Heartless? Of course he had heard of them. He'd heard stories, of course, awful stories, in his training in the Sword Arts, the Holy Arts. Demons from another realm, it was said, with no pity whatsoever for any life in this one. But he had never in all his years seen one for himself, not even in the Woods. And so he grew after a while to doubt entirely their existence, deeming them the product of ancient superstition and no more…

"They are more, as it turns out, than mere myth," Barrebek says, as though divining Maiandros's thought. "I have seen them for myself, less than a year ago. And reported sightings of them are ever increasing in frequency." He pauses. "And that's only those sightings which have been reported; we suspect there to be an even greater number—far greater—than we know, as most sightings go unreported given that any of this world—bangaa, seeq and hume all alike—who lay their eyes on these creatures do not live to tell it, either killed or changed into one of them on the spot; those who do survive their sighting—and they are few indeed—are left permanently catatonic or otherwise heavily impaired…"

This Maiandros had no knowledge of. He had heard of a sighting or two over the years, by country folk—not exactly the most reliable of witnesses, superstitious as they were known to be—but nothing of this magnitude. "This…" he says, gathering his wits over the matter, "it… it sounds like…"

"Like an invasion," Barrebek finishes for him. "We agree. Normally the realms are kept at a firm remove from one another, as is claimed in the Scriptures, allowing maybe for the rare freak accident or two. But it appears these Heartless here have found some way around this barrier, migrating now into Ivalice en masse, and, possibly…" And Barrebek gives pause here, considering his words carefully. "Possibly," he continues, in a lowered voice, "with someone's help—from the inside, as it were." He pauses again, sitting back in his chair, and looks out the window over Maiandros's shoulder. "We are… investigating the possibility, anyway…"

Maiandros nods his head solemnly. "Do we have anything to start with in this investigation, as far as… the truth of this conspiracy?"

"We do," answers Barrebek, sitting up again. "We have as you know our spies, our eyes and ears all throughout the land, and in this case they have proved helpful." He pauses to take another sip of his wine, and pushes his plate away from him on the table. "There is a certain cult on which we have set our suspicions. The Sieve, they call themselves. As far as we have gathered, the Sieve were formed some twenty, twenty and few years ago as a pagan sect unifying several disparate bangaa tribes across the continent; it is today composed mostly of bangaa thieves and mercenaries, though they have in recent years become all-inclusive and as such are growing rapidly in number." He pauses. "We have reason to believe they have a hand in this business, but to what extent—and to what end—we know not." He meets eyes again with Maiandros. "Which is where you figure…"

Maiandros's eyes fall to the table, in thought. "You would have me… infiltrate this sect…"

Barrebek replies with a small, weary smile. "That is our hope, Maiandros, and our request."