act17side

'Terra', 'the land', 'these lands', the nations 'across the world'.

These terms and the language around them flow in widespread use only because of how narrow they actually are.

Has there ever been some majestic language of the ancient past that could describe everything between heaven and earth? Where we put into words the 'everything' we might encounter in our day-to-day lives?

A grandiose term encompassing the earth, the sky, and even the seas of which the landbound nations know so little? A single word to narrate millennia of life's progress?

Where among the collective mind of mankind is such a word, Kal'tsit?

I'm sure you know the answer yourself.

I know quite a bit myself, yet still I find myself asking, day after day. No man may truly escape the unknown, and the unknown will forever torment mankind.

(Ancient Sarkaz language) 'Alma.' 'World.'

Hm. And here I thought you would go with the Sargonian word 'Alam'. The same idea, I think.

Yours was a Sarkaz language?

It was.

Strange. You're a Feline who calls herself a doctor, yet your first instinct is to use the devils' tongue.

Your identity is like the ever-changing clouds above the sea. Never content to remain the same.

Language will not change its essence for such trifles.

Language, hmm... Now look here, Kal'tsit. A well.

Do you know how to draw water from it? Do you know how the Iberians used these blue cornerstones to build their houses?

If the Iberian nobility hadn't let their pride go to their heads, the ocean would surely have made the nation an impenetrable fortress.

The well is deep, and we're very close to the shore.

Look. It hasn't yet dried up. There is a false sun inside.

We should be on our way, sir.

The elderly man does not answer her. He simply picks up a small rock in silence.

The rock could not be more commonplace, with no particular reason to fiddle with. Yet, as though absorbed in the sensation of the sea breeze on his skin, he continues to gaze at the bottom of the well.

Kal'tsit doesn't push the issue. She silently waits for the man in front of her to answer. She sees that the clouds are moving. The winds are strong.

There is no rush, Kal'tsit. There is no rush. We have ample time for rest... no matter the arrangements you've made.

If I dropped this rock into the well, how long would it take for us to hear the splash?

About five to six seconds.

Even the most simple Iberian knows how to make use of the sea. Knowledge that went into this deep coastal well.

And yet, a Victorian farmer or Columbian worker might not even know what the vast sea looks like.

Hmm... Kal'tsit, how many questions have I asked you on our journey so far?

The old man holds his arm out, the rock still in his palm. Then he lets go, sending it tumbling downward.

Despite its rapid descent, the two of them lock their eyes onto it. Yet without adequate sunlight, they soon find themselves unable to follow its trek into the depths.

It has been two, perhaps three seconds. Nothing but silence shrouds the two of them. Even the wind has come to a halt.

How quiet, Kal'tsit thinks to herself. How quiet indeed.

*Plop*

The quiet sound echoes through the well's walls, as though reminding them that, in that brief moment lasting but a few seconds, all the lands are still.

One hundred twenty-three. Quite a bewitching number.

One hundred twenty-three questions, over one hundred twenty-three years. The Inquisition boasts not a single Inquisitor older than me.

Most have died in battle, a few of old age, and even fewer gave in to cowardice during their endless ordeal. It did not end very well for them.

I've experienced all there is of Iberia. I've seen its fleets setting sail, and heard the Victorian envoys quivering.

It was a rude awakening when the Profound Silence destroyed our nation. My countrymen are still drowning in their hatred for the disaster, and confused over the loss of their dream.

Liberi don't live long lives. Even the Liberi Elders, the oldest and healthiest of them, are unable to shoulder Iberia's present calamity.

Your age is a miracle. One forged by the Inquisition, and which also grants you an unprecedented sense of devotion.

In that era, when both glory and ideology began to crumble, you and the earliest Inquisition members were revered as 'Saints.'

'Saints.' A title for those who once served as a guiding beacon for mankind. But just like firewood, it's become nothing but ashes.

I've watched the seasons cycle by a full hundred and twenty-three times, yet it seems only the cold winters have left their mark on me. I've seen so many truths with my own eyes, yet can never recall the sight of spring.

Kal'tsit...

Yes?

The look in the old man's eyes changes.

Faith is a language, and prayers can pave roads. At this very moment, the nation of Iberia, or perhaps an existence beyond that, is caressing its chin, examining the wind speed.

So far, I've lived one hundred twenty-three years. I've asked you one hundred twenty-three questions, based on my personal experiences.

Nonetheless, you answered each and every one. You know everything that I know.

Man is making progress, and new secrets will forever emerge, yet our knowledge will never be able to overcome that wall we call 'the known.'

Regardless, the enemy we face belongs to the other side of that wall, in the dark forest that lies beyond.

And you, Kal'tsit. Do you belong to our side of the wall... or to the depths of that forest?

That is up to you.

Hoh... You might even know the number of leaves on its trees. What a terrifying woman.

Make no mistake, the saints of Iberia remain the pinnacle that humanity can reach. Yet you've exceeded that, marking you as inhuman.

Perhaps you've extended your life with special Arts, perhaps you've inherited some kind of ancient identity, or perhaps you possess a soul that had great ambitions.

Even if our faith is only a lie built atop ideology, we nevertheless once held onto it firmly. What is truly saddening, though, is that when old age finally bests us all, we will have not yet managed to solve our problems.

While those of us who have bested old age—via Originium Arts or other means—will only come to fear endless suffering at the hands of our enemies.

When did Ægir become such an unknown terror to Iberia?

How could an unarmed child so easily accept the help of a stranger brandishing a weapon?

What if that child were about to drown?

Then we would still require proof. Is Ægir's current situation really as you say? Can the Seaborn and their source truly be defeated?

If you cannot back up these claims, then Iberia will not trust you. I will not trust you.

Before I die, you... you must all prove it to Iberia.

Otherwise, the seawater will quench the flame of civilization. Before the other nations can prepare, they will swarm past Iberia... and tear this 'world' apart.

Perhaps this too—the refutation of Terran civilization—is itself a part of their survival-of-the-fittest mindset.

Or perhaps there is nothing inherently different between us and them.

A seaside town, huh? Relaxed, but gloomy. Quiet, but bustling. A lively place, but with danger and mystery around every corner.

Just the place to get us in that creative groove!

What do you girls say?

(Riffs lightheartedly)

The shore's got an unsettling vibe. I can already smell all that stuff I'd rather not.

I really don't think we should be visiting the waterfront so carelessly.

Does it matter, if we can find inspiration? C'mon, look how fired up about it Dan is.

(Riffs depressingly)

Time to find our muse!

Right... It's a good chance.

I can't believe we're actually looking to that messed up ocean for inspiration now.

Yeah, which is exactly why it's a fresh new vibe!

Took the words outta my mouth.

(Riffs in agreement)

Well, should we split up, then? I can take our luggage to the hotel on my own.

Alright! I'll be checking stuff out over there.

All by yourself?

I'm glad SOMEONE's worrying. Just don't forget we're playing with fire here.

So where's the hotel?

That reminds me, how did a small town like this get itself a hotel anyway? Do people even come here?

They need to make a living somehow.

Right. No living, no music.

(Riffs)

The sea...

We're back.

Excuse me... can I get past?

Oh, sure, no problem.

Have you been sitting in the chapel again, Mr... uhh...?

Elysium.

Sorry... We've even run into each other several times already.

Don't worry about it. The name 'Elysium' isn't very common here.