act26side

We don't usually greet our visitors at gunpoint, save for special occasions.

Pardon me if you're dissatisfied with your treatment in any way.

(Indecipherable howling)

(Not reacting at all to what I say. Is communication completely out the window?)

(Not many human features left to show. Is it all hidden under those scales?)

(...I remember Iberian files mentioning this sort of mutation before...)

You couldn't be...

Oofff...

Nope, the wheelchair's not going to cut it.

(Strange. Something's not right.)

(Is its target... not me?)

(Where is it aiming? What is it trying to—)

Too close...!

(Forget it, I'll have to worry about that later!)

Nuh-uh, just because I'm physically handicapped doesn't mean you can pick on me, visitor!

(Angry howling)

Stop right there—!

Nope—I can't just let you slip away!

When the elderly chat, the topic inevitably turns to Laterano

They call it bright, abundant, safe for all, disturbed by none.

They say it's true paradise on Terra.

The truth is, they all know the monastery's been adrift for decades, and only a dwindling few remain who've actually seen Laterano before. Perhaps two or three, or maybe just it's Bishop Stefano now.

They bring up Laterano, but the object of their nostalgia is a dream they're long overdue to wake from.

A dream where the sun shines and the flowers are underfoot forever.

Just as the monastery used to be, all those years ago.

They're about to wither.

They bloomed earlier than last year. I could guess they'd wither sooner too. I just didn't think it'd be this soon...

The few you picked were in wonderful blossom. They're not about to wilt yet.

How pretty. Who'll be receiving these?

I'm too late. There's no giving them now.

They can't save anyone...

Sorrow. Pain. Despair.

Mm... such complex overtones. There are other emotions hidden inside you, too...

Are you angered?

I wouldn't dare... You're a guest of His Excellency, Seniora Arturia.

You wouldn't dare, that's all. A very honest answer.

My intuition has always been unusually accurate, Senior Florist. You seem to loath me a little.

No, not at all. You needn't worry.

If anything is troubling you, I could be of help to you, I think.

Help...? Er, I'm not sure what you mean, Seniora Arturia.

What would you help with?

This hinges on your thoughts. It's not something for me to decide.

Of course, you may not need any help at all. Call me meddlesome if you wish, or a bearer of bad intent, none of which I would mind. It's for you to say.

I just want to hear your thoughts... your own thoughts.

You're a strange one, Seniora Arturia.

You flatter me.

You say you can help me...

Of course, so long as you need.

No, there's no need.

Perhaps you could... well, there's a great many you can help, but you can't help me.

Oh?

Seniora Arturia, would you claim to be able to raise the dead?

No.

Can you make the harvest rich, or see that the cold winds stop?

I'm very sorry, but I can't.

Then can you return us to your original lives, see that the barriers of old are no more?

You could never.

Then what of you, Clément?

Have you never once entertained being able to solve all you speak of, by your own hands?

...I've tried...

But it was no use. I've tried more than once, but I couldn't do it.

The more effort we put in, the worse things get, more often than not...

No one can make it all better. The Abbot can't, Gerald can't... and neither can I.

You can't help me, Seniora Arturia.

Please... don't bring this up again. And don't think I need the help of someone like you.

You ask what my thoughts are. Let me tell you: I have no thoughts at all.

What else can I come up with? The coming winter is too cold.

Cold. Yes, this heart is like soil frozen through, beneath a sheet of iciness...

Yet I can feel notes lurking beneath the ice... I wonder how powerfully they will move us?

It's not yet time. This composition is not bound for completion yet...

Such unbearableness, such tolerance... mm... in times like these, I cannot help myself.

Let me see...

Ah, this melody is a perfect fit for the occasion.

Federico.

I told you, your melodies are too rhythmic, too unperturbed. You should know that an all-too-rational melody will lack the sentiments to shake people. There's no warmth, nor passion...

Sometimes, I can only be curious.

Federico, when will you finally realize... why it is you search?

(Strings?)

(No, this is more than strings. There are Originium Arts effecting something within.)

(These Arts, and this melody. Could they be...?)

(The sounds are nearing.)

(Are they above?)

What's today's song? It's beautiful.

Do you hear music every day here?

Erk! Wh—Who...?

I am Executor Federico of the Notarial Hall. Please answer my question.

Notarial Hall? What does that even...? Oh, I see, you're that guest from Laterano they were talking about, aren't you?

Sometimes you can, er, hear this music around this time? I'm not too sure myself.

Oh, right! I believe I heard about someone by the sacrarium who plays a cello or something...

Where is the sacrarium?

On the roof. Take the stairs outside and you'll be right—wait, ex-excuse me, Senior?!

What was the rush...? Such a strange man.

Welcome back, boss.

Yeah. How ready are we to move out?

More or less good. We don't have much to take with us, and we'd be overburdened anyway if we did.

But there's been no word from the young ones we sent to scout the way... They might not make it in time for tomorrow morning.

Wait a little longer.

Stefano and I have talked it over. That we're leaving... he'll let it be. So no need to rush it now. If we still hear nothing by nightfall, then I'll take a team myself to find them.

Sure. I'll update everyone in a minute.

Oh, boss! There's one other thing...