Session 0 - Orrey

The sun rises on Saron, a city-state divided in the wake of the collapse of the Alternan Empire, a wake that should have dissipated long ago. Every morning, newspapers are distributed throughout the region, the Herald pushing for a return to how things used to be, the Times calling for a journey into the brave new future. Every morning, ideologies are pushed on their populace, opinions planted in their heads, talking points etched into their minds, conflict spun up where previously there was none. There are those who claim little interest in the politics of the day, even though the day seems to hold no room for anything but. Unfortunately, as one young man just trying to make his way has found out, politics has a way of insinuating itself into everyone’s lives. Orrey Alyon, son of a printer. Son of the source of the words. Son of the press that carries the truth, however that truth is to be told today.
Orrey Alyon, son of opportunity.
We join Orrey in a quiet park on a quiet morning on a quiet day that is destined to be anything but…
About thirty yards away, there are entirely too many cinnamon rolls for comfort. Someone should probably do something about that.
A city of newspapers means that there’s always something to celebrate, or at least something for people to write down ads for in the weekend edition.
Orrey sighs and sets down the want ad section after another fruitless search for jobs.
This weekend, apparently, is the 37th Annual Chocobo Dressage Festival, which is taking place in full about twenty-five minutes to the east, but there’s always a need for cinnamon rolls.
Orrey heads over to check out the cinnamon rolls, knowing he needs to get some calories in himself to make it through the day. Orrey also looks around for a source of coffee to go along with the massive sugar dose.
The stall barker is a gruff man with a thick red beard, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and disturbingly green glasses. “Cinnamon rolls! Get ‘em while they’re sticky! 20 gil for a little’un, 35 for the Behemoth!”
Orrey double checks that he has enough gil in his pocket and decides to splurge. “I’ll take a small one.”
One cinnamon roll and a 5 gil cup of black coffee later, Orrey is set up for a slightly jittery day.
The want ads in the paper aren’t anything to get excited about. Chocobo stable boy, bartender, barista, paper delivery… there’s an offer for a train engineer’s apprentice, but that wants something called ‘engineering experience,’ whatever that is.
A shadow darkens Orrey’s bench.
Orrey looks up to see what new cloud has cast a shadow on the morning.
A tall figure stretches up before him, blocking the sun. The figure is hidden from his view, wearing a feature-obscuring black cloak, hood drawn up over the head, the edges forward to hide the face.
It looks down at Orrey, and it’s easy to think… disapproval, disappointment.
The silence is ominous…
…but the effect is slightly diminished by the two very long ears sticking up from the hood.
The figure then speaks, and it’s a young woman’s voice, instead of the imposing and commanding deep voice the outfit perhaps calls for. “You should’ve gotten the big one, it’s worth it.”
Orrey shakes his head. “The biggest is not always the best for the situation.”
The figure sits down, and the attempt at pulling the hood back dramatically fails when she can’t quite get her ponytail pulled out of the back the way she wants. Lylja is a viera Orrey has known for about a year now, a potential friend that came by the shop periodically. He thought perhaps she was one of his siblings’s friends, someone from school he couldn’t remember.
Orrey smiles and belatedly adds “Morning.”
Lylja returns Orrey’s smile, bright and cheerful. “Morning! I have bad news!”
Lylja is the contact with the group blackmailing Orrey’s family.
Orrey sighs. “I figured.”
It’s hard to tell if she’s been brought into this in a similar fashion.
Lylja pulls a napkin out of somewhere inside that robe, which is a good bit more patched and faded than it looked when she blotted out the sun. After taking a moment to clean her mouth of leftover cinnamon roll, she pulls one of her ears down to fiddle with the three earrings at the tip. “Have you managed to find a job around here yet? I’m hoping no, since apparently you’re being sent out of town.”
“Uh, no…no job yet. Out of town, where?”
“Any leads on a job?” She looks actually interested in the answer.
“Not unless you want to make coffee for not a whole lot of gil.”
She makes a face at that idea.
Orrey prompts again: “Out of town?”
“Yeah. You’re going to Caerwyn.”
“Great. How long do I have till I leave?”
Lylja finishes ruining the seeker of darkness look by putting a pair of large-rimmed glasses on and producing a calendar from inside the robe. “Uh, tomorrow, I think… yes. Tomorrow at 9.”
“More time to prepare than last time, at least. What are my instructions?”
She gives him an impish grin. “See, I think this part you’ll actually like. You’re going to a book auction!”
He perks up at that. “I could definitely be into that! What kind of books are we talking about?”
“Old ones.” She tries to affect a spooky tone, which sort of works. “Old Alternan ones.”
His questions come rapid-fire. “How old? Pre- or post-collapse? Any idea which dynasty? Or who the authors are? Is there a list posted somewhere?”
A light wind rustles the trees as she thumbs through the calendar, looking for answers in there for some reason. “Um, hang on, hang on… I think it was Janus IV’s reign, so right at the end. And you’re going to want to ask them the rest of those, because you’re going as an expert, there to determine the validity of the ancient texts,” she recites.
Orrey realizes he’s getting excited about the event, but then immediately feels all the guilt and fear come crashing down due to the nature of the assignment. “And will this be the final task I need to complete? Will it be over after this?”
The look he gets is equal parts sympathetic and pitying.
“Your cover story is that you’re apprenticing to Professor Agnarico Trepe in Kuganepo, and you’ve been sent as a representative of the university to give these an official seal of validity. I have your complete bullshit versions of those credentials.”
Orrey looks them over. "Not a bad job on these.
She drops an envelope — closed, but not sealed — on top of the folder. “And here’s your actual work.”
“OK to open that here?”
“There are three books there about ancient magic. We don’t know the names — do they ever want you to open the envelope, Alyon? — but they need the papers that are in that envelope hidden — and let me emphasize ‘hidden’ there like the kind of secret you absolutely cannot tell anyone so you tell absolutely everyone — in those three books, so the buyers can discover them. You being the hoity-toity old book expert should get you access to those with no one watching. Then find out who bought them, bring that info back, and… well, I can leave that last part out, you know they like to be all weird about it.”
“I’m planting false documents inside of ancient texts?” Orrey squinches his face up in something approaching disgust.
“You are! Isn’t that cool?”
Orrey clearly disagrees. “Seems so wrong.”
Lylja dismisses that with a wave of her hand. “Whatever. They’re long dead, what do they care?”
“It’s not them, it’s the lies that people will interpret with the weight of history behind them. There’s not a lot with stronger influence than stories from the past.”
She greets that with the same blank face Orrey’d give his father when he would spend eight minutes straight talking about the width between letters in setting type. “Anyway. Your ticket’s in there, and I think you have like a day or two after before you come back. Enjoy Caerwyn, I guess? Last time I went out, I got to spend two days in Phiro, which was a blast.”
“Is there at least some money for food and a place to stay? Hard to keep up appearances otherwise.”
That same expression from before crosses her face, but then is gone. “Yeah, it just kinda gets tacked onto the end again.”
“Ah.”
“A forbearance, basically.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Thanks. Nothing you can do about it.”
She gives him a grateful smile. “Yeah, sure. Somnus alive, this cloak is too hot for today. I’m going to go actually enjoy this chocobo festival. Safe travels!” With a companionable wave, she is off, leaving him alone with lukewarm coffee, a mysterious envelope, and the faint smell of chocobo feed wafting along the breeze.
“Thanks. See you round, Lyl.” After she leaves: “Hopefully not too many more times…”
The balance of the day is at leisure. There’s a chocobo dance session at 1 PM, whatever that means.
Orrey stuffs the envelope into his backpack and heads home to get ready for the trip.
The ticket will take him to Bernier Station. The backpack will be further stuffed with a change of clothes, toiletries, several notebooks and writing implements, a couple books he’s been reading lately, a bit of snacking type food, some water. Orrey is also going to carefully go through everything in that envelope.
The contents of that envelope are peculiar, in that he is having a hell of a time reading them. It’s not written in a modern-day language. Orrey thinks he’s maybe come across it before in studying, in how he’d latch onto the mysteries of the past to try and find the stories within, but it’s going to take some work.
The passages themselves are written in a very classic, impenetrable fashion. Too many words being used, over-elaborate explanations, superfluous consonants. But there are too many things in these passages that are modern — references to a modern-day holiday observed in Cardia that you read about a month ago, something about shipments coming in and out of the Triad, movements within Machanon… this is masking modern-day information.
Orrey is taking some serious notes here.
There are no references to Alterna itself, for messages that are to be placed inside books dating to that era.
There are references to the Crystal, however.
But even those seem… off. They contradict each other, speaking of the Crystal in a positive fashion and then in the same sentence referencing it again in a negative.
It takes some cross-referencing, in that it takes him digging into the actual reference books on how the Alternan theological language was structured, but Orrey manages to piece it together.
Every reference to the Crystal that is negative is referring to the Crystal as a common noun, an object, a structure.
Every reference to the Crystal that is positive is referring to the Crystal as an existing being, as a living entity, as a vessel of worship. Somewhere in the same style as a god, or a holy site that exerts its own domain or influence. The text is treating these as two distinct things, separate from each other, but occupying the same purpose and role (except for the worship bits, as mentioned).
“Fascinating…” he mumbles as he works it all out. Orrey thinks back, trying to remember if he’s ever heard or read about anything like this.
The Alternan Empire viewed the Great Crystal as a holy relic, as an instrument of the will of the emperors, containing the wisdom and knowledge of eons. But they didn’t view the Crystal as a living THING, or a thing with its own goals or sentience. So yes, this is peculiar.
“I need a bigger library.” Orrey will carefully put everything back in the envelope and keep the notes he took in his pack.
Tomorrow morning, Orrey departs to plant these messages in ancient texts dating to the Alternan Empire, for distribution to unknown buyers.
To what end? What is the significance of the separation between the Crystals? What purpose do the modern-day passages written in ancient style serve? Why do the Avengers controlling your family here in Saron care about these matters? Many questions, but no answers. Not until tomorrow’s train leaves the station.