A Faraway Inn in a Faraway City on a Faraway Plane

Cholmedrine Elit-Ondra sat at the edge of the chair, leg pumping, smoking his pipe so fiercely his head was barely visible in the cloud of smoke. He turned his gaze out the window, glared analytically at the one old woman on the road below and, satisfied she was no threat, returned his eyes to the door. It was two minutes past the appointed time. Had something happened? Should he flee?

Just as he was planning his escape out the window, the envelope arrived beneath the door. Cholm counted to ten—ten torturous seconds—then loped across the room and snatched the letter as if rescuing it from a fire. After a brief scan of the contents he let out a moan. His pipe drooped from his mouth like a sad flower.

Waking Materia. He had heard of it. By all accounts a giant swamp in the far reaches of the Silurian Eighth where one must sail primitive tallships past colossal monsters and hauntstorms to get anywhere. Has the Daybreak Empire expanded that far already? Surely not. And even if they did, what would they want with a giant, haunted ring of boggy islands?

He would need good boots, he decided.

Tearing the letter into swallowable pieces, Cholm attempted to to recall what he had done to deserve such an assignment. To his annoyance, a few good candidates sprang immediately to mind, then a few more. But did the punishment fit the crime? If his shady employers didn't appreciate him defenestrating their informants, perhaps they should have given him the stress leave he asked for. But these were busy times for the Victorious Noontide. The heroes must be as tireless as the villains. And no villain was as tireless as Daybreak.