#freeday!

It wasn’t that the directive he shared with Ephemie was revolutionary, but he felt it was better than nothing; they had more resources at their disposal than they were using, and while he wouldn’t be of much help in this particular effort, he wanted to ensure it was underway regardless. Quietly, he requested the Elezen send word to the Waking Sands - there were members of the Scions that still populated their old headquarters and, until rather recently, that was were Urianger had made his home. His library was there - or, rather, the books he was most often paging through were there, and who knew what else he had left: journals, diaries, theses, musing, poetry - whatever - anything could be important. Anything could help, and if there were members of the Scions there that were not pressed with official duties, they could put their time towards combing through those records to see what there was to find. 

He requested she send the missive directly to that distant cousin of his - Tajih Mewrilah - who was a weapons and armor mender for the Scions stationed at the Waking Sands; he didn’t really know-her know-her, but she knew him - or at least of him - and the first time they had met, all those months ago, she had made it a point to say that if he needed anything she would be of assistance. Clan politics may have made things a little tricky as far as his relationship with Yvaine went, but he wouldn’t hesitate to use his status to encourage her to follow through with this research and get as many people as she could working alongside her.

He would have attempted to head over and help them if he could, but, frankly, he still wasn’t all that great with reading Eorzean, and just thinking about the words that Urianger spoke made him slow down and consider carefully, attempting to decipher what that man read, let alone wrote, made it easier to decide he’d just get the ball rolling on the project rather than spearhead it. Ephemie agreed - in the nicest way possible - and offered to write the letter herself - again, in the nicest way possible, without mentioning his horrible penmanship. She assured him the missive would go out that day via moogle mail, and Khit’li left, in case mere mention of those flying furballs would cause one to appear and stick to him like glue. That was the last thing he needed right now.