#patch 5.0

Tearing down the hallowed halls of the Crystal Tower, the Warrior of Light comes to a conclusion. They are utterly, absolutely, magnificently done for. Even should they charge back into the Ocular and demand some manner of magical assistance to fake a fiancée, they still need a fiancée to imitate in the first place. Having an ally who is living and breathing at their side would be of more comfort than a glamoured automaton or strange and incorporeal projection. 

They could always say their fiancée is sick and couldn’t make the trip! Lying is always an option when your troubles stem from a huge misunderstanding of marriage-level proportions! 

But there is also the whip-quick cognition M’aaiho employs when meeting friends of any sort. She and Mamá had known Valeryn was fixing to propose far before she had even forged the ring. The chances of making it through a visit without someone there to physically see it through were null and void. 

They slide around a corner and take the stairs two at a time once they make it out of the Tower, nearly tumbling down to the brickwork in their haste. If they want any chance of putting on a convincing act, they need to talk to Tataru. 

Tataru is of absolutely no help. 

Where they had hoped she may have had some reasonable and/or helpful suggestions as to how the situation needed to go, she had simply fixed them with a flat, disbelieving look. They’d begged. They’d whined. They’d kowtowed. They’d cried into their tea while she balanced the Scions’ expenses and refused any further comment past a brisk, “Well, there is no shortage of choices.” 

Whatever that means. 

“Tataru, please,” they moan, head resting on the table miserably. “M’aaiho is going to look so disappointed if I don’t show up with wife. Or husband. Or… spouse of some assorted flavor.”

“I gave you my two Gil,” she replies, not looking up from her collection of organized parchment charts, “and I know you will prevail. What is the Warrior of Light if not someone who triumphs despite the odds?”

“Me! Just a plain ol’ adventurer who may or may not be guaranteed a one-shot knockout when Mamá frowns all sad-like!”

She sighs, shaking her head. “There is no shortage of choices, as I said. Find someone who you genuinely wish to court and ask them to accompany you. ‘Tis a simple solution. You’ll worry yourself into a stupor, overthinking it so much.”

“But, Tataaaaruuuuuu—“

“No ifs, buts, or ands. Go find someone to court. I am sure it will go better than you think.”

They huff, mumbling, “So I wont get stabbed, but there will be some peripheral murder.”

“Get out there! Go!” she orders, pausing her work to shoo them out of the Seventh Heaven’s back room-turned-headquarters. Had she not been so diminutive, it would have been multiple times more terrifying to see her put her hands on her hips and stand uncompromisingly in front of the entryway. “I’ll not listen to your troubles ‘till you’ve given my advice a try.”

They groan, scrubbing a hand over their face, and walk out of the pub. Mor Dhona has been bustling since the initial influx of adventurers. Despite the majority of Doman refugees having made the journey back to Othard (now liberated and on the way to rehabilitation), there is no shortage of foreign and familiar faces to greet them. 

They spend an entire bell picking through stalls in the small bazaar with intent to procrastinate. It’s so much easier to stare down a knockoff vendor trying to sell them imitation jade for a premium than it is to consider asking someone on a d—da—outing. On an outing. With them. Romantically. 

There is a solid second where they can nearly hear the echo of Tataru’s laugh in the back of their mind. They can’t take the situation seriously. Them? Going out with someone? Unlikely. 

As they had told the Exarch, it isn’t from any lack of want. They just… don’t see what would make them desirable to others. They could likely impose upon an ally to make a play of it, but to find someone who would seriously consider their hand is all but impossible. 

Asking someone like Y’shtola to fake-date them would work out platonically so long as they compensated her with some new material for study or an entire crate of the tea she so adores. Thancred would require childcare arrangements or the introduction of Ryne to their family (which would likely only solidify M’aaiho’s suspicion that they are faking. It is known that they don’t have time to raise a child). The same situation would apply to Urianger. 

Their options of close allies are severely limited. 

After attaining a portion of candied fruit, they sit down on one of the many benches lining the road and try to find some potential options. They tick names off on their fingers until it becomes too much to manage. Rifling through their pack, they find their travelworn pocket book and quill. After fishing about for a small inkpot, they begin constructing a rather disorderly list of candidates. 

The Exarch is busy. Lyna is even more so. The friends they’d made while laying the Warriors of Darkness to rest all have their own lives to attend to. And, as if to make matters worse, anyone they may have a chance with from the First would have to find a way to the Source. 

Ardbert lives in their soul, so they doubt he could pop out to play partners. Then there’s the situation with Emet-Selch and the whole soul-banishing battle, their complete lack of trust in Elidibus, and a very large lack of faith in any Ascian within punching distance no matter how charming and dateable they may be. They have their own motives (understandable as they may be, they are not forgivable) and the Warrior does not think for more than a moment that any of their number would behave well enough to pretend to be their fiancé. 

Of their acquaintances on the Source, many are married or otherwise engaged (in combat, mostly) leaving them with a succinct and messily penned set of people to consider. Looking at the set of names, they wonder how they’ll manage to land a chance at courtship with even one of them. 

Steeling themself, they decide to heed Tataru’s advice and ignore the other options. They need to make it believable and in order to do that, they need to be true to their heart. 

Pocketbook clutched in one hand, they activate a Teleport spell. The purple aether shimmers, lifting them from their seat with a familiar wave of weightlessness. It waits for their command. 

Where will you go?

> Foundation

> Camp Dragonhead

> Reunion

> The Crystarium

> Amaurot