A man watched, impassive, as the cascade of fire and havoc slowly quieted, a cacophony of world-shattering magnitudes, both cataclysmic and beautiful. The great eikon’s death knells were sure to be heard from Ul’dah to Ishgard, the most incredible song heard by mortal kind. Their comprehension of it was so lacking, so very limited, that all would either refute it, or force themselves to forget its majesty. They knew not what they had felled, and what inspired and beauteous havoc could come of it, how that havoc would be in their favor. The glimmer of a smile reached the man’s lips, but not his eyes. Cold and nigh on dead, there had not been a smile there for decades, and now would be no different. He watched the site for days, weeks, the tumultuous fallout of the battle having rocked the land to its very core. A war on three fronts, and losses for all. Senseless deaths, the lot of them. This would not happen again, he would see to it.
When much of the fire had become but embers, he dared chance a foray into the field. Most of what remained was but ash, charred corpses and bones in the bloody sand, remnants of the great crystals shattered to naught but dust. The smile grew. He found what he’d been looking for. How long had he waited for such glorious opportunity? It was a gift from Nymeia herself, surely. With the care one might show a newborn infant he stooped to a crouch, gently brushing and dusting away debris, leaving behind only sands and a man filled with glee. This was it, the true answer. This would save them all.
It took him at least four hours to fill each of the large stone containers he had carted in with him. Despite their weight, each at least a dozen ponze or more, they would hold surprisingly little compared with what was needed for the craft. Dreadfully difficult to make and even more so to harvest, he could only imagine how much wasted material he would have, how much effort would be required for simply one piece. Such a carefully guarded secret, one he would trust to no other living soul. That anyone even knew the item by name brought him a measure of violent disdain. They were too easily abused by those only looking at their baseline and never the wider picture; these merchants of death found no quandary with the implications of their grim market. He grinned again as he carefully filled a fourth pot with the bloodied, sand-like remains of the battle. Their margins of profit were far too small. He would show them what that meant, every last one of them. And they will thank him.
Roses and Ashes 