It had walked. And walked. And walked. So far had it walked, now, taking
every tiny step, never resting a moment, following the scent, that its
padded feet were dirty and worn. But it was too tough to allow any showing
of weakness, and those brutally tough toes had not so much as split once
over the hundreds of kilometres it had journeyed across.
It was malicious. Deadly. Filled with intent. Nothing would stop it, for it had arrived at its destination, a small, dark campsite. Being the middle of the night as it was, no life could be seen stirring amongst the tents: and this, for the purpose of the traveller, would not do. It required attention for its purpose, a certain amount of panicked attendance. This, it would have.
It raised its weapon, thick and gleaming, against the creased canvas of one tent. The thin, unnerving noise of embroidered strings and sewn fabric coming apart filled the silent air, uncontested save for the chirp of crickets.
The smell. The scent. It was here, and was so prevalent that the creature could practically taste it. Its tail swished back and forth in contented anticipation. Its blade finished its lethal sweep; with its dark, emerald hands, it pushed the canvas aside, clambering into the tent with a gait so silent that none could ever have heard it coming. The same could easily be said of those within the tent. Neither one of them heard a single thing the whole time.
The confines of the tent were darkened, but that mattered not: this creature came from the darkest depths, and no amount of shadows would hide an object from its sight. It approached one of these objects – a mountainous sleeping bag, steadily rising and falling – and, utilizing its weapon, gave the lump a tiny, tantalizing poke.
The sharpened edge did not fail to awake the occupant on its very first jab – the creature, hardened from years of practice, knew exactly what it was doing with the weapon – and the newly woken occupant, taking in a sharp breath of air, spun quickly in his bag to survey his assailant.
A pair of huge, golden, luminous eyes watched him from the darkness, giant gilded coins without mercy.
---
A shrill, girlish scream woke the entire camp with its high-pitched, harsh notes. It carried on for a minute straight.
---
Wakka, now freed from his sleeping bag after an excessive struggle, had clambered over to clutch his fellow tent-mate, Auron – Tidus and he had been sharing tents up until recently, when the younger man cited 'excessive snoring and annoyances with your blitzball' as an excuse for swapping tents – who, almost immediately, heaved the frantic, shrieking Besaidian across the tent with a mighty toss. Those eyes, those bizarre, glowing eyes followed him, steady and relentless, watching without fail.
---
Lulu, followed closely by a wary Yuna, had nearly made it to Wakka's tent when the former blitzballer flew through the side of it, propelled by Auron's powerful muscles. It began to collapse, and Auron, sensing danger from within, rolled out seconds later, sword at his side. Lulu let out a very cursory scream that cut itself off before fully leaving her mouth, a testament to both her self-control and maintenance of self-image. Instead, it emerged as "EEEWakka what the hell are you doing now?"
By this time, Kimahri, ever ready to fight, had emerged from his tent: Tidus, knowing the scream to be Wakka's, decided not to bother. He always had something to exclaim over, and generally speaking, it was never of importance. Rikku judged the situation in a similar light, remaining fixed within her warmly blanketed tomb.
Wakka was flabbergasted. He fled from the mouth of the tent - or at least tried to, before Kimahri snagged one of his suspenders - sending him plummeting into the grass with a graceful spin. Lulu hung her head in disgust, as was about to berate her fallen comrade when Auron, rising quickly, clamped a hand around her mouth.
"Hush."
Yuna, also taking a cue from this, opted to remain silent, and Kimahri maintained his ever-stony vigil, watching the tent with a level gaze. Wakka still struggled in the grass, searching frantically for his bearings and crying out in imagined pain.
Those who stood gazed at the tent.
It came, then, shuffling quietly, eyes deeply thoughtful and utterly impenetrable. It watched them all, pushing back the tattered folds of its cloak: they all marvelled with horror at this tiny thing, so universally known as one of the greatest killers in Spira.
Wakka, rolling onto his side to see the creature, managed to utter his first intelligible words. "Tonberry! Toooonbeeeeeeerry! Yevon help us!"
The rest were silent. Every last one of them knew the legend of the Tonberry well: merciless assassins, they were regarded as the servants of the Reaper by one and all. This one, true to its reputation, filled each and every tired soul there with the utmost fear, belying all logic in proving, beyond a doubt, that size doesn't matter a fig when one cannot be stopped.
This one did not look ready for a fight, however. Its pointed meat cleaver, the end of which was dabbed by the tiniest hint of Wakka's blood, was drooped into the dewy savannah grass, and its head was outstretched, small rippling wrinkles travelling across what they presumed to be its nose.
Auron finally remembered that he had a grip over Lulu's mouth when she gave him a sharp nip. He wordlessly removed his worn fingers, and she tossed him a tiny glare before forgetting the incident and watching the Tonberry cautiously.
Even Wakka had stopped struggling. Instead, he cowered in the dirt, pleading for Yevon to come save him from the pint size Fiend that threatened to steal his life.
Yuna broke the silence first. "What. . . is it doing?" The Tonberry still snuffled gently at the air, its head turning this way and that.
Auron answered at length, careful not to agitate it in any way. "I think. . . it's looking for something. . ." The normally unflappable warrior was abnormally flustered, suggesting their peril in the situation: and though he did not voice this concern to the others, all that ran through his mind was the thought that he did not feel like dying again.
"What does a Tonberry need, though?" Lulu hissed, keeping her voice low.
Wakka began to wail again. "It wants to kill us, oh dear Yevon no-"but a swift kick from Kimahri silenced Wakka's pathetic display.
And then they all promptly fled when the Tonberry began to move again, plodding with slow determination. Auron and Lulu, virtually glued together, made a wide swing around the camp, hiding behind Wakka's now ruined tent: Kimahri, swooping Yuna up in his arms, went out into the field a bit, dropping his Summoner load behind a large rock and keeping a trained eye on the Tonberry: and Wakka, poor Wakka, left to fend for himself, wormed about on his belly, making a valiantly panicked effort to escape.
But he could not escape. For that implacable foe was heading right towards him, nose testing the air. It was certain, now and forever, that this man had what it wanted.
Wakka tried to stand. He collapsed quite promptly, legs unwilling to perform properly. His arms refused to participate in the whole cowardly display, falling slack at his sides and jiggling lifelessly as though moulded sacks of jelly. The fear had reached his very core, and though he screamed and pled, Wakka could not move.
Auron prepared to move. He had to frighten it off, somehow – he raised his sword, ready to fling himself at death itself – and stopped, realizing that the Tonberry would still take a full three minutes to reach Wakka, waddling slowly as it was. "Wakka, just move, dammit!" He called out, decidedly more vulgar in his speech than usual.
Tidus, not knowing what a Tonberry was and seeking quiet, called out a muffled "shut the hell up, old man" from his tent. Rikku didn't even bother with that much, cursing loudly in Al Bhed and then falling into a deep, coma-like stupor.
Wakka began to sob. "I can't, I can't, I can't move. . . aaaaaaaah. . . help me, pleeeeease, yaaaaa. . ."
The Tonberry approached. Wakka could hear those soft footsteps now, depressing each blade of grass gently and not harming a single one. Wakka squirmed but could not move.
Kimahri tensed, ready for action, but Yuna held him back: he'd just get himself killed fighting that thing, and frankly, the Ronso knew it.
The Tonberry reached Wakka's pink, fleshy toes. It stopped briefly, wrinkling its snout in profound disgust at his lack of hygiene, before proceeding up the length of his leg. Its cleaver scraped along the dirt quietly: to Wakka, it translated into the sound of a scalpel running across a cadaver. He squealed, wriggling in vain.
Auron began to stalk out after it. He had no choice. Kimahri, pulling away from Yuna's grip, did likewise. And the moment the Tonberry gazed back at them, watching dangerously with those giant golden eyes, they both stopped, breathing hard but not daring to flinch.
If it wants to kill us, then we're dead. Auron knew this with no lack of certainty.
The Tonberry, ignoring his potential attacks, returned to the matter at hand. With a few, carefully planted steps, it moved around Wakka's shoulder – the casual swipe of its pronged tail turned his flesh into ice – and stood beside his ear.
Wakka, unable to suppress his fear any longer, duly urinated in his suspenders. No one would ever blame him for doing so.
It bent over, watching him curiously, sniffing his cheek. Its eyes illuminated his face, promising retribution if he impeded its inspection. That small green snout travelled across his face, moving close to his mouth, scenting his eyes, and checking out his ears. The amount of wax contained within abhorred the creature, but it deigned that detail unnecessary at current.
Its check complete, the Tonberry waddled away from Wakka, but not very far away. Turning with surprising swiftness – pivoting was more like it, really, as the emerald Fiend spun on the tip of one foot – it gazed at him once more, and extended an empty hand towards Wakka.
And they sat as such for a full minute.
Wakka only then managed to utter a word, such as it was. "Wh. . . wh. . . wh. . . what?"
It was silent. That tiny hand did not waver.
Only then did Wakka's brain begin to work once more. This Tonberry, he realized, was incomplete. There was something wrong, something missing. . . but what? What was different about this particular Tonberry that set it apart from the rest-
The truth hit him like a blitzball to the face. Or a blitzball player, for that matter.
"You. . . you don't have a lamp."
The Tonberry did not respond to this. It just sat, quietly implacable, hand outstretched. Despite the lack of affirmation, however, Wakka suddenly understood it all: why this creature had set out, across countless miles, to find Wakka.
---
"Whoa, man, what's this? It's so small!"
O'aka had what he called a 'novelty lamp' hung over his index finger. It swayed rhythmically in the air. "You like it, eh? I've had this bloody tiny thing kickin' around in me stores for quite a while now. A family heirloom of sorts, it is. I don't like the thing, though, so I put it up for sale whenever I have half a mind to." He eyed the Besaidian craftily, his mercantile mind already spinning with possibilities.
"Well, it s kinda nifty, ya? I like dumb stuff like this, ya know. How much?"
O'aka raised a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully while contemplating a price, the lamp twirling about on his finger. "Hmmm. . . say. . . eight hundred gil. . .?"
Nobody could fall for such a rip-off, and O'aka knew it. But he gave it a try in the spirit of haggling.
Wakka defied convention by promptly paying the asking price.
---
One of Wakka's arms, recovering in a timely manner from jellification, dove down into his pocket. He openly winced at the dampness he encountered down below, but decided there were more pressing matters at hand, and ignored it the best he could. Deep within the confines of his suspenders he located the Tonberry's treasure, something that it had been searching for over an entire century: its lamp.
Digging it out, Wakka wiped it off on the grass and set it before the Tonberry, not daring to place it directly in its hands.
The Tonberry approached the lamp tentatively. Its cleaver resumed an upright position, daring Wakka to try anything.
Everybody was breathless as it took the lamp up in one hand, sniffing it and generally looking it over.
It looked. It prodded. It inspected. And everybody awaited the verdict.
Then the unexpected happened.
The Tonberry rejected the lamp. With a mighty hurl the now somewhat rancid smelling light source became a projectile, heaved into Wakka's face with disgust. Wakka's head flew back and he collapsed with a mighty clonk, unconscious. His face was one set in abject hope, now rendered immovable until he awoke with a migraine the next day.
The Tonberry, cringing with disgust, slowly cut away one of Wakka's pockets. The contents poured out, amongst them a small pouch of money. Snatching up the pouch, the Tonberry quickly counted the gil contained within – approximately five hundred in all – and pocketed the lot, satisfied that it could buy a new lamp.
With that done, it shoved its cleaver through the old lamp, now irreparably defiled by Wakka, and made off into the night from whence it came, its long journey finally come to a disappointing end.
Nobody knew what to make of it. Needless to say, however, the whole lot of them – Yuna, Lulu, Auron, and Kimahri – did not dare to so much as breathe until the Tonberry had vanished, a fact that left them all with very cramped limbs in the morning, considering it took another ten minutes for them to budge even an inch.
Whether or not the Tonberry ever managed to get a new lamp is left to the stuff of legends.
It was malicious. Deadly. Filled with intent. Nothing would stop it, for it had arrived at its destination, a small, dark campsite. Being the middle of the night as it was, no life could be seen stirring amongst the tents: and this, for the purpose of the traveller, would not do. It required attention for its purpose, a certain amount of panicked attendance. This, it would have.
It raised its weapon, thick and gleaming, against the creased canvas of one tent. The thin, unnerving noise of embroidered strings and sewn fabric coming apart filled the silent air, uncontested save for the chirp of crickets.
The smell. The scent. It was here, and was so prevalent that the creature could practically taste it. Its tail swished back and forth in contented anticipation. Its blade finished its lethal sweep; with its dark, emerald hands, it pushed the canvas aside, clambering into the tent with a gait so silent that none could ever have heard it coming. The same could easily be said of those within the tent. Neither one of them heard a single thing the whole time.
The confines of the tent were darkened, but that mattered not: this creature came from the darkest depths, and no amount of shadows would hide an object from its sight. It approached one of these objects – a mountainous sleeping bag, steadily rising and falling – and, utilizing its weapon, gave the lump a tiny, tantalizing poke.
The sharpened edge did not fail to awake the occupant on its very first jab – the creature, hardened from years of practice, knew exactly what it was doing with the weapon – and the newly woken occupant, taking in a sharp breath of air, spun quickly in his bag to survey his assailant.
A pair of huge, golden, luminous eyes watched him from the darkness, giant gilded coins without mercy.
---
A shrill, girlish scream woke the entire camp with its high-pitched, harsh notes. It carried on for a minute straight.
---
Wakka, now freed from his sleeping bag after an excessive struggle, had clambered over to clutch his fellow tent-mate, Auron – Tidus and he had been sharing tents up until recently, when the younger man cited 'excessive snoring and annoyances with your blitzball' as an excuse for swapping tents – who, almost immediately, heaved the frantic, shrieking Besaidian across the tent with a mighty toss. Those eyes, those bizarre, glowing eyes followed him, steady and relentless, watching without fail.
---
Lulu, followed closely by a wary Yuna, had nearly made it to Wakka's tent when the former blitzballer flew through the side of it, propelled by Auron's powerful muscles. It began to collapse, and Auron, sensing danger from within, rolled out seconds later, sword at his side. Lulu let out a very cursory scream that cut itself off before fully leaving her mouth, a testament to both her self-control and maintenance of self-image. Instead, it emerged as "EEEWakka what the hell are you doing now?"
By this time, Kimahri, ever ready to fight, had emerged from his tent: Tidus, knowing the scream to be Wakka's, decided not to bother. He always had something to exclaim over, and generally speaking, it was never of importance. Rikku judged the situation in a similar light, remaining fixed within her warmly blanketed tomb.
Wakka was flabbergasted. He fled from the mouth of the tent - or at least tried to, before Kimahri snagged one of his suspenders - sending him plummeting into the grass with a graceful spin. Lulu hung her head in disgust, as was about to berate her fallen comrade when Auron, rising quickly, clamped a hand around her mouth.
"Hush."
Yuna, also taking a cue from this, opted to remain silent, and Kimahri maintained his ever-stony vigil, watching the tent with a level gaze. Wakka still struggled in the grass, searching frantically for his bearings and crying out in imagined pain.
Those who stood gazed at the tent.
It came, then, shuffling quietly, eyes deeply thoughtful and utterly impenetrable. It watched them all, pushing back the tattered folds of its cloak: they all marvelled with horror at this tiny thing, so universally known as one of the greatest killers in Spira.
Wakka, rolling onto his side to see the creature, managed to utter his first intelligible words. "Tonberry! Toooonbeeeeeeerry! Yevon help us!"
The rest were silent. Every last one of them knew the legend of the Tonberry well: merciless assassins, they were regarded as the servants of the Reaper by one and all. This one, true to its reputation, filled each and every tired soul there with the utmost fear, belying all logic in proving, beyond a doubt, that size doesn't matter a fig when one cannot be stopped.
This one did not look ready for a fight, however. Its pointed meat cleaver, the end of which was dabbed by the tiniest hint of Wakka's blood, was drooped into the dewy savannah grass, and its head was outstretched, small rippling wrinkles travelling across what they presumed to be its nose.
Auron finally remembered that he had a grip over Lulu's mouth when she gave him a sharp nip. He wordlessly removed his worn fingers, and she tossed him a tiny glare before forgetting the incident and watching the Tonberry cautiously.
Even Wakka had stopped struggling. Instead, he cowered in the dirt, pleading for Yevon to come save him from the pint size Fiend that threatened to steal his life.
Yuna broke the silence first. "What. . . is it doing?" The Tonberry still snuffled gently at the air, its head turning this way and that.
Auron answered at length, careful not to agitate it in any way. "I think. . . it's looking for something. . ." The normally unflappable warrior was abnormally flustered, suggesting their peril in the situation: and though he did not voice this concern to the others, all that ran through his mind was the thought that he did not feel like dying again.
"What does a Tonberry need, though?" Lulu hissed, keeping her voice low.
Wakka began to wail again. "It wants to kill us, oh dear Yevon no-"but a swift kick from Kimahri silenced Wakka's pathetic display.
And then they all promptly fled when the Tonberry began to move again, plodding with slow determination. Auron and Lulu, virtually glued together, made a wide swing around the camp, hiding behind Wakka's now ruined tent: Kimahri, swooping Yuna up in his arms, went out into the field a bit, dropping his Summoner load behind a large rock and keeping a trained eye on the Tonberry: and Wakka, poor Wakka, left to fend for himself, wormed about on his belly, making a valiantly panicked effort to escape.
But he could not escape. For that implacable foe was heading right towards him, nose testing the air. It was certain, now and forever, that this man had what it wanted.
Wakka tried to stand. He collapsed quite promptly, legs unwilling to perform properly. His arms refused to participate in the whole cowardly display, falling slack at his sides and jiggling lifelessly as though moulded sacks of jelly. The fear had reached his very core, and though he screamed and pled, Wakka could not move.
Auron prepared to move. He had to frighten it off, somehow – he raised his sword, ready to fling himself at death itself – and stopped, realizing that the Tonberry would still take a full three minutes to reach Wakka, waddling slowly as it was. "Wakka, just move, dammit!" He called out, decidedly more vulgar in his speech than usual.
Tidus, not knowing what a Tonberry was and seeking quiet, called out a muffled "shut the hell up, old man" from his tent. Rikku didn't even bother with that much, cursing loudly in Al Bhed and then falling into a deep, coma-like stupor.
Wakka began to sob. "I can't, I can't, I can't move. . . aaaaaaaah. . . help me, pleeeeease, yaaaaa. . ."
The Tonberry approached. Wakka could hear those soft footsteps now, depressing each blade of grass gently and not harming a single one. Wakka squirmed but could not move.
Kimahri tensed, ready for action, but Yuna held him back: he'd just get himself killed fighting that thing, and frankly, the Ronso knew it.
The Tonberry reached Wakka's pink, fleshy toes. It stopped briefly, wrinkling its snout in profound disgust at his lack of hygiene, before proceeding up the length of his leg. Its cleaver scraped along the dirt quietly: to Wakka, it translated into the sound of a scalpel running across a cadaver. He squealed, wriggling in vain.
Auron began to stalk out after it. He had no choice. Kimahri, pulling away from Yuna's grip, did likewise. And the moment the Tonberry gazed back at them, watching dangerously with those giant golden eyes, they both stopped, breathing hard but not daring to flinch.
If it wants to kill us, then we're dead. Auron knew this with no lack of certainty.
The Tonberry, ignoring his potential attacks, returned to the matter at hand. With a few, carefully planted steps, it moved around Wakka's shoulder – the casual swipe of its pronged tail turned his flesh into ice – and stood beside his ear.
Wakka, unable to suppress his fear any longer, duly urinated in his suspenders. No one would ever blame him for doing so.
It bent over, watching him curiously, sniffing his cheek. Its eyes illuminated his face, promising retribution if he impeded its inspection. That small green snout travelled across his face, moving close to his mouth, scenting his eyes, and checking out his ears. The amount of wax contained within abhorred the creature, but it deigned that detail unnecessary at current.
Its check complete, the Tonberry waddled away from Wakka, but not very far away. Turning with surprising swiftness – pivoting was more like it, really, as the emerald Fiend spun on the tip of one foot – it gazed at him once more, and extended an empty hand towards Wakka.
And they sat as such for a full minute.
Wakka only then managed to utter a word, such as it was. "Wh. . . wh. . . wh. . . what?"
It was silent. That tiny hand did not waver.
Only then did Wakka's brain begin to work once more. This Tonberry, he realized, was incomplete. There was something wrong, something missing. . . but what? What was different about this particular Tonberry that set it apart from the rest-
The truth hit him like a blitzball to the face. Or a blitzball player, for that matter.
"You. . . you don't have a lamp."
The Tonberry did not respond to this. It just sat, quietly implacable, hand outstretched. Despite the lack of affirmation, however, Wakka suddenly understood it all: why this creature had set out, across countless miles, to find Wakka.
---
"Whoa, man, what's this? It's so small!"
O'aka had what he called a 'novelty lamp' hung over his index finger. It swayed rhythmically in the air. "You like it, eh? I've had this bloody tiny thing kickin' around in me stores for quite a while now. A family heirloom of sorts, it is. I don't like the thing, though, so I put it up for sale whenever I have half a mind to." He eyed the Besaidian craftily, his mercantile mind already spinning with possibilities.
"Well, it s kinda nifty, ya? I like dumb stuff like this, ya know. How much?"
O'aka raised a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully while contemplating a price, the lamp twirling about on his finger. "Hmmm. . . say. . . eight hundred gil. . .?"
Nobody could fall for such a rip-off, and O'aka knew it. But he gave it a try in the spirit of haggling.
Wakka defied convention by promptly paying the asking price.
---
One of Wakka's arms, recovering in a timely manner from jellification, dove down into his pocket. He openly winced at the dampness he encountered down below, but decided there were more pressing matters at hand, and ignored it the best he could. Deep within the confines of his suspenders he located the Tonberry's treasure, something that it had been searching for over an entire century: its lamp.
Digging it out, Wakka wiped it off on the grass and set it before the Tonberry, not daring to place it directly in its hands.
The Tonberry approached the lamp tentatively. Its cleaver resumed an upright position, daring Wakka to try anything.
Everybody was breathless as it took the lamp up in one hand, sniffing it and generally looking it over.
It looked. It prodded. It inspected. And everybody awaited the verdict.
Then the unexpected happened.
The Tonberry rejected the lamp. With a mighty hurl the now somewhat rancid smelling light source became a projectile, heaved into Wakka's face with disgust. Wakka's head flew back and he collapsed with a mighty clonk, unconscious. His face was one set in abject hope, now rendered immovable until he awoke with a migraine the next day.
The Tonberry, cringing with disgust, slowly cut away one of Wakka's pockets. The contents poured out, amongst them a small pouch of money. Snatching up the pouch, the Tonberry quickly counted the gil contained within – approximately five hundred in all – and pocketed the lot, satisfied that it could buy a new lamp.
With that done, it shoved its cleaver through the old lamp, now irreparably defiled by Wakka, and made off into the night from whence it came, its long journey finally come to a disappointing end.
Nobody knew what to make of it. Needless to say, however, the whole lot of them – Yuna, Lulu, Auron, and Kimahri – did not dare to so much as breathe until the Tonberry had vanished, a fact that left them all with very cramped limbs in the morning, considering it took another ten minutes for them to budge even an inch.
Whether or not the Tonberry ever managed to get a new lamp is left to the stuff of legends.