Crash. (AoA)

As Ranulfe had darkly noted on the first day of his trip, the sailors on board the creaky Norg vessel were none-too-pleased to have passengers aboard, and constantly muttered amongst themselves, shooting him unpleasant glances when they thought he wasn't looking. Their tune was entirely different, however, when they put in at an abandoned beach as they rounded Cape Terrigan to pick up another passenger.

Unlike Ranulfe, the crew and especially the captain treated this man with a fearful respect, and avoided him entirely if at all possible. Ranulfe was mildly curious as to whom could command such a respect that the vessel would retrieve him in such a mysterious manner, but the man was singularly uncommunicative. Unlike Ranulfe, who was put to menial tasks to "make hisself useful," as the mate would spit at him, the new passenger did little but sit astern, staring out at the grey, choppy waves of the ocean as the ship slunk steadily southeast.

Ranulfe's resentment grew each time he saw the special treatment the man commanded. He ate little and ignored almost all attempts at socialization, simply pinning the captain or crewmember that dared with an intense stare until they left him alone. Ranulfe failed to see what was so unusual about the man. His age was difficult to determine--perhaps nineteen or twenty, not so far off from Ranulfe's age, save that his gaze was mature to the point of giving his face the cast of someone far older. He had but one eye, pitch-black in color, the other covered in an eyepatch bound up beneath his hair, which was also the darkest black and overgrown down to the nape of his neck. He was probably a Samurai in profession, gauging from the long blade that he wore sheathed on his hip, and his loose hakama of vaguely Far Eastern origin. More than his appearance, however, was his mien: stern and absent, his single-eyed stare piercing, as if it went right through Ranulfe and bored into his mind. It reminded him a little of someone else he had met, perhaps, only there was nothing innocent or youthful about it. This man had known blood, and Ranulfe felt his stomach twist a little as if his internal organs shivered from an icy touch whenever he met that gaze.

However, apart from the uneasy feelings that the man aroused within him, Ranulfe found little to care about in his demeanor. He strived to make himself a part of the scenery, doing what tasks were assigned to him and avoiding the captain's eye the rest of the time, willing the shabby boat to somehow cut through the waters separating them from Norg and get them there faster. The rolling motion of the ship surprisingly did not suit him, though it might have been because the ship was leaky and stank of seaweed. Ranulfe was fed very little and had almost nothing in the way of stores remaining, which didn't help his situation.

On the evening of the fifth day, just as the last of the sun was fading from the western horizon, Ranulfe carefully snuck down into the ship's stores. His stomach was aching badly from lack of food. Although the captain hadn't said he could have anything, he was sure he could scrounge some sort of crust of bread to tide him over--they were supposed to be docking in Norg in the morning. He shakily lit a lantern and hung it by the door, rummaging through the large crates stored in the back cabin--only to jerk his hands back in surprise. Each crate was filled to near-bursting with gunpowder and ammunition, well-oiled muskets and polished armor.

"Does it surprise you?" a soft voice addressed him from behind.

Ranulfe whirled, his eyes narrowing, his hands automatically balling up and raising to protect himself. It was the other passenger, leaning lightly against the doorframe, his loose gi negligently wrapped around himself but his pale hand carefully positioned on the hilt of his great katana. He stepped into the room, past Ranulfe, and leaned toward the crates, looking inside. "Our captain is no ordinary Ephramadian, as I'm sure you can tell. His leanings are in... more secular directions."

"He's probably just--just trading these--" Ranulfe stammered out, struggling to find a reason. "There's no way they're Muskies, they look nothing like them--I'd know--"

"Of course they're not actual Musketeers." The stranger inclined his head toward Ranulfe, accepting the point, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. "These are the type that'll trade to anyone. Bastokan, Ephramadian... or beastmen, naturally." He set his free hand on top of one of the crates. "The Quadav in the Palborough Mines near Bastok have been seen lately using explosives and gunpowder, just the same as the Humes that fight them. There's worries that they might be trying to tunnel underneath the city..." His one good eye moved to Ranulfe. "And pay the Humes back for all of the times their own homes were exploded into nothingness."

Ranulfe bit back his panic, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. "You... you don't know that..." It couldn't be true, could it? His sisters... they couldn't be...

The man turned away. "There's filth in every society, boy. Money is all they care for, and they don't care about anyone who gets in the way." The faintest hint of a sneer colored the man's voice, and he shook his head.

"So you'd rather we were all -adventurers-?" Ranulfe couldn't help but growl the hated word.

The man snorted in response. "Hardly. I answer to no one, no nation, no organization. My way is to go through this world we live in and crush the filth such as these--" He waved his hand up at the ceiling, indicating the captain, the crew. "--for the betterment of all. One day, perhaps you will understand. Until then."

Ranulfe watched the man leave with a deep sense of foreboding.

Sometime in the depths of that night, a lantern hung carelessly in the stores fell and ignited the hidden gunpowder and armaments. The resulting explosion was all that Ranulfe remembered--a booming roar so loud that he thought for a moment the entire world beneath him was upheaving outward, like an earthquake contained only to the ship.

When he awoke, he was lying on the shore of an unknown land. Burning wreckage of a ship lit the horizon in the far distance. He leaned up, soaked to the bone; the other passenger, the mysterious Samurai, stood next to him, also dripping. Ranulfe looked up at him, and the man looked back emotionlessly.

"Y-you... saved me?" was all that Ranulfe managed to say.

"You're worth too much to let drown," the man replied casually. "You're not tainted by greed like those men were. I think, one day, you could learn to see the filth of this world and resist their attempts to sway you."

Ranulfe said nothing, lowering his gaze. The man pointed to a rocky cove several miles down the beach. "That is the hidden dock cavern of Norg. You will find people there that can make you stronger." He dropped a small pouch, heavy and jingling, at Ranulfe's feet. "Don't go hungry anymore. Train and become strong. I saved your life for a purpose, and one day, I will return to you for that purpose."

He pulled a thin whistle from a chain around his neck and blew upon it; a large black war chocobo emerged from the thick forest just off the beach, and the man swung up onto its neck. Ranulfe watched him, unable to say anything or even move until the man had vanished from sight, leaving only the soaked boy on the beach and the burning wreckage off in the distance as indication that he had been there at all.