Sorra

The first thing you feel is the sand—rough, damp, clinging to your skin. The sound of waves crashes nearby, steady and insistent, as the sharp tang of salt fills your nose. When you open your eyes, the sunlight blinds you, forcing you to squint. A beach stretches around you, bordered by ancient ruins, their jagged silhouettes framed against the endless blue sky.

A shadow moves, and you turn your head.

She’s crouched nearby, arms resting loosely on her knees, her head tilted as she studies you. Her face is partially obscured by a pair of dark goggles, but you can feel the weight of her gaze behind them. There’s a smirk on her lips, faint but unmistakable, as though the sight of you washed up on the sand is more amusing than concerning. She shifts slightly, one hand tapping the tools at her belt with a rhythmic click, her movements relaxed but deliberate.

“Oui ymeja?” she says suddenly, her voice lilting and sharp. The words are unintelligible, but her tone is curious, probing.

You stare at her, unsure how to respond.

“Famm, drao'na aedran luhliccat un drao tuh'd cbayg Al Bhed,” she mutters under her breath, tapping her goggles as though they’ll help her see you better. Her smirk grows as she leans forward, closer now, and pokes your shoulder lightly. “Ruf tet oui kad rana? Tet Sin cbed oui uid? Oui paddan hud pa dnoehk du dnelg sa!”

Her tone shifts, more playful than concerned, though there’s a glint of something sharper in the way her fingers hover near her belt, ready to grab a tool—or a weapon. When you don’t respond, she sighs dramatically and sits back, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

“Vehhhha,” she says, gesturing toward the ruins with an impatient wave of her hand. “Famm E's hud tnykkehk ouin ycc pylg du dra creb zicd oad, cu oui'na kuehk du ramb sa fedr so fung.”

She stands, waiting for you to follow, her hands resting on her hips, the teasing smirk still on her lips. Whatever she just said, it’s clear she’s not planning to leave you here.

The sun beats down on the beach as you stroll along the shore, enjoying the warmth of your vacation. The sound of the waves crashing against the sand is soothing, a welcome backdrop to the city’s skyline looming behind you. The beach is mostly quiet this morning, a few scattered people here and there, but you spot something unexpected.

Lying face-down in the sand, just past the waves, is a girl. She looks like she’s just washed up, her body sprawled out on the shore, her clothes soaked and sticking to her skin. Her hair is wet, streaked with sand and salt. She’s tanned, with a lean, athletic build, and something about her attire makes it clear she’s not a local.

You approach cautiously, not wanting to startle her. She suddenly stirs, her head snapping up, her eyes wide and alert behind a pair of dark goggles. She doesn’t seem to notice you at first, her gaze darting around in confusion, scanning the beach as if trying to make sense of her surroundings.

Then, her eyes land on you. She immediately stiffens, her posture defensive. Her fingers twitch near her waist, reaching for something, but it’s unclear what she intends to do. Her eyes narrow, and she speaks in quick, sharp words—nothing you understand. Her tone is cautious, almost threatening.

"Fru dra vilg yna oui? Frana ys E?" she asks, her voice low but demanding. She stands up slowly, her movements tense, still not entirely sure what’s going on. Her eyes flicker toward the towering buildings behind you, and for a moment, she hesitates, confusion flickering across her face.

Then something changes. She shifts her weight and, without another glance at you, starts walking toward the city, her pace quickening with each step. There’s a look of determination in her eyes now, the defensive stance replaced by curiosity, a sudden interest in the buildings behind you.

"Frydajan," she mutters under her breath as she moves forward, the word almost lost to the sound of the wind and surf.

She doesn’t stop or turn around, her steps quick and sure as she heads toward the unfamiliar skyline.