
Éliane’s bitter mood persisted long after the fight, an angry fugue that wasn’t helped by her waterlogged and sand-coated state after washing up on the beaches of what she concluded was a terrible and barbaric foreign nation. The weather and the scenery might be nice, but it was all for nought if those that governed it were so utterly and infuriatingly malicious and incompetent.
She very dearly wished she could contact the Overseer and recommend that he send ships to glass Drana Asnaeu back into the dark ages for their warmongering activities. They were no better than the Valheimians—just weaker.
Unfortunately for them, they had more immediate problems to worry about, even if their itinerant moogle had somehow found them by studying the ocean currents. Éliane wondered if that was even a method that existed. Although most of her weapons had managed to stay on her body after the fight, her rotary cannon had briefly slipped away and in the chaos had partially disassembled, leaving her to comb the beach together with Esben to find the remaining parts for the gun. It was miserable work that left her cursing Isolde even more.
The two of them stopped in front of a metallic object half buried under the sand. “No, that looks like it,” she replied, taking the shaft and crank, frowning at its sand-covered state. “Not really. I would really like to talk to the Deputy Director again.” There was a slim chance she was still in Costa del Sol, but with Isolde having put out an alert for the guards… there was hardly a chance of returning to the city. “We should speak with Galahad. I want to see what we can coordinate with Edren…”