The backstreets of Rabanastre never truly slept. Even in the deep hours, vendors hawked glowing trinkets, mercenaries swaggered with tankards of ale, and children darted between stalls chasing after half-broken toys. But one corner of the labyrinthine bazaar had grown quiet after the shouting match.
Sirius stood openly before the small, cluttered stall, the air still humming faintly with the turquoise glow radiating from the moogle's pom. The glow pulsed like a heartbeat, visible to him more clearly than the lanterns burning in the street.
The moogle, however, wasn't impressed by Sirius's solemn stare. His wings flicked, his arms crossed, and he turned his nose up defiantly.
"Well? You gonna keep starin' like I'm some prize chocobo, kupo?" the moogle snapped, his voice squeaking but sharp. "Or are you gonna buy somethin'? 'Cause gawkin's free but my tools ain't!"
Sirius didn't move at first. His cloak swayed lightly with the desert breeze that cut through the sandstone alleys, his eyes fixed on the pom as though reading something within it.
Finally, he spoke. "You see the world differently. The flow of aether—the lines of energy that thread through stone, sky, and soul—you feel them, don't you?"
The moogle stiffened. His little paws gripped his belt pouch tightly, ears flicking back. "Tch. What's it to you, hume? Most folks say I'm talkin' nonsense when I ramble about that stuff. Makes 'em laugh. Or worse, they think I'm cursed, kupo." His wings drooped for a moment, before he caught himself and bristled again. "And don't think you're special just 'cause you noticed, either. I've been patchin' aether compasses and busted crystals since I was a pom-pom high. No stranger's gonna tell me what I already know!"
He turned away, pawing at a cracked crystal lens on his workbench. His tone dripped with stubbornness, but Sirius heard the edge beneath—the defensive bark of someone long mocked.
Sirius stepped closer, his shadow falling across the clutter of gears and parts. "I am not here to mock you. I am here because your gift is rare. More rare than you know."
The moogle scoffed, wings fluttering in agitation. "Rare? Kupo, you think I haven't heard that before? 'Oh Nibelo, your pom shines funny, Nibelo, you feel the lines no one else does.' And what good's it done me? I'm still stuck in this alley, tradin' with mercs who wouldn't know an aether regulator from a chamber pot." His voice cracked slightly, betraying frustration as he kicked a loose gear across the stall. "You show up in a cloak talkin' all mysterious, sayin' I'm destined for somethin' greater? Pah. I've had enough of tall tales."
His name—Nibelo—hung unspoken in the air, carried on his own bitterness.
Sirius didn't flinch. His expression softened, though the weight in his voice remained. "Nibelo. I do not weave tall tales. I walk among them. Destiny is cruel. It binds, strangles, cuts lives short. I have seen it take everything from those who should have lived. And I fight against it. That is why I stand here. Because you can, too."
Nibelo froze. His pom flickered brighter at the sound of his name spoken so firmly, so knowingly. But he shook his head quickly, trying to shove down the strange pull in his chest.
"Kupo… you sound like a Judge with extra feathers," he muttered, half in jest, half in suspicion. "Always talkin' about fate and duty, always cloaked and lofty. Judges take folks like me away, sayin' we've got 'special talents,' then we're never seen again. Why should I trust you?"
His eyes narrowed. "You're strong, yeah. I can feel it. But strength don't mean kindness. Strength usually means chains."
For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint hum of the pom and the murmur of distant markets. Sirius let the words settle before answering.
"You are right to question me," Sirius admitted. His honesty made Nibelo blink, ears twitching. "I will not take you by force, nor chain you. You are not a soldier to be conscripted. You are a craftsman. A creator. And creators must choose their path."
The moogle stared, unblinking, his stubby arms still crossed. But his pom glowed faintly brighter, betraying curiosity despite his words.
Sirius took another step, lowering his voice, speaking not as a cloaked figure but as one who had walked loss and burden. "I do not seek to own you. I seek to walk beside you. To give your skill a place where it can shape more than trinkets. Where your work could save lives, Nibelo. Lives already bound to die."
Nibelo's ears flicked at the weight in his tone. He wanted to scoff again, to dismiss it all as another hume's riddle. But something in Sirius's eyes—calm, unyielding, carrying centuries of sorrow—stilled him.
Still, he bristled, wings fluttering hard enough to clatter the nearby tools. "And what if I say no, kupo? What if I wanna keep tinkerin' in my alley? Fix compasses for fools and regulators for mercs? What if this is enough for me?"
Sirius tilted his head, studying him. "Then I leave you here. Your choice is yours. But I will not lie—the world is changing. When chaos comes, your alley will burn as easily as a palace. And your scraps will not shield you."
The moogle flinched, his mouth opening but no words coming out. His pom dimmed slightly as he looked away, staring at the cracked crystal lens on his bench again. His paws trembled faintly, betraying the storm within him.
Pride warred with fear. Fear warred with hope. And above all, a gnawing suspicion remained—could he really trust this Sirius?
At last, Nibelo muttered, low and bitter, though his pom betrayed a brighter flicker. "Kupo… you're a strange one. I don't know if I trust you. I don't know if I can leave what little I got here. But… maybe. Maybe I'll hear more before I decide."
Sirius inclined his head, accepting the half-step without pressing further. "That is enough. For now."
The moogle puffed up again quickly, trying to hide the vulnerability. "Don't think I'm convinced! You just… you talk different, is all. Still smells like trouble to me, kupo."
And yet, as Sirius turned to leave, the turquoise pom glowed steadily, humming with quiet resonance.
Nibelo's wings twitched. His paws fiddled with the broken lens. His muttering followed Sirius's fading steps.
"…Strange hume… stranger still that you see me. Maybe too strange to ignore, kupo."