Cor heard the swarthy man reiterate his own question rhetorically, except he had also noticed him rephrasing it with a markedly perfervid shift in tonality, like he was waiting for his chance to chomp at the bit. At the exact moment his acquaintance pounded his only armored hand into that tattooed chest, he addressed himself by the peculiar name of “Jecht”, going on to also proudly declare, in the same breath, that he was both a “blitzball legend” and a “guardian extraordinaire”.

Based on what could be seen, the Marshal’s subsequent decision to turn his gaze, and the rest of his face by extension, away from Jecht as he revealed these facts to him carried a tangible risk of painting him as wholeheartedly unconcerned by such admissions. It was only a coincidence, though; scouting landscapes had become something of another hat for Cor to wear, next to training new recruits and hunting monsters, among other tasks. He was simply keeping an eye out for anything, or anyone, that might try to get the jump on them as they ventured deeper into the bushes, and that meant keeping chatter to a minimum.

Still, the Crownsguard veteran’s utter lack of response to descriptors such as “legend” or “extraordinaire” gave just enough information away to paint a more coherent picture of the officer’s opinion of such matters: He simply didn’t have one to share. Then again, when everybody calls you these things for so long, words like “legend” and “extraordinaire” lose their glamor. For better or worse here, it would have been completely safe to presume that Cor knew a thing or two about being a celebrity.

But, he also said so himself: Whatever titles he held before mean nothing now. Pretending otherwise was redundant.

“I see,” Cor said, coming across more lukewarm than a bowl of unseasoned oatmeal at room temperature, but nevertheless determined to address the catoblepas in the room, even as he carefully maintained watch over his surroundings, “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m not familiar with the concept of blitzball.” Thinking about the term, his eyebrows crinkled inward. “Is it a sport of some kind?” It was a shot in the dark, by all means, but a modestly guessed one, regardless.

Jecht

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If he were to be fully honest with himself here, Cor had meant for his question about blitzball to be one of arbitrary curiosity, a way to kill time as they both searched for signs of civilized life. Between perpetually eyeballing the woods for enemy movement and trying to ignore the perspiration that was starting to build up under his jacket, sports of any sort were the last thing on his mind.

Alas, by confessing his own lack of awareness of blitzball or what it entailed, Jecht took Cor’s admission and used it as a springboard to practically launch himself into a very loud and equally boastful monologue about “the greatest competitive sport in Spira”, speaking with the sort of confidence and joy that only the most diehard fans ever expressed. He may live inside the body of a warrior, but beating within his breast was the heart of an athlete; yet another similarity the Marshal could perceive between Jecht and Gladio, but could not appreciate in earnest on account of the former’s incredibly audible rambling about what he could only presume was his favorite pastime.

From the way Jecht made it sound, the premise seemed simple enough: Two teams of six players attempt to score goals within a time limit of ten minutes. He might as well have been speaking Altissian on everything else.

Terms like “barge” and “intercept” allowed Cor to mentally infer blitzball as a type of contact sport; it led him to briefly think of an old history book outlining the ancient civilization of Solheim, and one paragraph had mentioned a ball game that sounded vaguely similar to the one Jecht described, except the people of Solheim were forbidden from touching the ball with their hands or feet, and the game was consistently documented as having been played on dry land.

Unable to get so much as a word in, Cor still emerged from Jecht’s garrulous yammering having learned several important points, the most relevant of these being that he originally came from a land called Spira. Secondly, the people there just play sports while paddling around in giant spheres of water, apparently. But, according to Jecht’s exhaustively passionate insights into the various niches and tricks of the sport, most of which sounded closer to a love letter to his own prowess and ingenuity, Cor had been made to understand that those who enjoyed the game also took it incredibly seriously. It also explained his earlier bragging about being a “blitzball legend”, as well.

The former leader of the Crownsguard could respect the principle behind such devotion, even though he personally never found much interest in activities like sports. When your life is spent in service to the royal family, it doesn’t really leave a lot of room when it comes to pursuing hobbies. Five years in darkness all but erases the hope of ever returning to a normal life, anyway. As for what he did before then, Cor would much rather keep those thoughts where they rightfully belonged: buried and forgotten.

Still, for what it was worth to Jecht, his love for blitzball proved authentic and intense, and the sport itself seemed novel enough. Maybe when the shock of seeing sunlight and the broader spectrum of colors again fully wears off, he might just pick his brain about the subject later on, Cor considered.

Until then, the Marshal stayed his tongue, just long enough for it to dawn on Jecht that he was monopolizing the conversation. He didn’t need to interrupt him, either; Jecht would have found out sooner or later. He issued a dry chuckle, “Don’t apologize for being passionate about what interests you,” said Cor afterward, casting Jecht a partial glance in his direction, “Besides, it sounds like fun.” Who knows? Maybe he’ll start a new craze.

“I never did play any sports, myself,” the Marshal eventually admitted aloud, unafraid of whatever perceptions may arise from it. “I’ve been a soldier for…well, just about my entire life, really. Since I was thirteen, anyway.” Everything about him, from his inflections to his manner of dress to his choice of weaponry to the way he gingerly manipulated them even as they remained in their sheaths, was a direct reflection of this one unalterable fact. “I didn’t have many opportunities to watch sports, much less play them.” The more he tried to think over it, the less he could actually remember about what Eos had been like before the Long Night descended, until Cor eventually arrived at a possible answer. “I suppose Totomostro was the closest thing we had, but I never indulged in it. I’m pretty certain that gambling on monster fights doesn’t qualify as a proper sport, either.” The Marshal shrugged indifferently. “But, what do I know? You’d be pretty surprised at how popular it was.” Past tense. Old habits and all that.

Jecht

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Cor didn’t need to be an expert in behavioral analysis, much less know how to read the feelings of other people, to sympathize with what Jecht must have felt after he heard him speak about committing the majority of his own life toward serving in the military. His reaction would have been purely natural here, and possibly even relatable, but instead of confronting these difficult emotions, he opted to reflexively veer away from them by accusing the Marshal of being “grouchy” on account of his own world lacking adequate sports entertainment. Sure, that’s what it was.

Just as Jecht prepared to illustrate his opinions about the etymology of Altissia’s favorite pastime without any external prompting whatsoever, he interrupted his own stream of consciousness by suddenly issuing an order to stop and pause, raising a hand up as a signal for Cor to do the same; the Marshal quietly obliged, ready to draw Kotetsu at the first drop of a pin; a fully trained response on his part. Stranded in the middle of uncharted territory, there was no telling what sort of creatures inhabited this place.

As Cor turned his head to ask Jecht for an update, he was given a firsthand exhibition of the stranger’s demonstrably singular personality when he took to snorting and sniffing the air like a hungry wild boar scavenging for truffles, showing all the expressions of one in the process. Eventually, he called the scent of grilled meat to the Marshal’s attention, which prompted Cor to lift his nose up to the air and softly inhale. Sure enough, the aroma of charred foodstuffs wafts by with a markedly tantalizing suggestion, lending veracity to Jecht’s assertions that its presence was, for all intents and purposes, out of place here.

Come to think of it, even Gladio could smell the fragrance of freshly-prepared Cup Noodles^® in the middle of a hurricane.

“Being completely honest with you, probably not,” Cor answered as he tried to hone his sense of smell on the potential source of the delicious odor, or at least its general direction. It was not a criticism, but his matter-of-fact intonations did nothing to make it sound any less similar to one. “I doubt that whoever’s cooking will appreciate us trespassing on their property, assuming they live in this area.” A reasonable assumption to make, given what little they knew of their immediate surroundings. He tilted his head down and continued, contemplatively, “We also run the risk of getting lost entirely if we try to leave it to chance.” It hardly took Cor any time to reach a decision that he could assuredly relay to Jecht, especially since he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d already made his choice by now, and that it most likely did not require the Marshal’s consent. “For now, I’ll hedge my bets and follow your lead. If we’re fortunate, we may receive directions.” No promise for food is made, even if it rested as an expectation on Jecht’s mind.

Jecht

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Even when offered the lead on which course of action to take next, Jecht still took the time to vocally acknowledge the likelihood of Cor’s theory holding weight, even if it sounded closer to reluctant deference. It was worth considering here; a pair of strangers carrying weapons out in the wilderness were certainly liable to draw suspicion, especially if they were to try and impose themselves on whatever food was being cooked, which was just unmannerly behavior in general. Scary, indeed.

Still, it had come as a quiet surprise to the Marshal to hear his circumstantial companion decide it was worth following the advice that had been given to him and keep pressing forward, hunger pangs (and his own feelings of disappointment) be damned. Had the transition between his own world to this one played havoc on his metabolism?

Unless he simply asked Jecht, Cor thought, it was hard to say here, especially since he could still taste the MRE ration he had eaten before…well, before all of this. Even after the world came burning to the ground, the lettering on the package still had the audacity to call its contents a “vegetable cheese omelet”. And not even “Cor the Immortal” could stomach the taste of the vegetable cheese omelet MRE.

Cor merely grimaced as he tried to forget the malingering aftertaste of ill-flavored egg product, yet he remained confident in Jecht’s decision to push forward until they could properly satisfy their growing appetites for some real, and proper, food. “Very well. I’ll be right behind you,” the old soldier reaffirmed in his usual measured manner, letting his more brazen counterpart take point once again while he settled on acting the role of rear guard.

As they ventured deeper into the tepid jungles that hugged the foreign shorelines, the Marshal continued to split his cognitive focus between several tasks at once, the most important of these being to memorize this new environment in case further exploration was warranted later down the road, while another had been to keep an eagle’s eye out for any possible predators prowling amidst the treetops and forest basin. So far, he’d spotted nothing dangerous, but that wasn’t to say the situation couldn’t change at any moment.

Jecht, on the other hand, seemed more than eager to run off the implication that Cor would relate to how he perceived their shared predicament, lamenting that he didn’t have a “movie sphere” to capture the moment before devolving into yet another self-aggrandizing tirade about being some kind of “space and time connoisseur” and how the people he knew were likely to be jealous of his adventures. Although the Marshal couldn’t align with Jecht’s wishful thinking, he could at least recognize an underlying pinpoint of sentimentality beneath all the bragging and chest-puffing.

Sadly, it was hard to play along with these thoughts, as well. Being who he was to the people that knew him or served under his command, nobody would allow the Marshal to live it down if they were to ever discover that he had somehow crossed over into a world completely separate from Eos and lived to speak of the tale, where it would become yet another notch on his “list of exploits”, another win for the legend of “Cor the Immortal”. He never enjoyed hearing rumors about himself. It felt even worse when people believed them.

But, between mulling over his own insecurities or listening to Jecht inflate himself like an hot air balloon fueled entirely on ego, Cor settled for a third option instead, this being to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I suppose this place would look nice on a postcard…” he expressed, if only to show a splinter of awareness for the latent serenity of these new environs. As a crab scuttled close by, Cor thought back to the earlier scent of roasting meat, even as he silently considered its diminutive stature to be rather bizarre, given the natural immensity of the crustaceans found on Eos. “What sort of food do you enjoy? A good connoisseur ought to have well-established preferences when it comes to haute-cuisine.” He took a short glance in the direction of the ocean. It might be worth trying to fish for a meal later on, once they were both in the arms of relative safety.

Jecht

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