Prompt 11: Ultracrepidarian

"Consider this," the old man said, still tottering down the road at a pace that just matched speed with a slug. "The barbaric people of the Steppes are faced with the opportunity to fall under the keel of the local Domans. The people of the Steppes will tell you that they would never do such a thing. They claim to be proud people, which is quite amusing in its own way."

Makoto Okeya's eyes were still staring skyward. They had rolled back into her skull so often enough that she was wondering if they were going to sever themselves and roll out onto the road.

Growing amongst the dotharl had trained her to always seek a fight, but she had always presumed it would have been a physical one. She didn't feel capable enough to win a war of words, especially against someone whose brain was more barren than the Burn. Spending time in Eorzea had taught her also not to quarrel with the hand that feeds you, which in this case was the old man. As soon as he was delivered to Ul'dah from Horizon, and the gil was in her hand, she could then consider severing his head with her ax. Until then, she had to keep quiet and bear it.

"I believe I already told you this," the old man started off again, adjusting his thick glasses that were just terrible enough to not allow him to identify his guide's black tail, "But I spent many a year amongst the tribes. The vicious Mol, known for their cannibalistic ways. The kind and gentle oronir, who basked in the light of the moon. The Borlaaq, and their crude, constant gestures masculinity."

There was a vein on Makoto's forehead that felt prepared to burst. With every beat of her heart it felt as though she was a step closer to her brain giving up and exiting the picture. It was with gritted teeth that they finished the walk to Ul'dah. And with unsteady hand that she left the old man at the Quicksand with his neck still intact.