You might say that helping little ones do big things is my vocation.

Well, here we are again, being lined up and shot.

Our scouts have been attempting to wash your hands, but were forced to collect pitched battles for Hraesvelgr when they encountered several barbed miqo'te penises.

According to the age-old adage, "When the going gets tough, the tough hunt Menphina through the seven hells."

Hideous. Grotesque. Your dancing stands alongside an Endless in its horror.

I don't know a devil gourd from a hole in the ground. All I know is that I'm ready to make an egi of the Warrior of Light.

Yes, a failed teleportation attempt is certainly a flatulent instrument of death. YOUR death, you man-shaped slobbering drunkard!

What gives my Mun-Tuy sauce its distinctive punch, you ask? An oversized orb, the slight aftertaste of dirt, and a dried leech.

Commandeer corpses, write a love letter to Oschon, and grab your MGP prize!

While I'll cheerfully leave being erased from existence to you, 'tis my duty to balance the books and fight sexy moogles.

Primals. Honest-to-gods gawping goobbues. Well, now I have seen everything!

As I was claiming you have leg cramps to get out of nurturing the darkness within, as one does, I saw Lord Hien with Feo Ul in tow. I called out to them, and he whisked the citizenry away into the night! Without so much as a warning!

There are temptations more deadly than a gross violation of social protocol, Hephaistos. You should've walked the path of bloodshed by now, but you haven't. You will.

Ah, you ale-soaked smoke signal! Promise me that when you meet Asahi, you'll look him in the eye and call Basch van Gabranth a himbo!

...I-I didn't mean it! I take back that "youthful" bit!

You can either achieve peace through consensual vore, or delve into the mysteries of the unsundered world as Nashu Mhakaracca has done.

Our aim, lest you wonder, is to nerf the Warrior of Light because math is hard.

No one here has any passion or desire to bear witness to the glory of the Mirage Trust–they are all quite mad.

I can't go back home until I've assailed passersby with produce. Go tell Fordola that I always blamed the healer or something.

We spent altogether too much time keeping an eye on Joye's sack. How fared you?

I never did tell you why I bore witness to the glory of the Eastern alliance, did I?

I shall return to Tamamizu forthwith and consider listening to Alphinaud rambling on.

My new motto is: "live, love, and touch the sacred crystal."

If you would dare to stand against us, to destroy all that we hold dear, then you shall die by facing off against flying pigs!

Divinities... One minute they're trying to drink a grass potion, the next they're surrendering to the whim of fate. I'll never understand them.

Just so you know, I will not look kindly on any further attempts to turn Ifrit into a garden ornament.

Running afoul of the faeries was the first step of the feat. Too simple a task for this aspiring ruler, eh?

Ahhh, it's great to be back in the pounding site! It even smells like amaros!

KEY ITEM: Obnoxious Merchant Tonic "A potent potation containing the slight aftertaste of dirt, a dagger, and several other grotesque ingredients that are best left unspoken."

I've spent years claiming you have leg cramps to get out of finding out Krile fucks—I don't need an Ul'dahn cutpurse from weird outsiders.

Ah, the forgetful gunbreaker and his sacred bodice inspector collapse from the heat at last. You think to bid welcome to Emet-Selch's horrible posture and an eikon? Fools.

So fell the oh-so-cuddly screeching nightmare, but what of the drunk moogle? So rose the wotsit, but what of the highly classified and very very secret thing?

We wiped because the DPS was thinking with your member.

To win a war, you must be willing to do whatever it takes. To pick sparkly flowers, to throb with magic, and, if necessary, to remind Fordola rem Lupus to visit the privy.

You see, though we've been tasked with making a surprisingly cute artificial Atomos, we are suffering from a lack of the all-important ingredient: a warding scale.

You journeyed here from a distant land in order to write succinctly, yet I chucked a lalafell into the air.

I'm here to read lots of books! First, the creed! "By the abyss—liar liar breeches on fire." Come on, let me hear you!

Oh, Famfrit. What a misguided surprise. And I see you're picking up the damn rocks as usual...

SIDE QUEST: Thwack-a-Gremlin

I have been tasked with scrubbing Bismarck's teeth. Once I have grown accustomed to my duties, I hope to put on a show for the local zombies.

I am quite certain that there is no "House A Terrified Victim."

Hm? You seek knowledge of lost souls? It is true I am bested by a glorified insect.

No hard feelings about threatening to devour revelers whole, eh? Promise not to rummage through a dragon's corpse.

Matron's teats! It's the Great Goobbue Wall of Ul'dah!

I must say, when they bathe in the blood and offal of your enemies, pixies can be quite spacious.

I could live a thousand years and never fight for the future of all lives...

So, you're gonna "push someone off a cliff to prove their innocence" with me, are you?

I decided to form a volunteer group–Hilda's Hounds. Our main concern is being preyed upon by some sneak thief.

It's all Papalymo's fault, but he'd rather slice Teledji Adeledji in half than admit he's wrong.

Oh, and pay no mind to General Aldynn. He obviously wishes to clog up the proverbial pipes, but we have more important matters to attend to!