Zveran goes to draw throwing knives, taking aim at the leader.

"Not worth it."

“He may come back for you. I’d say that’s worth it.”

Shrug. (And near-palpable confusion.) "Maybe. Maybe not. Your choice."

Zveran looks at them, frowning, but he takes his hands from his knives. “Who were they?”

"My owners."

“You were a slave?”

They shrug again. "Something like that."

"Well, no longer. You'll never suffer under a master again."

Silence.

"Pretty sure of that aren't you?"

"With complete and definite clarity."

They shake their head. "Was sort of the plan anyway. Didn't expect to run into them."

"The past always does have a strange way of reappearing when you need it least."

"Now that's the voice of experience."

"Mine was not so dangerous as yours. Someone I cared about very much died, and suddenly I had to take up her mantle, just what I had fought against for years."

"-my apologies. That sounds...difficult."

"Oh, you know. At least I know what's coming at the end of my Pilgrimage."

"-You're a summoner?" Something about that has them on edge again.

"For my sins, yes. That upsets you?"

They look away. "I am- not precisely on speaking terms with Yevon."

"Either am I. I find them to be stuffy, pretentious, and most importantly, racist."

-Okay. That's a very definite impression of a sceptically raised eyebrow.

"My mother was Al Bhed. They'd rather I not mention it, lest their image of the perfect summoner is tarnished."

They snort. "Sounds like them."

"Doesn't it just? All of them, self-righteous assholes to a point."