The Errant Journal I
The Aetheryte Plaza in Limsa Lominsa is always a busy place filled with shuffling feet of all shapes and sizes, and noises from a multitude of moods and mannerisms, but the smell of the sea is as persistent and singular as the aether itself.
Along your way, a small tattered book catches your eye. All but the first page have been torn out or made otherwise illegible - whether by weather or by wound. It's obviously been here for a while, trapped in a corner with all the other refuse.
[. . . there is no date written]