 | Name | Brahe’s Notes (I) |
| Type (Ingame) | Quest Item | |
| Family | Non-Codex Series, Chevalmarin Amusement Park Commemorative Map | |
| Rarity |  |
Item Story
| ... The arrangement of the treasure vault is pretty much complete. Without the help of these little weasel friends, I'd have no idea how to transport so many Iron Coins here without anyone noticing. So, to commemorate their service (and hard work), I'll call these little critters "Weasel Thieves," and grant them the title of "Official Treasure Hoarders" from now on! ...Just kidding. If Miss Alia knew, in the afterlife, that I was giving wild weasels such absurd names, she'd probably jump right out of the Pillar of Embla and beat me up. There's no way I can call them that... Unless, of course, I were to write poetry in the future and fail to come up with any other name, or if no other name would make the rhythm and meter work. I have to say, Father had a real eye for hiding secret funds. This place is so well-concealed that not only would it be unlikely for anyone to stumble upon it, even wild weasels would have a hard time squeezing in here without guidance. It's such a pity that his foresight has only ever extended so far. Even when Rotwang used him up to the hilt, he never harbored the slightest suspicion. Ultimately, the secret funds he hid here back then were only stolen because those two old geezers, Avrelian and Silvestr, came snooping around and coaxed the words out of me. By Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa! I was only five years old! Two young men playing good cop and bad cop, using both carrot and stick to get a five-year-old to talk. What normal human could come up with that? Actually, forget humans, what normal fae, jinn, seelie, specter, lochfolk, phantasm, or whatever creature would even think of this? Sacred heirs of the Frostmoon Scions indeed, what rotten, immoral behavior! Father chewed me out for three days afterwards, and even the Petrichor vacation I'd been promised got washed out. That said, that place got washed out later, too. What's more infuriating is that when I brought this up to Silvestr a while ago, he actually claimed he couldn't recall how he'd deceived me back then, just that Avrelian claimed to want the children to lead better lives. I completely understand their thoughts and actions: return all the wealth Father had plundered to those poor children. It was the right thing to do... But, really, did they have to do it through ME? Was I really the sole avenue through which a breakthrough could've been made, gentlemen? Besides — and Silvestr probably doesn't know this — the secret funds they stole, pretending to be chivalrous outlaws who robbed the rich to help the poor, were back in Father's coffers in less than three days — several times the original amount, extorted from other sources. Those self-important profiteers can always rake in wealth without lifting a finger, while the venal sycophants who surround them twist it into proof of their masters' innate diligence and wisdom. No one could become that rich otherwise, surely! The game of robbing the rich to feed the poor only adds weight to the shackles of the impoverished. As Miss Alia's terrifyingly gloomy sister once told me: no matter how pure the water of goodwill, if it falls on soil poisoned with malice, seeds of evil are the only things that will grow. Avrelian probably realized this eventually, but his Elysium — no matter how firmly he believed it existed on Earth — remained much too far from those truly suffering in poverty. After all, how can someone who has never known a moment of kindness, someone constantly insulted and harmed, be expected to believe they should love their neighbor... or even their enemies? Neither Avrelian nor Miss Alia had ever answered that question. They were both kind people who imagined people to be better than they really were, believing that virtues and ideals could overcome the evil bred by circumstance. Unfortunately, I am just a selfish nobleman, and I lack their kindness. (I suspect Avrelian felt the same. After all, in his eyes, there has probably only ever been one truly kind noble in this world.) The things I've witnessed leave me unable to hold such idealistic confidence in human nature. It's barely been a decade since Miss Alia's sacrifice, and those bandits who scattered like frightened birds and beasts have already begun brazenly misusing Avrelian's words to justify their atrocities against the innocent. Whether it's wandering merchants barely scraping by, or overworked laborers starving for their next meal, anyone could be branded a "lackey of princes" or a "traitor who betrays his brothers and neighbors," and therefore "ripe for their noble robbery." Those who came before overcame evil with noble ideals. Now, the bandits who claim to be their successors wave the same banner, declaring that anyone who opposes them is an enemy of those noble ideals, thus embodying the very evil that was once defeated. I can send the bandits who committed atrocities in the name of Reed Miller and oppressed the laboring poor to the Eye of Kratti, where they'll sleep with the fishes for good. In fact, I have already done so. But what about after I die? Who can guarantee that those once-noble ideals won't be twisted into crimes even I can't imagine? Al-Ahmar could not guarantee it, Erinnyes could not guarantee it, Xbalanque could not guarantee it, the noble lords of Mondstadt aristocracy failed to guarantee it, nor can the Frostmoon Scions guarantee it. And some so-called "Master Thief Reed Miller" will surely fail to guarantee it. Evil comes from humanity as naturally as honey from a hive. I'm neither Avrelian, nor Silvestr, nor Miss Alia, who enchants me so. I cannot place all my hope in human nature the way they did. I don't want the name of Master Thief Reed Miller to fade into history, forgotten by all. What's more, I don't want that name, and the ideals it once stood for, to be twisted by future villains and reviled by the public. Hence, there's only one solution I can think of — let these so-called ideals be buried by history. Let us smother them beneath countless contradictory, absurd, laughable yet irresistible stories, until every trace of meaning is worn away and only a sweeping legend remains. This way, anyone who commits evil in our name will never be mistaken for a serious idealist. Rather, they shall be dismissed as childish dreamers, drunk on romantic tales. Greed always outlasts ideals. At least, that's what I believe. As long as the tale of the Great Treasure continues to be told, there will always be gamblers dreaming of making a fortune overnight, repeating the name of the "Master Thief Reed Miller" endlessly. Better a harmless name — one that lets the poor laugh from the heart, one that gives them just a little more courage to face tomorrow — than a banner that villains would seek to claim. If the rebels of some future age truly need a new banner, they will find a hero who belongs to their own time. And whatever that hero's name may be, it should never be "Master Thief Reed Miller." ... |
And here i hoped Wolfs gravestone would still be a great fit. Both in vanity and practice.