Name’s Jerren Thorne. Born and raised just outside Ul’dah’s walls, I spent most of my years keeping the peace with the Brass Blades—well, as much peace as there *can* be when half the city’s trying to rob the other half. I wasn’t a hero, not like those adventurers with glowing weapons and tragic backstories. I was just a man with a spear and a knack for spotting trouble before it started. My hair started thinning before my thirties, and my knees began to ache before my forties. But I kept on, because someone had to.

Then… things started getting *strange*. One morning, I swear the woman selling bread at the Sapphire Avenue Exchange looked like she walked straight out of a bard's fevered painting—legs up to the Twelve, eyes glowing like a voidsent, and not a wrinkle on her, though she’s been baking since I had hair. The Roegadyn blacksmith down the lane? Somehow’s got perfect teeth and a six-pack now, and his *voice*... I don’t even know what accent that is. And the clothes—gods, the *lack* of clothes! Even the Miqo'te kittens walking around now have this unnatural… shine to them. Not just a glow—*shimmer*. I asked one of them once if they were feeling all right. She just winked and said, “Just vibing.” What in the hells is *vibing*?

I’ve started keeping to the outskirts more. Too many… uncanny smiles. Too many folks talking like they’re reading lines from a play only they got the script for. I tried asking old Talan about it once, and he just shrugged, muttered something about "patches," and wandered off like that explained anything. Maybe I’m going mad. Or maybe the realm’s gone mad without me. All I know is, I used to wake up and recognize the world I was in. Now? Every day feels like a waking dream with too much skin, too many sparkles, and not enough sense.