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Besaid was as he remembered it, with the notable exception of not having Jecht grumbling about the heat, the sun, the sand, the jungle - and not having Braska between them, admiring those same features.
The dock was buzzing with activity as sailors and islanders both hauled cargo onto the beach, waiting to be taken to the village. There were a few men hovering around the stacks of crates, shooting nervous glances towards him and his ship - and well they might. He had timed it badly; if he remembered correctly, by tomorrow the boats would have been reloaded, and by the day after they would not be there at all. He had tried to ensure that few ships managed to carry word of the grey ship, or the scarred man who captained her. He would have to see how things went, whether he needed to demonstrate the truth of the legends about him.
Tilting his hat to shade his face (and ignoring the voice that sounded like Jecht - oh yeah, like that's not gonna call attention to you?), Auron stepped onto dry land for the first time since he washed up on Bevelle.
It was almost anticlimactic - the ground didn't open, the ship didn't sink, he didn't drop dead on the spot. However, the workers closest to his ship flinched away from him, and those in his way scurried to get out of it as fast as possible.
Notoriety, as Jecht once told him, had its advantages.