The stairs leading up to the front doors of the Heliod Basilica were made of a multitude of colored stones, set into an ancient mosaic.  In the long ago past, holy men and local children would comb beaches and riverbeds for rocks that were just the right colors.  It was something like a game to the children, as that was the easiest(and kindest) way to get a child to do anything.  At the end of a day, as they carried their baskets and buckets back to the hill where the old man was laying the stones, they would compare their favorites from the day’s haul.  The darkest blacks and lightest whites were some of the best in this strange, rulelless game, but pinks and reds were even better.  The most sought after(and fought over) however, were blue.  

The old man, his name sadly lost to history, as many great artisans are, spent the last twenty years of his life working on this project.  Over the centuries it has been such a popular feature that many step deliberately on the sides of the steps, so as to not wear away the center of the piece of art each step makes.  Some even walk beside the stairs, and many have fallen on the uneven ground trying to save the mosaic.  There is one step that nobody sets foot on.  The blackest, and the whitest of all the stones that were gathered are here, showing a small scene of white on one side, black on the other, they intermingle in some places and appear to be fighting.  In the center, a surprisingly intricate heart is emblazoned in pinks and reds.  In the center of the heart is a keyhole.  The border is blue, and on eithe side of the step is large key, facing opposite directions.  On the top of the image, two keys facing each other, and on the bottom two keys facing away.  

On a bright, clear day, in summer on this world, light plays brilliantly on it, shining on and through the translucent stones in the heart.  A foot, clad in twisted black metal, comes down on the heart on its way up the hill.  The stones making up the keyhole crack.  One of them is missing as the foot comes away, perhaps stuck to the sole.  Another, and another crash onto this untouched masterpiece with reckless haste, breaking the edges and scattering the stones that come loose from the mortar.  

Gangly shadow figures in black iron armor charge up the stairs, chasing after women and children, flanked by the brave men in their lives, who flee up toward Heliod.  In their haste and fear, they still manage to smile at the man who makes his way down the hill, walking beside the stairs.  Not out of respect for the art, but to keep out of the way.  Now was not the time to put purpose and safety below beauty.  He wore a suit of white and blue, high tech looking like some kind of space suit, though without a helmet.  Over top of this he had a hooded half cape, and wore a sash of blue silk, adorned with bronze medallions.  

When the fleeing folk were past, he stepped back onto the stairs, and stood to wait.  There was a stone wall to his left, that supported another layer of the staircase, and he spared the briefest glance for the members of the crowd who were directly above him.  He called his Keyblade, of silver and(curiously, as it did not originate in this world) the exact same shade of blue that featured heavily in the mosaic beneath his feet.  He held his sword level with his cheek, parallel to the ground, his right elbow back and his left hand forward, in an extravagant sword fighting stance.  

As the creatures neared, they looked at him with hunger and fear mingled together.  The former was stronger, and so they kept going.  Suddenly it was as if the sun was directly behind him, a corona blazing behind his head and around his body.  The yellow eyes in their dark faces blinked closed mid charge, and those in the front never even saw the slash coming.  It was followed by another, and another.  Each was accompanied by a step forward, and the stream of Heartless was halted here, and began to pile up.  Some fell down the hill, knocking others down with them as they clawed and scrabbled for purchase.  The first wave was repelled in minutes, though he could see them regrouping at the bottom of the hill.  

As the light that surrounded him faded, he bent down, having reached the step with the heart motif.  He put a hand on it, and a bright glow flowed briefly from between his fingers.  When he brought his hand away, the stones were whole again, and save for a few stones that had gone missing, the picture was once more visible.  

“Pretty fighting, Kupo.”  

He looked up at the child’s stuffed bear that spoke to him from the top of the stone wall on his left.  

“Thank you,” he replied, “If you’re here to sell wares, you came at a bad time.”  He pulled the hood down away from his face politely.  

“No wares, Kupo.  I’m here for you,” he held out a sealed letter for the Wielder, which was taken and read.

“I don’t know Constantinople.”

“Ah, Kupo, in your region of the multiverse, they call it Istanbul.”

“I see.  Why’d they change it?”

“Who can say, Kupo?  Will you come?”  

The man looked up the hill.  There were other capable fighters at the Basilica, and it seemed the last of the citizens were retreated to safety.  

“Yes,” he said.  “I will be glad of work with a purpose.  Lead on, though you have me at a disadvantage here.”  

The moogle laughed, “I’m Moglanta, Kupo.”