They worked diligently, though it seemed to be to no avail. What had started hours ago as a mere- I'll take a glance- had eaten his entire afternoon unexpectedly. And yet there was nothing to be found. Was there ever anything to be found to begin with? Cups break, bend, fall apart. They were replaced. Why were they certain they even had it anymore?

Pulling open the last crate, Ceiro sighed in resignation until he eyes fell onto what looked like an old, tarnished goblet. Picking it up, he frowned at it. To be fair, it wasn't the first goblet they'd found, but most had a pair- this one seemed to be singular. Lonely, even, in it's casket of straw and wood. He could barely make out the waves etched on the side, but there was nothing particularly memorable about the cup. Nothing at all.

"What do you suppose this one is made of?" He asked, absently.