Okay folks, here it is, a continuation of my character's story from the character creation thread. I'll try to keep the chapters coming as often as I can, but WOW! I realized just how long this takes. Anyway enjoy! :thumbsup:

"First, a character bio … for the impatient. :sweat:

Name: Aithar.

Race: Elvaan.

Gender: Male.

Age: 15.

Weight: 160 pounds.

Blood Type: O+

Eye Color: Gray.

Height: 6 ft 5 in.

Hometown: Kingdom of San d'Oria.

Main Job Class: Paladin. The “defender” class. Paladins are swordsmen with excellent defensive abilities and limited curative magic skills. Though lacking the strength to deal large amounts of combat damage, Paladins are nonetheless critical to the success of a good party because of their toughness. Monsters that can rip the all-important White Mage of the party to shreds in seconds can barely scratch the Paladin. This class also employs shields in combat to a greater effect than any other can.

Sub-Job Class: Warrior. The Warrior subclass benefits the Paladin by increasing physical strength, and, more importantly, giving the Paladin the boldness to “taunt” foes, drawing their attention, and thus their assault, to the person whom they can hurt the least.

Other jobs: White Mage, Beastmaster.

Guild: Alchemist’s Guild: The Paladin’s low-level White Magic cannot cover for every possible situation, and so the knowledge of potion-making supplements the Paladin by providing him with an alternate means of party support.

Pet: Menniker, a falcon. Menniker is not much of a pet in the traditional sense of the word; he comes and leaves as he pleases, but has a special affinity for his master.

Strength: 4/10. Despite his extensive training in the combative arts, Aithar prefers to parry with his sword than to stab with it.

Defense: 10/10. The staple of any Paladin’s role alone or in groups.

Accuracy: 6/10. If Aithar attacked more, he would hit more …

Agility: 5/10. Tall and lanky, Aithar is not markedly speedy, but not too slow to dodge and duck when necessary.

Mind: 9/10. Always a bright student, Aithar’s intelligence was a great help in his training as a White Mage. Perceptive, quick-thinking, and naturally attentive, he seeks to understand what he observes, and to pursue an ideal in all that he does.

Luck: 3/10 Aithar does not trust much to chance, which is good. He has a knack for winding up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it speaks for the sharpness of his mind that he has yet to fail to turn the tide in a fight through the use of a hurriedly formulated stratagem.

Charisma: 7/10. Aithar has a way with words – most of the time. He can be deceptively manipulative, and would be more often if not for his natural altruism and high morals. He would get away with it, too, because by being understanding and speaking inspirationally, he can make himself out to be anybody’s friend. He does end up putting his foot in his mouth every once in a while – usually when the opposite sex is involved. He also has a tendency to get on people’s nerves by not knowing when to lay a discussion to rest.

Weapons of Choice: Longsword, spear, shield. He has been known to pick up a bow on occasion, and is a decent shot, although he does not fancy himself to know the weapon skills of the nature-loving Rangers.

Ultimate Weapons:

Durendal: A relic longsword from the war twenty years ago, wielded by the Hume tragic hero Hector. In his travels, it will become blessed and enchanted with powers making the blade the bane of the undead; the tradeoff will be that it can only be notched or broken by cursed weapons.

Aiglos: Aithar cannot yet wield this spear with the consummate skill that the legendary figure Gil-galad is said to have displayed, but when he ventures to use it he fights formidably nonetheless. Imbued with the spirit of Eurus, the east wind, it heightens his already extraordinary jumping and falling abilities.

Mirrored Shield: Not a unique item, it is used throughout Vana'Diel by skilled Paladins. Aithar has the somewhat limited ability to channel his few White Magic skills into it, allowing the shield to serve as a ward against evil and illuminate dark places.

Armor of Choice: Anything shiny and holy-colored. Aithar likes the feel of dragonhide on his skin. He has an affinity for armor made to resemble beasts, although as a Paladin he cannot wear such gear.

Ultimate Armor: Sanctificatus Totus: Light and maneuverable, this armor makes life easier for Aithar by being low-maintenance, all-weather, and versatile. It does little to increase his defense, which would be a waste since Aithar can parry and shield with enough skill to take care of the entire party.

Bio: (Uematsu: "Prelude," FFVII OST) The true circumstances of his birth are not what he thinks. Although occasionally haunted by flashbacks of a barren icy wasteland, he only remembers growing up in the big, busy city of San d’Oria, training every day to become a high-level Warrior/White Mage and one day receive his Paladin job class crystal. His guardian, an elderly sage known as Thunderhawk, went to great lengths to secure him the highest-quality education available in San d’Oria. After studying single and large-scale combat intensively, he came to the conclusion that "Defense is EVERYTHING in battle," a philosophy he stubbornly sticks to even when the situation calls for offensive might.

(Uematsu: "Terra," FFIX OST) Aithar is caught up in mysteries that he'd rather not be. Once, at the age of eleven, while "exploring" the calm forests outside of "Sandy," as he refers to his hometown, he stumbled upon a group of wandering TaruTaru ascetics. They were shocked to see him, and muttered among themselves while Aithar looked on, puzzled. When they cried out to him in Latin, he was taken aback, expecting them to speak the common tongue, but he responded in the same language they spoke in; he had known how to speak Latin all his life. He mistakenly believed his mentor Thunderhawk had taught him when he was very young. The ascetics circled around him, bowing and chanting about the heir of Morpheus and the blood of Kain. He asked them what they were talking about; he was but a simple Elvaan boy from Sandy. They attempted to explain to him that he was directly descended from the god of dreams, Morpheus, who had had a child by a woman believed to be the daughter of the Dragoon from the legendary stories, Kain. They went on to tell him that he would rise as one of the deific heroes who would answer the threat of the Shadow in Vana'Diel.

(Creed: "Bullets," Weathered) Aithar would have no part of it, though. He grew angry and shoved them away, running off through the woods. Before he could escape, though, one of the Tarus threw a silvery spear, set with emeralds, which landed near Aithar. He picked it up and examined it. "Aiglos" was written on it in shining green lettering. Believing, and at the same time wishing he did not, that it was the spear from the legends told of Gil-galad, he dashed off. Hiding the spear in a safe and secret place, he went home. He told nobody about the incident. "I am but a simple Elvaan boy from Sandy," he repeated to himself every night. At times, he insisted to himself, "I'm not part of any prophecy. I will not let anything be 'fulfilled!' It's all a lie!"

(Uematsu: "Ahead on our Way," FF5 OST) Now the day has come on which Aithar will be awarded his Paladin job class crystal. Ready to set out into the world and win fame for his name and nation, he purchases Durendal from the auction house, outbidding the richest lords and ladies, with the gil he has been saving all his life for this day. Aithar secretly promises himself to stay far from the dread castle Xacabard, fearful of any strange prophecies or legends involving him.

(Lord of the Rings OMPST: "The Council of Elrond") But Aithar cannot escape his destiny. The Crystals will it to be so. He shall undergo a harrowing defeat and arise as the descendant of Morpheus, wielder of Aiglos, the blood of Kain running through his veins. And as he steps out of San d'Oria, the world stretching out before him, he hears a whisper from the heavens. "The new powers draw near. You shall lead those who receive them!"

Appearance: Elvaan Male 7A, tall and of medium build. His appearance does not fit that of a stereotypical "tank," but that is what he is nonetheless. He has a reassuring smile, and his gray eyes are uncannily calm and alert at the same time. The gray in his irises seems to obscure something deeper. He takes pride in his pointy Elvaan ears, which stick out from the sides of his head, through his hair.

Personality: Aithar is an unfailing altruist. He helps people because he likes helping out. He can be seen casting Curega and Raise on the injured and Protega or Shellga on just about anybody. Aithar is extremely intelligent and was always a top student in school. His raw intelligence has since developed into military genius; in the heat of battle, people look to him for ideas.

Aithar is not loudmouthed or boisterous, and he has the gift of insight; he can tell things about people just by observing them, and wants to help people with their problems. He is quiet, loyal, and dedicated, with many good friends and no real enemies. He does, however, have rotten luck when it comes to the opposite sex; he has many good friends who are girls but never any girlfriends. This, too, is one of the many things destined to change about him in the course of his adventures. Aithar has a deep, unreasoning fear of the prophecies and legends involving him and will fiercely deny any historical significance surrounding him.

Clan/LinkShell: Aithar is a registered Wind Knight of the Majestic LS."

Chapter 1 next!

"1. Gemmae

(E. MacDowell, “Scotch Poem,” 6 Songs of Heinrich Heine) The south seas roared in fury and tumult, sending spray into the air, to be whipped by the wind along with the pouring, stinging rain. The dark, angry clouds covered only parts of the sky, but around Laqaan’s fishing boat, the rising and crashing swells showed much less ambivalence. It was a freak storm, as strange as Laqaan had ever seen in his long years making his catches and trading goods between Selbina and Mhaura. It was not a storm he wanted to be caught in, that much was certain. He would rather have faced all the pirates on the wide, open seas than be stuck in this tempest, and he clutched his Monk crystal at the thought of both, as if in a vain attempt to squeeze every last bit of power out of it.

Pocketing the softly glowing gem, he turned, and, as a particularly strong wave shook his vessel, set determinedly to his work. Despite the air of discipline and expertise he labored with, there was something about the speed of his motions that suggested suppressed terror. It was not odd for Laqaan to conceal his feelings in the pursuit of a more capable self-image, even when there was no crew around to convince; it had been one of the many lessons all those years at sea had taught him. That he let fear show through now spoke for the direness of the situation. He was handling it as though it were routine, though, moving back and forth across the ---

Laqaan stopped in his tracks and stood bolt upright, scanning across the pitching and rolling waves, struggling to hear over the storm. One moment he had been working, feeling pressed for time, but in control. And then … something had just become wrong, with the storm, with the boat, with everything. He could not quantify it, try as he might, but it was there, and he had to figure it out. The ship could take care of herself. He kept trying to hear, to smell, to see, but nothing looked, smelled, or sounded wrong. It just felt wrong. Was wrong. Wishing he were an Elvaan and not a Hume, wishing indeed that he were younger, he strained to pinpoint this unsettling presence. Then his heart jumped – for there it was.

Or, at least, there was the precursor to its rising from the deep, an area where all the waves were parted and the surface bubbled madly, like an alchemist’s cauldron. Laqaan felt the presence of whatever was causing the disturbance; it was as strange a feeling as he had ever felt, great and terrible, and at the same time so fleeting that he craned his neck over the side of the boat as far as he could, desperately trying to sense whatever it was with more certainty and definitive perception.

A hooded figure rose from the waters, its back to Laqaan, clutching a satchel that glowed strangely, as if whatever it was that was inside was so luminous that no physical covering could dampen its light. Laqaan realized now the reason for the strange duality of the ethereal aura that washed over him: it was this radiant sack that caused him to thirst deeply for understanding, and the hooded figure that terrified his spirit. What puzzled Laqaan, underneath the whole whirlwind of feelings he was experiencing, was that something, anything, should give him the urge to seek knowledge of anything more than how to fish well. He was a fisherman, not a scholar, and had never bothered to get any education except in the ways of his trade. Yet the desire gripped him and moved him, and so he held his breath and stayed silent, hoping that by observing he could learn more.

The figure loosened the satchel and reached inside. It removed a crystal, similar in size and shape to Laqaan’s own Monk crystal, similar indeed to every job-class crystal he had ever seen, but it glowed differently. The brightness of its sheen was greater than his or anybody else’s by at least a hundred fold. It was difficulty to look directly at it. The color it glowed was also different. His own Monk crystal flickered with a rusty orange glimmer; he had seen the fiery ruby radiance of the Red Mage’s jewel, the steel-silver light of the Warrior’s gem, the verdant green shining of the Ranger’s stone, and even the gentle sky-blue brilliance of the Paladin’s crystal, but never had he seen one of those ability-granting crystals glow such a deep cerulean blue. Laqaan’s mind raced. The legends … when all classes walked the earth … now he truly wished he had been educated … it was no use. He could not associate the color with any class, past or present.

Laqaan caught himself, surprised and taken somewhat aback by the change that had come over his mind. Such a longing for knowledge was almost foreign to him. As a Monk, he drew the virtues of simplicity and self-discipline from his crystal. Curiosity was not attributed to Monks.

The figure began chanting, its voice starting at a whisper and rising to a booming shout. At the heart of the bright blue crystal, a swirl of shadow appeared.

Startled and upended by the motion of the boat, Laqaan lost his footing momentarily, slipping on the wet, tilting deck with just enough momentum to make a thud that was audible over the storm. His heart began to beat rapidly as the hooded figure turned. The cobalt light of the crystal in the figure’s hands, shining up into his hood at an angle, cast an eerie glow on his face. It was saurian, the face, but not scaly or discolored. He looked like he may have been a Hume or Galka at one time long ago. The imposing visage of the levitating person reflected a feeling somewhere between annoyance and disdain.

“You have seen more than you should have.” Despite the croaking tone of his voice, Laqaan heard him loud and clear. “Do you know what this is, or who I am?”

“I saw nothing. I know nothing!”

“You lie! And now you must perish, for none can know of what has taken place here.”

“Who are you,” Laqaan demanded, “and what are you doing?”

“I am called Neker’jhat, by the one I serve. And as for my intentions, soon your soul shall know the truth behind those and all the world’s secrets, as every soul does when it leaves this world!”

(Uematsu: “One-Winged Angel,” FFVII OST) Neker’jhat flew from his state of stationary levitation, alighting on the prow. Laqaan extended the razor-sharp mithril blades from his specialized Monk gauntlets, steeled himself, and charged at his foe. Neker’jhat floated effortlessly out of the way, then turned and began to chant.

Laqaan recognized the beginning of the incantation. It was an elemental spell, and potent one, judging from the ominous sound of the words. He picked himself up and charged at Neker’jhat, running as fast as he could in an attempt to strike him before he finished the incantation. He leapt and slashed at his opponent’s arm, drawing blood, but the dark figure simply turned in midair and laughed. As he did, Laqaan heard a sickening crack, followed immediately by the sound of a torrent of water rushing towards him. Neker’jhat glided backwards to watch as the fisherman was struck and flung upwards by the massive pillar of water that had also gutted the boat.

He sped up into the air after the flailing body of the weakling, catching him by the cuff as he held him dangling over the raging ocean. Neker’jhat rose even higher into the air with his victim, intending to throw him down from a more impressive height, but the old man was not finished yet. Swiping at his captor’s face, he kicked free of his grip and attempted to clamber on top of him. Neker’jhat quickly recited another spell. A gentle green aura surrounded him, then a silvery one, then a yellow one, then a crimson one. Laqaan, feeling strangely affected by the power of the crystal that was now so close to him, gave a start: he had felt and understood the meaning of Neker’jhat’s magic. Suddenly the legend came back to him. Blue Magic … spells learned from monsters and other Blue Mages.

Realizing what he was now able to do thanks to the power of the crystal, pushed off the attacker’s head and fell through the air, repeating the charm exactly as he had heard it. It felt like second nature to him. The four auras surrounded him one by one … and he stopped falling. That particular spell granted him protection, speed, and the ability to levitate. Feeling empowered, he rose through the air to confront Neker’jhat.

“You fool,” he sneered, almost mockingly. “Did you truly think that a fisherman could contend with the power of the crystals and the will of the Shadow? None can, or should even dare. Do you think it was your own ingenuity that has kept you alive for this last minute?”

Laqaan made to speak, but was cut off by Neker’jhat. “Venite, flammae noctium! Venite, exite e manus meae, et vorate istum Laqaanem!”

Laqaan watched in horror as fire and hot sparks sprung from Neker’jhat’s open palms. Flame and heat enveloped him, and he dimly sensed his body falling away. Light blinded him, and he was no more.

***
(Uematsu: “Pandemonium,” FFIX OST) Neker’jhat watched the charred corpse fall to the sea. The storm was clearing; he did not have time to take precautions concerning the washing up on shore of the boat or the body. Ships passed through often, and he could not afford to be seen. Tying the bag with the Blue Mage primary crystal tightly, he sped off over land and sea, rushing north like a shooting star.

Mad, menacing laughter echoed over the barren icy plains at the edge of the habitable world. The will of the immortal Crystals had been defied. And it would continue."

2. Inceptio Viae

(Kondo & Minegishi, “Kokiri Village,” Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time OST) The sunbeam crept up the bed, up the sheets, across Aithar’s cheek and into his eye, only half-closed in sleep. Normally it took much more than bright lights to rouse him from blissful somnolence, but today was different. Aithar woke abruptly, wondering for a moment why he was so excited before it all came back to him. Today was the day … he had all the necessary items on the nightstand. He counted them just to make sure. The root … the stone … the vials … yes, they were all there. The rituals and trials involved in the acquisition of a new crystal made little sense to him or anyone else he asked, but tradition was tradition, and the way of the priests had to be upheld. That was how things were, in San d’Oria and beyond.

Durendal lay on the table, gleaming in the shaft of light that illuminated Aithar’s Mog House. He had bought that beautiful piece of artistry from the Auction House, using much of the gil he had been saving all his life for this week. He still remembered the looks on the crowd’s faces, the wide-eyed stares of rich lords and ladies aghast at the thought of such a valuable antique weapon being carried into battle by some no-name Warrior. That would soon change. Aithar was inspired to do some amount of good in the world by helping rid the countryside of hostile beasts, but he was also determined to win some recognition, at the very least in his own hometown.

Aithar gazed at the sword and his other equipment. He had seen no action during the quest he accepted from Balasiel, no orcs or goblins or quadavs. He had not bothered to slay the insignificant creatures that could do no more than nip at his heels, certainly not with such a splendid sword. Aithar wanted to save its first use for a real battle.

He sighed and jumped out of bed. That day will come, he thought as he put on his best clothes for the ceremony. Soon, too, he said to himself as he secured the sword, in its scabbard, across his back. Pocketing the items he was required to turn in to Balasiel, keeper of the Paladin crystals, he pushed the door open and stepped outside into the brisk morning air.

(Kondo & Minegishi, “Clock Town, First Day,” Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask OST) Aithar breathed in deeply, goose bumps forming on his neck as he took in the cold morning air. The street was not crowded, as usual, being in the residential area where travelers were seldom seen. Aithar considered visiting Thunderhawk to remind him that today was the big day, but he thought the better of it. His old mentor was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and his memory was, despite his age, still sharp enough to remind him of such an event. Without delaying any further, he set of towards San d’Oria Castle, planning what he would do after acquiring his Paladin crystal. He had enough gil to afford a new set of equipment, armor and all, but he knew that prices would be better and the goods of higher quality in Bastok. Or maybe I just want to avoid any route that takes me north for even a step, said another part of him. No. He quickly forced the thought out of his mind. Nothing to the north concerned him. Nothing.

“Bastok it will be, then,” he announced to no one in particular as he passed into the next district. The journey south was relatively short and not exceedingly dangerous. He did not like the aesthetics of the industrialized mining city – the maritime grandeur of Jueno was much more appealing in his opinion – but that was hardly a valid complaint. From Bastok he would head south to Selbina, and take the boat to Mhaura.

(Uematsu, “Castle,” FFV OST) Aithar entered San d’Oria castle and proceeded to the temple, where he found Balasiel and Thunderhawk waiting. Chiding himself for doubting that his old mentor would be present, Aithar greeted the two and produced the items he had been charged by Balasiel to obtain.

“I have brought what you requested, Father Balasiel.”

“Well done, and quickly, young one,” he replied slowly. Balasiel was very careful to be precise about everything, and so his speech, and his manner as well, were accordingly unhurried, if not unbearably deliberate. “The ceremony of the presentation will begin now. Thunderhawk shall be your witness, correct?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Thus we begin with a prayer to the immortal Crystals …”

***

The presentation ceremony was long and boring, filled with endless accounts of the religious history of the land: of the beginning of all things with the eternal Stone; of its creation of Vana'diel from the turmoil of ages before time; of the Stone's recession into the Unfathomable; of how the lesser deities, manifested in the form of the Crystals, gave rise to the Guardians, who were charged with the task of keeping the peace in the newly created world; about how some among the Guardians rebelled, and for the offenses of the rebellious all were sealed up in a place beyond time, where they fell into slumber; about how the deific but inhuman Masters, clad in scorching hot red armor, were appointed to continue the task of the Guardians; about how they could not and would not defend the Five Races from the threat of the Shadow; about how the Crystals distilled the essences of eleven great heroes from ages past, before time and history, into eleven primary crystals; about how the primary crystals were divided and distributed as a gift to the Five Races with which to fight the Shadow …

The histories and biographies lasted all morning. Aithar was comfortable, though, as long as nothing was mentioned of any prophecies. After that encounter with the ascetics four years ago, he had turned the library in San d’Oria upside-down, searching for any mention of Morpheus’ or Kain’s descendants, but could find nothing on the subject. That had been a relief. More than anything, he desperately did not want to believe that he was anything more than he thought he knew he was.

(Uematsu, “Victory Fanfare,” FFIX OST) Finally the exciting part came. Balasiel went to the altar and removed a Paladin crystal. Aithar’s eyes widened as he stared at the gem’s gentle, sky-blue glow. His heart raced. This is what he had been waiting so many years for … finally Balasiel placed it in Aithar’s hands. He could barely contain himself as he gripped it and felt its power flow through him.

It was such a different feeling than he drew from any of the other six crystals he had ever held. Gone was the brashness, the resolute nerve, and the attack-centered mentality of the Warrior. Instead he felt a new kind of courage, the kind that leaders have to show to reassure their people, to make them feel safe in his presence. With it came the desire to defend, to take blows in the stead of others, and to bear those blows with endurance and self-assurance. He also felt the selfless impulses of the White Mage, but to a lesser extent, and without the lack of confidence in his physical abilities that pervaded him every time he held the White Mage crystal. It was a unique experience, and Aithar loved it. He preferred this job over all others, as he had suspected he would. Finally he was presented with a Kite Shield and the ceremony was over. He thanked Balasiel and left the castle with Thunderhawk.

(Uematsu, “The Kingdom of San d’Oria,” FFXI OST) Thunderhawk smiled at Aithar. Aithar knew this was going to be a difficult moment for him. Thunderhawk had raised him since he was a child. Now he was finally leaving …

“Are you ready, my boy?” he asked.

“Yes, Thunderhawk, I am ready. Look after my Mog House for me.”

“I will. Go out and do your country good. I’ll be waiting for news from you.”

“You will hear of me before long. I shall win some fame, I promise you!”

“You do that, boy. Go now, before the sun is high or you’ll not make it far before nightfall. Go on.”

Aithar turned and began to walk away. He looked back, hoping to wave, but the crowds near the castle were great, and Aithar could not see him. It was difficult for him, too, leaving, but right now his excitement outweighed anything else. He half ran to the gates of San d’Oria, his mind racing with thoughts, hopes, plans, dreams, and fears, all stemming from the moment at hand. He could not wait to begin the journey.

So caught up in his excitement was he that despite his sharp Elvaan auditory senses, he did not hear the sound of so many pairs of feet dashing wildly over the plains just south of the city walls.

Chapter 3's a little big, have to post in two goes :sweat:

3. Maiesticus

(Uematsu, “Battle Theme,” FFXI OST) No sooner had the gates shut behind him, making an odd crunch instead of the usual thudding sound, than he heard a cry for help echo across the sparsely wooded plains. Aithar jerked his head to the right and saw a monstrous sight: a train of Goblin Thugs chasing after an Elvaan gripping a Black Mage crystal in one hand and a Link Pearl in the other, which he was shouting into. Moved by the newfound courage flowing from his crystal, Aithar took to his feet, charging at the beastly hordes. He could not let them enter the gates. But he had to let the Black Mage in or the unlucky traveler would surely die.

“Open the gates!” he shouted up to the gateman’s tower as he ran. Turning his attention to the running Elvaan, he said a quick, simple incantation and performed a healing spell.

“Thank you kind sir!” he replied hurriedly. As he ran past, Aithar turned to face the Goblins. He know he could not stand for long against them, but by the time the gate was opened and the sounds of battle echoed inside, help would arrive. He hoped.

On they came, and Aithar stood his ground. He realized he was not attacking at all. Even so, he was not letting a single Thug through, though there were many. The long, thin blade of Durendal flashed gracefully in the sunlight as he parried blow after blow. The Kite Shield worked well; for never having used one before, Aithar was learning quickly. Finally he slashed back, and a Goblin fell; turning, he shielded a slashing knife and then ran another one through. They were not dead, but incapacitated, which made Aithar’s job somewhat easier. He risked a glance back at the gate and observed with horror that it had not opened yet. He heard men shouting, and came to the conclusion that the gate was stuck.

“Fine time for that to happen,” he grunted through his teeth. Suddenly, one of the Goblin Thugs burst into flame. Aithar turned to see the Black Mage, who had been kneeling in a recovery prayer just moments before, on his feet and casting. The young white-haired Elvaan grinned.

“One good turn deserves another!” he shouted to Aithar, and continued casting. Aithar realized that his benefactor must have been out of mana before he had given him a chance to rest by occupying his pursuers. Now the Goblins were attacking faster, pushing Aithar back towards the gate. If it did not open soon … Aithar’s heart sank as he saw twenty more Goblins cresting a hill. This was no fair battle – it was an ambush, and it would soon turn into a massacre if something was not done. Aithar gave a start – an idea had come to him.

“Cast on the gates!” he ordered the Black Mage. “Force them open!” He could not turn to look; he had to keep fighting, lest he let any Goblins through. If they made it past him, the caster would not survive long … in a few moments it would be of no matter, though. Aithar had been backed up almost to the gate. Just a few more seconds …

A great noise sounded behind him, and the gates flew open. Before he could figure out what had happened, an Elvaan had joined him, knife weaving in and out of Goblins’ stomachs faster than Aithar could see. She fought with an impeccable sense of timing. Aithar attempted to continue fighting until the Elvaan gave him a look that said to retreat. He turned and ran back into the city. More people were running out to help, mages and fighters and even some Rangers. Aithar looked for the Elvaan he had saved. He was praying a recovery prayer again. Aithar knelt and joined him.

(Uematsu, “Lindblum,” FFIX OST) When they rose again, the battle was almost over. The San d’Orians were routing the last of the Goblin Thugs. Aithar turned to the Black Mage.

“You cast well, my friend. What is your name?”

“I am Saruman, a Dark Knight of Windurst. Who are you who are selfless and so skilled in the ways of defending?”

“I am Aithar, and my home is here in San d’Oria. I just became a Paladin today. May I ask what brings you here?”

“I was summoned here by the leader of my LinkShell, Arevir. That is her, who led the charge against the Goblins when the gate was thrown open. I have made this journey before, but on this second occasion I was beset by folly. When I left Windurst, I foolishly used my Black Mage crystal. Look what almost became of me! I am better as a Dark Knight, in any case.” Aithar gazed out at the battlefield. He had not thought of joining a LinkShell before. Now that he would be setting out …

“Saruman, do you think it would be possible for me to talk to Arevir? I would like to join your LinkShell.”

“You fought bravely. You have all the makings of a Majestic Knight. Which division will you choose?”

“Division?”

“Yes, the Crystal Divisions of Majestic. There are eight; one for each element of the world. Fire, Water, Earth, and Wind after the elemental forms, and Thunder, Ice, Light, and Dark after the elemental forces.”

“I see. Hmmmmm …” Aithar tried to decide.

Wind said the voice. Aithar listened.

“Wind, then!” he exclaimed before he knew it. He had been leaning towards Light, and then all of a sudden he had felt as if something else was in control. He was slightly unsettled by the strange feeling, but he chalked it up to nerves. Wind was great, he thought.

“Wind it shall be, then. I shall speak to Arevir regarding your induction.” Aithar smiled and bowed a little. He forced a lighthearted laugh, but the voice was still on his mind. ‘Nerves’ was a lie. It was not entirely correct to ascribe the term “voice” to impulse that had persuaded him to join the Wind Division. It was something akin to his perception of conscience, only more perceptible and somehow independent of his own thinking. Aithar tried to take his mind off the subject.

Chapter 3, part 2 :sweat:

“Your speech has the sound of one educated in rhetoric and the arts. Are you originally from Windurst?”

“No,” Saruman replied, “though I have lived there for many years. I am the son of Pontiff, and so my education was seen to.” Aithar’s eyes lit up at the mention of Pontiff, and Saruman noticed. “Do you know of him?”

“Of course! Pontiff was quite well-known before his … disappearance,” Aithar explained. He suddenly remembered Saruman’s mention of Windurst and decided to find out about Octavian. He remembered helping him save up money for a boat pass, back when they met as Warriors. Though Octavian was not of cheerful disposition most of the time, the two had become fast friends. The last he heard of Octavian was that he had reached Mhaura on the boat from Selbina without incident. He had been heading to Windurst.

“Do you perchance know a Hume of noble blood named Octavian studying as a Black Mage in Windurst?” Aithar ventured. He was surprised when Saruman replied.

“Yes, we studied black magic together, and soon he is to become a Dark Knight. I suspect that when he leaves he will head for Bastok to buy equipment.”

“Bastok? Really? That is where I am bound. Would you like to travel with me, Saruman?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot go. Arevir and the other members she summoned, including myself, are forming an alliance of parties to brave the dangerous way to Jueno. If you were but better outfitted, with some proper armor and a larger shield, you might be able to come along, but it seems you are eager to look for Octavian. Ah! Here is Arevir now.” And indeed there she was, tall and graceful, walking with an inactive Link Pearl in her hand.

“Young Paladin, you demonstrated true selflessness and courage in defending Saruman and the gates. Your qualities are more than the sum of your crystals’ powers. What is your name?” Aithar bowed deeply, feeling humbled by Arevir’s presence. He had heard of her skill in battle before, but he had never imagined he would see her fight. It was said she was proficient with more than seven crystals. In the average lifetime, it was commonly held, most people could develop adequate skills with four. Ever the ambitious soul, Aithar figured he would master nine or so.

“I am Aithar of the Kingdom of San d’Oria. It is a great honor to meet you, milady.”

“Ah yes, where are my manners? I am Arevir, the leader of the Majestic LinkShell. You strike me as an upright and decorous person, Aithar of San d’Oria, and you have vast potential as a defender. Would you like to join the ranks of Majestic?” Aithar’s mind raced as he tried to remember the proper etiquette for responding to such a proposal. Kneeling, he unsheathed his sword and placed it at her feet. A momentarily raised eyebrow from Saruman told Aithar he had probably remembered wrong, but Arevir seemed not to notice.

(Uematsu, “Figaro Castle,” FFVI OST) “I would be honored, milady.” Saruman squirmed, and Aithar gave him a questioning look out of the corner of his eye. “Division,” he mouthed. Aithar gave a small start. “Ah, yes, milady, if it pleases you, I, ah, wish to join the …” Aithar hesitated. The voice took over. “The Wind Division.” Aithar fought it off, struggled for control again. He calmed himself, but he was visibly shaken. Again Arevir overlooked it.

“Very well. Rise, Aithar, Wind Knight of Majestic, and I shall present you with your Link Pearl.” Aithar stood up and received the pearl from Arevir. For the first time after the fight with the Goblins, Aithar felt genuinely proud of himself. Saruman was congratulating him, but he was not really listening. Imagine that, he thought to himself. I have not taken fifty steps out of the city and already I’ve gone big. What could be next?

The euphoric feeling was jarred out of his head when he realized that Durendal still lay on the ground. Arevir gazed down at the blade; her eyes glinted, and all of a sudden, it was in her hand. She read the inscriptions on the hilt.

“This sword belonged to the hero Hector. It once had enchantments on it, which should not have diffused over the twenty years since its use … I will have them recast, for this sword holds but a shadow of its former excellence without them.” Arevir turned and walked over to one of the few Tarutarus who had been part of the battle.

“Come, Pito,” she said, tapping the diminutive mage on the shoulder. “We have work to do.” With a nod, Pito followed Arevir back to where Aithar and Saruman stood.

“Aithar, where is the nearest temple?” she inquired.

“A few blocks in, milady, no more than five minutes’ walk. If it pleases your ladyship, I shall lead you there,” Aithar replied with eloquence and a subtle bow. He grinned inwardly, glad that he had paid attention at least occasionally during all those stuffy etiquette classes.

“Very well then. Saruman, Pito, we go with Aithar. Lead the way.” Aithar calmly started down the road from the gate, heading back into the city at a leisurely pace. Although he appeared composed, it was all he could do to keep himself from exulting over his good luck. Excitement and wonder filled him as he speculated about what mystical powers Durendal was to be imbued with.

As one of the more "famed" writers of the site, I'd like to say this is a good effort and I enjoyed it. Anyone who frantically begged me for more chapters should show light and praise to this fine sport as well.

Hell, I'm up to chapter 10 on mine. ^_^; Check mine out too on Final Fantasy XI - Series 1 thread.

OMG /bow /bow thank you Magus! Your praise carries a lot of weight - your writing is excellent! :biggrin: I'll keep my work coming. Incidentally, do you think it's "bad business" to go back and edit your chapters? I'm thinking I should add some line spacing so it doesn't hurt people's eyes ... maybe diversify the textual soundtrack a bit too. Whaddaya think? :)

Following a loooooong delay, Chapter 4 is finally done! :biggrin: And you probably though I wasn't going to write anymore ;) (It's another big one, so a double post is necessary)

4. Ora Pro Nobis

(Yoko, “Deep Jungle,” Kingdom Hearts OST) The Yutanga Jungle was alive with tension over the disturbances. So many years of tranquility had passed, and now in a single night and day, two extraordinary events had taken place. When the moon was at its highest, one of the two-leggeds had begun cutting a path through the jungle. And as the sun rose, the entire rainforest had squirmed as it were in terror, for Ifrit’s Cauldron had arisen from its ages-long dormancy. Change was coming. It was following behind the evil presence that came with the dawn.

***

Irzentz slashed repeatedly at the thick foliage, determined to make his way to the top of the volcano before night fell. His long dagger was made for stabbing his unsuspecting victims’ backs, not for slicing vines, but he was better cut out for the task than any of his competitors. The fact that he had reached Yutanga and they had met their demise at his hands was proof enough of that, at least for him. He had taken special pleasure in slaying that infernal Bard, Kolech. Had Irzentz not put a knife through his diaphragm early on, he might still be subjected to his grating songs.

“Bloody fool,” the Tarutaru Thief spat as he struck a vine and some fronds with particular fury. “What’s he doing hunting for treasure in the uncharted jungles of the world anyway?” Irzentz had stood about as tall as the late minstrel’s waist. Certainly, he was shorter than any of the other unlucky people who had come on this expedition, except the two other Tarutarus. “‘Napoleon complex,’ my ass!” he snapped at nobody in particular. “That’s why the smart-aleck died. The others actually had a chance at finding all the priceless artifacts, so they had to go.” Irzentz had never had any qualms about killing people so long as they were either taller than him or hypercritical. He was a bounty hunter through and through, always chasing things more valuable even than the price on his own head, and that was a bundle and then some.

“Bleeding plants! Sod it all!” he roared as he fell to the forest floor, his foot tangled up in a vine. “Stuff the vines and the leaves! Flaming nuisance!” he cried out in his high-pitched Tarutaru voice. ‘Somebody’ had thought it comical once. ‘Somebody’s’ flattened remains were busy decomposing under a cement block in the Bastokian mines, too. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “And here I am.”

He stood at the foot of the volcano where the thick tropical forest ended abruptly. He looked up towards the lip of the caldera, undaunted by the long climb that lay ahead of him. “I’ll have it scaled in an hour tops,” he asserted. “Then it’ll be all mine.”

***

(Uematsu, “Melody of Corruption,” FFIX OST) For the first time in many long years, Neker’jhat stood with his back rigid and his face contorted in an unmistakable display of out-and-out frustration. He was at a loss for a means of draining the deeper reaches of the volcano’s crater without waking its guardian from its long slumber, a slumber which had recently become more of a light, touchy sleep, what with the recent activity of Ifrit’s Cauldron. He had failed in his last attempt to sneak a primary crystal under its guardian’s nose – the storm at sea had not been his doing, after all, but the Leviathan’s – and he had resolved not to let it happen again, or, if it did, to at least defeat the guardian rather than paralyze it and flee. Even after having done that to the sea serpent, its wrath had been dangerously destructive. If, by harnessing that power, he could possibly –

Suddenly it came to him. Why waste time worrying about not waking the guardian when it could do the work for him? It was so simple: cast a noisy spell, wake Ifrit, draw its attention elsewhere, sneak in while Ifrit was busy, and swipe the primary crystal. The question now was what to busy the guardian with while he slipped behind its back …

An enraged scream rose from the jungle, carrying on it obscenities and curses. Neker’jhat rose into the air and scanned the foot of the volcano for the source of the noise. A Tarutaru Thief was shrieking profanity as he attempted to climb the mountain. “Excellent,” Neker’jhat said to himself. Everything was falling into place perfectly. To think that only a minute before he had been flummoxed!

Ch. 4, part 2 :sweat:

After much climbing, slipping, tumbling, and swearing of oaths, Irzentz finally reached the top of the volcano. Adrenaline pumped through him, and a feeling of vindication excited him. No more bloody falling down. He would get the treasure, fire his gun, which was loaded with little explosives that the salesperson had called ‘flares,’ in the air, and his airship pilot would see the explosions and pick him up. He peered over the ridge, looking into the crater …

(Uematsu, “Battle in the Dungeon II,” FFXI OST) A man stared back at him. He had a reptilian face and wore a cloak with the hood down. Irzentz’ heart skipped only a single beat before he drew his gun, threw himself over the lip, and took aim. He had enough flares that he could afford to use one to dispatch this flunky. He fired, and the flare shot towards his victim … but there was no sound.

Neker’jhat had raised his hand, channeling the sound of the gunfire into a point in front of it. He raised the other and caught the flare in front of it. Both were compressed into spherical form, one bright and fiery, the other transparent and vibrating. He levitated them both high into the air, moving them about fifty feet apart. Irzentz had holstered his gun and unsheathed his dagger, but even as he began to charge, Neker’jhat shot up into the air, sending the flare and captured sound waves down to meet each other at the crated floor.

Irzentz rolled backwards, knocked off his feet by the blast. It went off like a cannon, and reverberated like a bell. He opened his eyes a second later and glanced at the point of impact, wondering why there was no smoke or fire. It was as if the sound had been magnified and the flare had disappeared. Suddenly, Irzentz was overcome by the strangest feeling he had ever felt. Righting himself from his supine sprawl, he sat on the gritty caldera floor, closed his eyes, and began to pray. It was unprecedented – Irzentz had never been religious, believing the gods and mythological histories to be images created out of people’s insecurities – but the urge was irresistible. Even as the ground beneath him began to quake, he prayed with feeling.
Even from an aerial perspective, it was a ridiculous sight to behold: an unpleasant, ‘tough-guy’ Tarutaru sitting in prayer as the volcano shook violently and the air became charged with tension. Smoke belched from the central vent.

“Here comes Ifrit now,” Neker’jhat said with the slightest hint of glee. “The destruction it causes will give me an easy path to the primary crystal.”

The rocky ground surrounding the vent fissured in a hundred different directions as the rumbling grew ever louder. Deep in prayer, tuning out the rumble, Irzentz thought he heard a bestial roar underneath the subterranean one. He was in a state of relative calm despite the obvious danger, gripped by the urge to pray to the Stone, Crystals, and Guardians. It was unnatural for him, but he acted as if possessed.

(Uematsu, “Boss Battle,” FFIX OST) A gargantuan fist shot up through the ground, shattering the rock and widening the vent by several feet. The shower of sharp rocks and the extremely loud crashing noises snapped Irzentz out of his stupor. A bipedal creature stood before him, its chest heaving and its eyes narrowed in an expression of pure rage. Its color was deep red, like that of a Master’s armor. Its face was almost canine, but it had ram’s horns, and razor-sharp teeth. Ifrit … Irzentz had read about this Guardian once, but, having discounted the text due to its religious nature, remembered only that it was a monster aligned with the element of fire.

“Aha! Lucky day for me!” Irzentz stood quickly, excitement and adrenaline suppressing the prayerful impulses that still tugged at the back of his mind. Reaching into the small treasure sack he wore in his belt, he pulled out two crystals. One shined light blue, the other a steely silver-gray. Holding the former in his dominant hand and the latter in his weaker hand, he drew on their powers, transforming his abilities from those of a Thief to those of a Paladin and Warrior. Having done this, he replaced the crystals in the sack, drew his long knife, and then produced a small yellow ring from his pocket. It was a thunder-elemental ring; though it would not absorb flames, it would nullify the beast’s fiery assault. Feeling rather proud of himself, Irzentz turned to face his foe. Ifrit had somehow managed to stand patiently and watch while Irzentz had done all this – patiently, and, though Irzentz did not realize it, rather mockingly. He was too busy wishing that somebody besides ‘lizard-man’ were around to see how resourceful and handy he was.

Neker’jhat rolled his eyes, half surprised buy mostly amused that anybody was possessed of such gall and stupidity as was all but necessary to believe that they could stand against a Guardian. He looked on as the fool darted around with his knife, trying to seem as though he was evading Ifrit’s all-too-motionless claws. Finally, the Guardian grew tired of watching, bent down, ripped out a large chunk of stone from the caldera, and tossed it at the scampering maniac. Neker’jhat chuckled – Ifrit had almost missed. As he descended through the hole that the beast had created, he caught a glimpse of the Tarutaru attempting to simultaneously extricate his brutally mangled leg and express gut-wrenching agony.

When he returned, carrying a large, maroon-colored primary crystal, he was taken slightly aback by the resilience and staying power of the diminutive fighter – he hobbled about the caldera, waving his knife and cursing.

“He deserves a death nothing short of spectacular, then,” Neker’jhat announced. Setting down the Summoner primary crystal, he struck Ifrit in the back with a paralysis hex, then proceeded to levitate his minuscule victim – by the neck, causing him a significant amount of pain – into the air, where he met him just above his head. With a quick motion Neker’jhat spun the flailing dupe around his body, moving him in a spiral from his feet to just above his head. Throwing his other hand skyward, he pointed straight up, and Irzentz shot off like a bullet in that direction.

Turning his attention to the volcano, he summoned the elemental forces of earth and fire to contract mightily inside Ifrit’s Cauldron. Hesitating only a moment to glide out of the way, he let go of the powers, sending a fiery sphere of molten lava up after the sailing Thief. Neker’jhat watched as it flew up, enveloped the tiny human figure, and plunged back to the volcano, where it landed, flooding the caldera and submerging Ifrit. Quite a show indeed.

Irzentz’s dagger, still hot and smoking after its trip through the blazing glob, fell at Neker’jhat’s feet. He studied it, and decided to take it along with him. The body was no more, but it still might be proof enough for him to collect at least part of the bounty.
Money was not really a concern of his but for the maintenance of his … persona. Picking up the Summoner crystal – even he felt the urge to pray, being so near it – and the dagger, he rose from the caldera lip and flew off, the sunset throwing crimson hues across the sky that seemed to reflect the unrest of the jungle. Cold stone or rolling waves would forget in time, but the Yutanga Jungle would remember the evil wrought by the Shadowhand.

Great job on the story, meus amicus, keep up the good work. By far the best fanfic I've ever read. :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup:

Chapter five's up! This one kicks serious ass :biggrin: As usual, another huge chapter requires another double post. :sweat:

5. Hoc Telum Argentum

(Kondo & Minegishi, “The Temple of Time,” LoZ: Ocarina of Time OST) Durendal began to glow faintly white, barely visible against the shaft of sunlight in which the sword rested on the altar. Pito muttered enchantment after enchantment as Aithar, Arevir, Saruman, and several other Majestic knights looked on. Aithar strained to hear the Tarutaru’s soft chanting. He made out the word ‘holy’ several times, ‘undead’ another few, along with plenty of ‘powers’ ‘banes’ and ‘spirits.’ They all seemed like typical weapon enchantments – indeed, Pito had drawn on his Red Mage crystal before he began his work – but there was something more to them. It was almost as if the sheer number of spells cast made for some kind of permanence and cohesiveness to all of them.

Finally, Pito stopped, bowed his head, and stepped backward. He looked exhausted – indeed, he began to pray to recover his mana almost immediately. Aithar hesitated, not sure what to do next. Arevir spoke up:
“Step forward, young Paladin, and take up your sword Durendal.” Aithar did as he was told, pausing a moment to hold the blade up over the altar. It gleamed in a bath of sunlight, and the steel looked reflective, almost liquid, as photons danced off of it.

“Durendal’s former properties have been restored to it. This sword is imbued with the holy aspect; the forces of darkness will fear to touch it.” Aithar began to grin. “Be wary, though,” Arevir added, with a look that said she trusted Aithar to listen well, “for just as Light Elementals are so often seen to fall to a blade imbued with Shadow, so will Durendal be susceptible to cursed weapons. Though no ordinary steel, no matter how hard and strong, will so much as notch it, a cursed scimitar – or knife-blade, or even claw – will damage and possibly even shatter this relic weapon.”

And if that happens, then what will you turn to? Aithar tried desperately to ignore the voice and presence. Tried to focus. But it came back … you know what you must carry with you, though you fear it. No! Aithar’s voice rang out in his own head. Ahh, but yes. Backup. Backup.

“Backup …” Aithar muttered in spite of himself. He hoped nobody had heard …

“Yes, Aithar, you bring up a valid point. You may need another weapon.” Aithar turned. A dark-haired Elvaan woman had spoken. His mind raced. They could not be allowed to learn of Aiglos.

“This is Dwimordene, one of our most learned knights,” Saruman put in with a smile. Aithar looked her in the eyes. Maybe she could help. Somebody had to know. Did they? Was it safe? Was the spear even tied in with all the other things?

“I have so many things – I’d have to go and look in my Mog House.”

“I’ll go with you, and help you decide what you will work best with,” Dwimordene told him. With a glance at Saruman, she said, “I am a weapons specialist, among other things.”

***

(Uematsu, “The Place I’ll Return To Someday,” FFIX OST) The creaky wooden door opened and Aithar slipped inside, followed closely by Dwimordene. In spite of himself, he had been half sneaking through the residential district. He was, after all, supposed to be gone, and he did not want to have to say goodbye a second time to Thunderhawk. The room, with the sun now filtering through the space between the door and the jamb, was somewhat dark, and dust could be seen floating where shafts of golden sunlight pierced through, but it still had its homey feel about it.

“I like having a bit of open space in my room,” Aithar explained, “so I keep most of my stuff up in the attic, and beyond. I’ll go bring some of it down.” Aithar turned, stepped over to a corner of the room, and pushed at a section of the wall. It slid aside, revealing a ladder. Without looking back, he clambered up.

The ‘attic’ was in fact a space above and between all of the Mog Houses on the street. The building itself was one of the older, more upscale San d’Orian structures, and, adding to the classy feel, had a rooftop courtyard and a bell tower. Aithar had once found a passageway from his ‘attic’ that deposited him in the bell tower, and so it had become a secret roost of sorts for him.

Aithar intended to rummage through his old equipment for some daggers and maybe that old war hammer. Instead he went straight to Aiglos. Removing the green cloth sheet he had placed over it so long ago, he held it up, examined the inscriptions, ran his fingers over the silvery shaft. He grasped the weapon tighter for the ambivalence that wracked him inside. Power, and destiny. He knew there was more to him. But he was resolute in his decision. Destiny was for those who were too weak to control their fates. He sought to make his own, even if it killed him. More than anything, he feared giving in.

(Uematsu, “Feel My Blade,” FFIX OST) A hand came to rest on Aithar’s shoulder, and his heart jumped into his throat. Dwimordene had followed him up – and seen the spear. She of all people would know of its significance. On the trip from the temple to his Mog House, she had given him a whole history of Durendal.

“I would very much like to know how you came to possess that,” she said over Aithar’s muttered curse. “Have you ever used it to fight before?”

“Never. I hid it away the same day it fell in front of me. A Tarutaru ascetic threw it at me.” She gave him a look that said she questioned that part of the story, but would let it go.

“I’d be interested in seeing you fight with it. The very fact that you have it tells me there is much more to you than meets the eye.” Aithar hesitated. “Now would be a good time,” she added.

Aithar led her up to the rooftop. The sun was just beginning to set, casting long shadows across the courtyard. They stood at opposite ends of the roof, silhouetted by the setting sun. Dwimordene drew a broad sword; Aithar raised Aiglos.

“And we begin.” Her sword shone like fire in the day’s last light.

Pointing Aiglos forward, Aithar dashed towards a long planter and dug his spear into the earth it held. He leapt and pole-vaulted over Dwimorene’s head, twisting in midair and giving the long spear a quick tug to dislodge it. He landed and swung; but she was quicker than he anticipated. She cut vertically and Aithar parried with Aiglos’ shaft. Dwimordene grinned.

“Jump more!” she shouted, swiping at Aithar’s feet. He leapt and thrust the spear at her on the way down, but she sidestepped it. Aithar landed awkwardly and had to roll out of the way of another slash. No more jumping, he told himself. Treat it like a sword.

He came back at her with a volley of quick, flicking strikes, but it was difficult using the spear. Aithar gave more and more ground as Dwimordene forced him ever closer to the edge. Just a few more feet and he would trip on the low stonewall and fall into the narrow alley formed by this Mog House complex and the adjacent, taller one. Taller. Wall! It gave him an idea.

He shaft-parried another strike, forced her blade away, ducked a horizontal blow, and sprung from that position into a backflip. With impeccable timing, he swung his body around, planted his feet on the wall of the other building, and leapt forward. Sailing through the air, he whooped, exulting over his stylish move, or at the very least he began to. Before he could get half of it out, a booted foot rose into his field of view, catching him in the mouth. Dwimordene had done a well-timed backflip of her own.

(Uematsu, “Game Over,” FFIX OST) Sprawled on the ground, he closed his eyes and tried to envision what had happened, but his head hurt too much to think clearly.

“What’d I do wrong?” he moaned, through a mouthful of blood, he realized. Picking himself up, he cast Cure and turned to Dwimordene to listen.

“You weren’t sure what your job was,” she replied. “You fought like a Paladin, and you thought like one, but you moved like a Dragoon. You need to learn to jump higher and faster, and to throw yourself down from the air.”

Aithar cringed. ‘Dragoon’ was not a word he liked to hear. Maybe he had been interested in it before that day five years ago, but never after that. He decided to play dumb on this point.

“I don’t understand. I’ve never heard of a Dragoon crystal.”

“There were more heroes in ages past than are represented in the crystals of today. The legendary figure Kain was the essence of the Dragoon. It is thought, though none know when, that new crystals will come into the world, one of them bearing the essence of the Dragoon. I should think that since Aiglos has chosen you, you would be interested in this lore!” They had walked down the passageway from the roof and had now come to Aiglos’ hiding place. Aithar had winced at every other word Dwimordene had been saying. Now, he knew there was a decision to make. She had already figured out so much, though Aithar had tried to hide it as best he could. Could he trust her?

“Dwimordene,” he said, placing Aiglos back where he had put it so long ago, “I can’t take it with me. It’s a secret that I have to keep. I’m deathly afraid of what will happen if I let it out.” She gave him a look that said to tell her more. Aithar balked only a moment before letting the whole story spill out. It felt so good, talking a mile a minute, finally being able to tell somebody what he had been hiding from the world for so long a time. He talked about the ascetics and the prophecy and his reaction. He explained, in the greatest detail, why he wanted to run from it all. She listened carefully, nodding at certain points, and Aithar knew she understood. Wisdom, he thought, makes a person completely trustworthy, and a good listener to boot.

When he finally finished, he sighed and covered up the spear. Despite her understanding nature, he was surprised when she did not stop him. He began to ask why, but she spoke before him:

“We’ll keep this between us, Aithar. You are right to think some of the things you do. And I agree that it is not time for people to know who you really are. Not yet. As for your future, only time will tell whether your will is a strong as your fate is predetermined. And what you think, and how you view yourself, may yet change. Now, though, I must leave. It’s getting late, and Arevir and the knights will be done at the Auction House by the time I get back only if I leave soon.”

Aithar grinned, feeling even more relieved. Taking an old dagger to show that this excursion had not been entirely in vain, he followed Dwimordene down the stairs. He did not even look back at the spear as the east wind sighed in the attic.

***

(Uematsu, “An Unforgotten Face,” FFIX OST) The stars did little to brighten the midnight-blue evening sky as they came out one by one, but on the streets of the San d’Orian Auction House, roaring torches flared bright as daylight to accompany the thunderous din of clamoring voices. Here, lords and ladies were just as important as strangers and other such shady, mysterious people, so long as they could continue to outbid one another. It was somewhat of a relief for Arevir, not having to put on all the pretense of the Lady Avatar of Majestic. It was small comfort, however, for her voice, worn out after a good hour of shouting out her bids. She did not particularly enjoy it, but the knights needed equipment or they would never reach Jueno without serious difficulties. She sighed and gazed out towards the darker streets.

Dwimordene rounded a corner and caught sight of Arevir. She motioned the fair-haired Elvaan to come closer, and she looked around to make sure nobody else was around to overhear them.

“You were right,” Dwimordene said in a low voice. “He is one of them.”

A pained expression came over Arevir’s face. “The poor boy. Think of what he’ll have to go through. And at such an age …”

“Yes, but there’s nothing that can be done. And when it’s all over … I cannot even imagine the limitlessness of –”

“Should we tell him, Dwimordene? Perhaps it will be easier for him if he knows what to expect.”

“The last time foreknowledge of personal difficulties helped anybody out was at puberty, and the even the helpfulness of that is questionable,” she responded, prompting a raised eyebrow from Arevir. “This is something bigger than him or any of us, and he must try to come through it – live through it, if what I’ve read is any indication – on his own.”

Arevir sighed. Aithar’s fate was troubling, but she realized she could not help, certainly not yet. “I suppose so. Is there anything else he needs?”
Part II

“Yes. He needs a recommendation for a good weapons dealer in Bastok.”

Arevir shook her head. “Dwimordene, have you forgotten all about Trigara?” she inquired, rolling her eyes. Dwimordene blushed slightly.

“Sorry, milady. I did.”

“No matter. I’ll tell him over the LinkShell in the morning. Better yet, I’ll send Saruman to see him off. He can catch up to us now that he has his Dark Knight crystal.”

“Good idea, milady.” Dwimordene shifted. She was tired from the fight. “I’ll head to the inn now.”

Arevir sighed, turning back to the crowded street. “Go ahead. I’ve got more purchasing to do. You’d think this rabble would just go to bed!”

FINALLY, Chapter 6 is done and up. Um ... you guys can post your comments/remarks if you want ... constructive criticism etc. ... oh, and this chapter is huge, so double post.

6. Tentatio

(Uematsu, “Aloha de Chocobo,” FFIX OST) The shaft of sunlight coming through the window had only crept halfway up Aithar’s bed before a knocking at his door woke him from his understandably deep sleep. Wondering what new setback stood at his doormat, he rolled out of bed and got dressed, muttering, “Am I ever going to get out of San d’Oria?” With an exasperated sigh, he strode over to the door and opened it as another knock sounded.

Saruman stood at the door, cradling an object wrapped in white cloth. “Good morning, Aithar!” he said. “How are you after last evening?”

Aithar forced himself not to raise an eyebrow, and chuckled instead. “I’m fine, after a good rest. She told you about that?”

“Yes. It would have been a sight to see, especially with your sword newly enchanted as it is.” Aithar relaxed. His secrets were safe, in good hands. He glanced at what Saruman was holding. “Ah, yes. I almost forgot! This is a gift from all of us to you for your heroics at the gate.” He uncovered a small bow, only slightly longer than Aithar’s forearm. It had an ivory finish and with it was a small bleached leather quiver containing a number of short arrows, which, by their collectively multicolored glowing, appeared to be separately imbued with all eight elements.

Aithar beamed. “Thank you kindly!” he said as Saruman handed the bow and full quiver to him. Saruman grinned.

“It’s not a very powerful bow,” he explained, “ but it’s accurate, and you can draw it farther back than most bows. If you pick the right element, your shots should have some stopping power, which seems suitable enough for a Paladin.” Aithar laughed and smiled. “The Lady Arevir would have come and presented this to you herself,” Saruman continued, “but Majestic set off for Jeuno this morning. Now that I’ve used my Dark Knight crystal again,” – Aithar eyed the crystal jutting out of Saruman’s pocket, glowing a dark and insidious purple – “they figure I can catch up on my own. That and I can rent a chocobo … anyway, they also sent me to see you off, so, ah, farewell, friend Aithar. Stay in touch over the LinkShell.” Aithar nodded.

“And fare you well, Saruman son of Pontiff. Until we meet again.”

“And that day will come soon, with a little luck. Oh! One last thing. When you reach Bastok, seek out the services of Trigara. He is a Majestic knight but a few months too young to come with us to Jeuno, so we left him in charge of the shop. Show him your Link Pearl for a good discount.”

“Right then.” Aithar bowed to Saruman and shook his hand. Turning, he filled his lungs with the fresh morning air. The rosy fingertips of dawn were receding back to the horizon, leaving it blue and clear, but just a little higher, a cover of gray clouds was beginning to roll in. “And I’m off!”

***

(Uematsu, “Far Away in the Twilight,” FFIX OST) Aithar had kept a low profile on his way out of San d’Oria, heading this time for the East Gate. He turned, moving with an unusual gait on the springy grass, and began to walk where his feet took him. After a few minutes of strolling, absorbed in his own thoughts, he looked up and saw a chocobo. Funny, he thought. It looks like Saruman. But he’s headed to my right, which is …

Aithar gave a sudden start. The city walls were on his left – he was moving north. Towards the ice desert of Bardnia, he realized, and winced at the thought. Towards Xarcabard, whereat the dreams warned he was to die.

Aithar’s legs were still walking in the same direction. He tried to move them himself. He could not. They kept on as if possessed.

NO!!! Aithar’s silent scream reverberated inside of him. The presence let his body go, but would not disappear from his mind.

Leave me! Aithar demanded of it.

How can I leave you? it told him. I AM YOU.

I am Aithar!

Yes, and I, too, am Aethar. We exist as one and the same, though I am the stronger of us two. Successive chills ran down Aithar’s spine. He did not want to struggle with himself any longer. He tried to block Aethar out. He would not leave – Aithar realized, with a turning of his stomach, that he never had – but his unnerving presence settled into the back of his mind, obscured by a torrent of adrenaline and thoughts. With one final shiver, he turned around and set off for Bastok.

(Uematsu, “Crossing Those Hills,” FFIX OST) The gray clouds that spread out over the land only added to the monotony of the journey south. It was not difficult going by any means, nor was it unbearably dreary, but there was little excitement in traveling the repetitive terrain with the unchanging overcast sky up above. What little excitement there would have been – at the prospect of leaving home and seeing the world – was suppressed by a blanket of uneasy thoughts hanging over his mind.

Voices … ‘Aethar’ … possession … am I a lunatic? Aithar questioned himself, and there was no suitable answer he could come up with.

Finally, the landscape changed, from gray, rocky plains set against a gray sky to grassy, gently rolling hills, sparsely forested with conifers. The clouds began to taper off, and when Aithar looked up, he was surprised to see that the sky had turned a dusky blue. It reminded Aithar of Ronfaure back home, partially because of the few streams that ran through the area. Up ahead, he saw the Bastokian city walls. He continued on, and, when they were little more than a stone’s throw away, something moving in the river caught his eye. He turned and stepped over to the small creek to check what it was. A Pugil flopped around in the water. Aithar bent down to examine it. He picked it up and it struggled in his hands.

“You’re a funny little fish,” he remarked, playing with the antenna-like protuberance on its head, which made it look for all the world like an anglerfish. The Pugil hissed and bared its teeth. “Kind of ugly-looking, though …”

Ch. 6, Part 2 ...

Hurt it! The sonorous sneering of Aethar’s whispering trickled into his thoughts like a decadent venom, and there began to seep in. Up, down, and strike!

“Yeah,” Aithar muttered. The desire to do harm stirred inside of him. He hurled the Pugil up into the air, drew back his foot, and booted the fish soundly as it plummeted. It sailed off over the stream with an almost comical yelp.

(Uematsu, “Battle Theme,” Final Fantasy OSV) Aithar felt empowered, if a little unsatisfied. “I certainly pounded it with such authority,” he mused with a chuckle, “that there is no way that my violence can come back and bite me in the ass!” He laughed to himself, and then –

Pain. “Aaaaaaaaaaauuuuuughhh!” Aithar leapt several feet into the air, fumbling for Durendal while frantically attempting to dislodge several rows of pointy teeth from his buttocks. The Pugil was back, and tagging along were a few dozen of its irate friends. He shield-bashed the particular fish that was gnawing on his behind and landed on the riverbank, facing the aquatic horde. Shielding his body from the snapping mouths of the jumping creatures, he reached out for the power of his Paladin crystal. Drawing on its infusion of the Holy element, he cast Banish-ga.

Ribbons of pearly light radiated from a glowing sphere that rotated in front of his hand. They spread out over the seething mass of riparian beasts, dipping and swerving here and there to spark and sizzle on the flailing fishes’ backs. The off-white incandescence danced on the water’s surface in intricate swirls, as though it were a film of soap bathed in starlight. It shone, faded, and was gone.

For all its show, Banish-ga helped but a little. Against four or five targets, it might have been effective, but spread so thin over so many bodies, its potency was diminished. The piranha-like monsters continued on unfazed. Aithar did not reach for his bow. They were far too great in number. Durendal’s Holy-charged properties did little to help the situation.

Shield-shield-shield-parry-stab-shield-swipe-shield. Parry-parry-stab. Back up … slash-shield-shield-slash-duck-roll. Back up …

It went on for what seemed like forever. Aithar sought only to stay in his ‘zone,’ feeling the action as it transpired, drawing on his crystal to keep them from hurting him, seldom attacking and connecting even less often. He realized how unique the Paladin’s battle style was. Any Dark Knight would have torn through the crowd with little regard for his or her personal safety. No wonder they’re so dependent on White Mages, Aithar thought.

The Pugils were growing bolder, venturing further from the stream. One fish out of water was no threat, but this many was dangerous. They were backing him up towards the city walls. Finally, the biggest Pugil Aithar could have imagines flopped up out of the creek. Bouncing on the grass, it sprung at him, jaws yawning open at his face. Time seemed to slow. Neither his sword nor his shield would move as the sight of the deadly mouth swallowed up his field of view.

Gray steel flashed from left to right. The world came into view again. The bisected Pugil lay bleeding on the grass. And just as quickly as the fish had been split open, the steel shot across his line of sight again. A boy who looked only a bit younger than Aithar was suddenly standing in front of him. His two-handed sword drew all of Aithar’s attention. It was huge – bigger even than the young Hume who wielded it was. It appeared to have only a single blade, and the dull side was even longer. It had two small holes near the hilt, which was nothing more than a cylindrical handle. The color of this broad, two-handed weapon was a cold, stormy gray. It mimicked the colors the boy wore: blue-gray trousers and a blue-gray sleeveless shirt, gray shoes, and a steel bangle.

The sword looked terribly heavy, but the boy swung it and twirled it as if it were very light indeed. Halved Pugils fell to the ground, left and right. Aithar marveled. Such power, and it came so easily … Aethar stirred in his head. Aithar was coming to realize more and more what made Aethar tick.

When the majority of the beasts had already fallen, Aithar realized that he might as well help out his mysterious benefactor, now that the tide had turned. He stepped in beside him and tried to imitate his fighting style. It was impossible with a one-handed sword. Try has he might, he made only a fraction of the kills that the Warrior made.
(Uematsu, “Ronfaure,” FFXI OST) He sliced lengthwise through the last oncoming fish, wiped his sword on the grass, and turned to Aithar. The clouds overhead were gone, and it was well into the evening now. Torchlight from the city walls illuminated his soft-featured face.

“You should think twice next time before you mess with a Pugil,” he said with a wry grin. “I was considering letting you deal with it on your own, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to take down that big one.”

Aithar laughed sheepishly. “I’ve learned my lesson. Thanks very much for your help.”

“I’m Trigara, by the way,” he put in. “I sell weapons and stuff.”

Aithar took a moment to make the connection. “Ah! Yes, Saruman told me to talk to you,” he said, his face lighting up. “How fortunate we should meet now!”

“Are you a new member of Majestic?” he queried. “I could help outfit you with some REAL equipment, if you’d like.” Aithar forced himself to laugh at the joke, but he knew what Trigara was talking about. His so-called ‘armor’ looked more like rubber pants and an undersized turtleneck. Aithar supposed that it must have looked ridiculous in the eyes of a style-savvy person – no wonder he hadn’t seen much wrong with it until now.

“I’d be glad to do business with you, Trigara,” said Aithar, flashing his Link Pearl to remind him about the discount. Trigara seemed to understand. He began to examine Durendal.

“How did you come by such a nice sword?” he inquired. “If I were a Paladin, I would never wish for anything else in my left hand.”

Aethar’s voice gnawed at the back of his mind. But YOU certainly do. Get the sword! NOW! Or do I have to do it? Aithar capitulated, or at the very least, thought he did. He wasn’t sure anymore. “Actually, I was wondering – is that for sale?” He pointed to the sword, wondering what would happen if Aethar got angry.

Trigara eyed him suspiciously. “Maybe, and for more than a low-level Paladin can afford.” Aithar began to reach for his gil satchel. “Come the Majestic store. We can discuss a loan if you really must.”

Aithar nodded, and turned to regard the forest. I’m trusting you on this one, Aethar, he thought. That sword is a shortcut to power, and you’ve made me want it. So I’ll see about you.

Well, I might not have the post count of other fics, but bonus points for thread longetivity! Chapter 7 and going strong. :sweat: And going LONG, too. If it gets any longer, I'll have to make triple posts! :spin:

7. Res Publicae

(Sakuraba, “Vale Storm Theme,” Golden Sun OSV) Kita’s arms and tail moved just as wildly as her legs as she dashed across La Thiene Plateau, cringing from exhaustion but never slowing her pace. The raindrops that licked her heels provided a reason for her to press on almost as cogent as the thought of the hundreds of awful, crowlike monsters that marched south at a brisk pace, just behind her and over the horizon. Wishing that she had trained with her Thief Crystal all those years ago enough so that she could sub it for its speed-granting powers, she sped across the alternatingly grassy and barren plateau.

Ironic how my foolishness paid off, she thought to herself. Going to hunt in Ghelsba had been such a terrible idea, she felt that she almost deserved to have been attacked by the Orcs. But when she had come to the beastman-occupied town and seen the Yagudo burning both Ghelsban and Bastokian flags, the last thing on her mind was the dangers of hunting as a Black Mage. All she could think of was to run and warn Bastok before it was too late. It puzzled her that the Yagudo religious fanatics would avoid San d’Oria and instead choose to strike at the mining capital instead, but such was the case, and she felt that the task of playing the hero had been forced on her, unlikely hero as she was. The positive side of the situation was that she would reach the city well in advance of the Yagudo armies if she kept her pace. All that Scimitar training was paying off now. She was glad for having to learn concentration techniques to transform simple determination into physical stamina.

(Uematsu, “Tough Battle,” FFXI OST) The ground quaked violently as she crested a hill. She picked herself and looked for the cause of the disturbance. She caught sight of it and her stomach dropped. A Battering Ram. There was no choice but to fight it; not only did it stand in the way of the only safe path down the hill, but the oversized, highly territorial sheep had seen her and had begun to close in. The rain caught up with Kita and began to wash over the knoll. Perhaps it would be conducive to a thunder spell …
She knew she was deluding herself, but she tried anyway. Even as the lightning bolt sparked across the Ram’s back, she had reached into her satchel and pulled out two crystals. She knew instinctively which ones they were simply by running her fingers over them and feeling the various energies they exuded. She passed the Warrior crystal to her left hand, while keeping the rusty orange-colored crystal in her dominant hand. Monk was not her first choice for a tough fight – she had never worked her way up to the level of a black belt, though she had been close – but all she had to fight with was a staff and the claws on her hands and feet. A set of mythril ones would be nice, she mused, but good old-fashioned Mithra fingernails were better than nothing. She closed her eyes momentarily and drew on the crystals’ power.

The Battering Ram charged and Kita danced flowingly out of the way of its horns, putting her arm out to one side to leave four bloody lacerations extending along the ram’s side. The creature bellowed and skidded to a halt, glaring at Kita out of the corner of its eye. Before it could work up the strength to charge again, she came at it fiercely, lacing its fleecy back with cuts and finishing the assault with a swift kick. It was not as easy as she thought it might have looked. She was tiring, and even if she managed to beat the ram within an inch of its life, it would not show any mercy if she gave out from exhaustion. As she continued to dodge horn thrusts and wail on the best, she became aware of several pairs of glowing eyes set in black shapes that were slowly climbing the hill, slowly approaching the scene of battle.

(Shore, “A Knife in the Dark (a.k.a. ‘Weathertop’),” LoTR: The Fellowship of the Ring OMPST) Focus, she told herself. Nobody can take on a Battering Ram and another monster at the same time. But the unnerving presence grew as the shining, almond-shaped eyes multiplied. She struck the ram in the face and turned to look again. She counted seven shapes, slowly becoming clear as the drew closer. Focus! The ram charged and she took it by the horns. Locked in a contest of strength, she tried to draw on the Monk crystal for assistance, but the figures that began to surround them made her mind race with anxiety. Twenty of them. She kept her feet planted. Thirty-three. Chills ran up and down Kita’s spine. At least fifty. Fear kept her absolutely paralyzed, unable to give or take ground. She lost count. They came closer. Lightning rent the sky, throwing eerie shadows everywhere, and bathing the scene in an unnatural blue light. Kita saw the horrible painted beaks and the blackest of black feathers that seemed to swallow even the blinding flash of light from the sky, and she knew. The Yagudo had found her. And they intended to leave with her. The Yagudo did not kill unless they first declared war. They were at war with Windurst, Jeuno, San d’Oria, and Bastok. All others, and those they could not identify, they held prisoner.

Kita grappled with the ram, but her arms almost gave. Terror made her stomach twist and heave and her mouth go dry, though it hung open in the rain. She glanced back again. They were chanting, rhythmically moving their wings. Her knees shook. The ram was trembling; Kita could feel it through its horns. She felt weaker by the second. Her eyes began to roll. She tried to stave it off, struggled to stop fear and unconsciousness from washing over her, but it was like trying to stop water from leaking out of a pail full of holes. The strength in her arms gave out, and her knees went slack. She was dimly aware of a crashing sound, and she realized that the ram had fallen as well. The Yagudo closed in. The black shapes, silhouetted by distant flashes of lightning, began to tower over her, closing off her view of the stormy night sky. Kita felt as though she was falling. The shadows elongated, covering up the last flicker of light. As darkness swallowed her mind, Kita was overcome by a feeling of longing for a second chance. There was so much more to be done, she thought, even as sound and feeling melted away. I never had the chance to prove my worth …

The Yagudo picked up the sedated Mithra and carried her to one of the supply wagons. She would have to walk once she awakened. It was difficult to move such an army at once; the Yagudo planned on reaching Bastok at noon the next day. There they would await the order to march on the city.

(Yoko, “Traverse Town,” Kingdom Hearts OST) If the firelight in the San d’Orian streets at night was enough to do business by, then the lamplight in the Bastokian streets was bright enough that a long-distance archery contest could have been held there with no trouble whatsoever. The night sky above was black, the stars obscured by the light pollution, but inside the city walls, people strolled and did business as if it were daytime. Aithar looked on slack-jawed and goggle-eyed as he followed Trigara down the streets and alleyways. He had never thought he would like Bastok, as it was a very industrialized mining town – indeed, even as he gazed in wonder at how BIG the place was, he realized he still had a greater affinity for the gray stone castle-style buildings of his hometown – but now that he was there, he decided that the place wasn’t half bad. I might want to stay a while longer, he thought. He realized that he was not listening to Trigara, who was explaining about something as they walked.

“… but Windurst has been adamant about maintaining its isolationist policies, which is giving the radical faction fits. It’s all but divided up the people of this city. Either you’re with the Gustaberg United Party, or you’re against them. Some have even begun to accuse the Windurstians of harboring monsters and bargaining with forces of darkness. That’s all senseless claptrap, of course, but the point is that it’s creating a deep rift in the political climate. Being from San d’Oria, you probably stand in the middle of the continuum, right? I mean, a large-scale coalition to send armies against Bardnia, Forgandi, and Qufim Island may seem like a way to make the world safer, but San d’Oria is so close to Bardnia that the demons of Zvahl can practically reach over and knock on the gates …”

Aithar was not sure what to think about it. News of the falling out over the proposed ‘finite alliance’ had reached San d’Oria, but there was very little feeling there either way. San d’Oria was politically malleable because of that. They could go along with most of what Bastok wanted, so long as they were recognized (and rewarded) for keeping the world safe south of Ghelsba. Windurst liked it that way, but Bastok, so far removed from the dangers of anything but subterranean fiends in the mines, was always showing an excess of initiative.

“… and so the week-long Senate meeting ends tomorrow. They say that Windurstian representatives may try to filibuster an important alliance resolution. Of course, something like this should be taking place in Jeuno, where security is tighter and the political climate more neutral … Bastok insisted that it be debated in their Senate, though. Who knows, we might even see an assasxxxxtion, the way things are going.”

Aithar remained silent for a moment before he made up his mind. “I’d like to go and see this Senate meeting,” he declared. “Do they allow people to watch?”

Part two ... :sweat:

Trigara raised an eyebrow. “Of course. As long as you leave ranged weapons at the door. The viewing area is far enough away that people can keep their arms with them, which, particularly nowadays, is a good thing. The significance of that dates back to Crystal Era eight-hundred and …” Aithar’s mind wandered as Trigara rattled off the circumstances of the wartime construction of Bastok’s Curia. The kid certainly knows a bunch of Bastokian trivia, Aithar thought, suppressing a chuckle. Maybe Arevir should have had him run a tour service instead of a weapons shop, he mused.

As they walked down the winding streets, Aithar began to take notice of the colorful fliers he had seen at many of the bulletin boards and such throughout the city. They looked like advertisements for a cabaret of sorts. Finally he stopped and looked at one. It read:

‘Now performing LIVE at the Bastok Broadway Theatre: Celebrants of Reflection! The famed cabaret group boasts such diverse talents and acts as: Dance, Satirical and Comedic Skits, Tragedies, Musical Plays, Vocal and Instrumental Performances, and the world-renowned TaruTaru acrobat, Chuchu!’

Aithar laughed and grinned. Trigara looked up at him and his eyes lit up with an idea – “Why don’t we go see them? Majestic’s weapons shop is right off of Broadway, and you’ll need something to unwind after that little skirmish with the fishes …”

Aithar had a sudden premonition of trouble, which he quickly smothered, wrongly ascribing it to Aethar. “Sure, why not?” he said with an even bigger grin. “Bastok is a fun place; I might as well enjoy myself while I’m here!”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was dark in La Thiene, Aithar somehow knew. Something … profound was moving slowly across the plateau, and a storm moved south at its heels.

***

(Uematsu, “Memory of That Day,” FFIX OST) Aithar lay awake on old, bumpy spare mattress, staring up into the dark ceiling. Thoughts ran through his head like blood rushing through a vein. Images flashed through his mind as if in a constant slide show of horror. The explosion, the shrapnel flying everywhere. The unconscious Elvaan, who appeared to be the only survivor. The tattoo on the frail victim’s left palm. The soft glow of Cure and Esuna magics as they dimly illuminated Trigara’s apartment.

Sounds echoed in his memory as well. The painfully loud explosion, and the rhythmic sound of windows shattering up and down the surrounding streets from the blast. People’s dying screams. The confused shouting that followed the incident. And the Elvaan’s desperate plea as he slipped into unconsciousness. A hammer striking an anvil downstairs …

Aithar’s eyes widened and he gave a start. That last sound was not one he was remembering, but one he was hearing. He clambered from the squeaky mattress onto the floor, careful not to wake the deep-sleeping Trigara who lay sunken in a big chair at the other end of the room. For such an energetic kid, Aithar thought, he sure sleeps like a log.

He crept slowly down the stairs, coming into the weapons shop below the apartment that Trigara had taken up residence in when the rest of Majestic had left. He stood at the doorpost and peered into the smithy’s area for a moment. A figure sat there, hunched over, apparently pressing something into its palm. Aithar knew him for the stranger they had taken in and healed after the theatre had been leveled. Political terrorism – that was the word on the street, but Aithar could see little political symbolism favoring either party’s agenda in a premeditated, undeclared attack on innocent performers and audience members. He turned his attention back to the Elvaan who seemed to have just finished branding his palm.

“You didn’t even shout,” Aithar remarked, impressed.

The figure tensed its shoulders suddenly. He must not have heard me approach, Aithar thought, so deep he was in his concentration. He looked on as the Elvaan calmly set down the object, replaced his glove and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d hoped not to disturb anyone.” His eyes glinted, reflecting the light from the white-hot object he had held. “No doubt you were up late into the night working restorative magics to my benefit. Might I ask who I have to thank for the courtesy I’ve been given?”

“My name is Aithar,” he responded. “I’m a Wind Knight of the Majestic LinkShell. The boy upstairs who owns the place is Trigara, a Thunder Knight of the same affiliation. I’m a visitor here in Bastok.”

“My name is Anatole, of no current affiliation, and I’m afraid I must be leave you now.” He began to back away, his movements reflecting not fear, but urgency. “I only hope one day I can return the favor that you and your friend have done for me.”

Aithar repeatedly attempted to draw closer to Anatole, but it was futile. Every step he took closer only seemed to push the other Elvaan towards the door. Nearing the table, he was able to see the object Anatole had set down. It was a brand, as he had originally guessed, no more than a jagged line with a smaller branch, still glowing red.

“Friend Anatole, you could not have completely recovered from the events of last night,” Aithar put in hastily. “My white magic skills were but a meager help, and judging from what I saw ...” He paused, searching for words. Finishing with his original thought, he almost whispered, “... no one made of the same stuff as I, simple flesh and blood, should have walked away, even if it was a step or two.”

“I’ve always healed fast,” Anatole replied brusquely, turning now to face the door. “I had a brother who was cruel when I was young,” he added, with just a hint of bitterness. Aithar had a feeling that he was masking much more bitterness.

Anatole opened the door and soft light peeking through, seeming to hint at dawn, but it was only light pollution. Aithar stepped over to the table, picking up the brand and studying it carefully. “Why?” Aithar muttered, eyeing the still-hot object. Thinking of the tattoo he had seen on Anatole’s palm, he imagined that, if pressed into the right place, it would make the mark seem like a shattered mirror.
Anatole stopped, torchlight crawling through the small opening between door and jamb. Not turning to face his inquisitor, he replied coolly, half to himself. “A reminder.”

“A reminder,” Aithar repeated confusedly, carefully placing the brand back on the table. Looking up to speak again he saw Anatole had slipped out the door soundlessly in the moment he had taken his eyes off him. Racing for the sturdy oaken board he opened it with haste and cried out, to nothing but open air and tall buildings, “A reminder of what?”

(Kondo & Minegishi, “Boss Battle,” LoZ: Majora’s Mask OST) Calming himself, Aithar shut the door and turned to face a hooded figure, just inches from his face, a blue steel dagger drawn and hovering just centimeters from his neck. Aithar stopped dead, his body wracked by a sensation of terror that shot from head to toe and back again. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, and Aethar’s maniacal laughter filled his mind. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense as the point of the dagger moved ever so slowly towards his jugular vein. It met his skin, chilling his entire body before it pressed in slightly to raise a single drop of blood. A terrified frenzy surged within him, and he struggled to move.

(Uematsu, “Return of the Evil Mist,” FFIX OST) Aithar’s vision dimmed, and he felt himself falling. He sat up, dripping in beads of cold sweat and hyperventilating, trying to convince himself that it was not real. The presence of Trigara’s unwaveringly dormant figure was a source of almost comic relief. Just a nightmare, Aithar told himself. Figments of my imagination, running–

Quite the opposite, really, Aithar. For you, it’s as real as it gets. I had you there, every last bit of you but your own consciousness. I can make things happen that way, Aithar. Twisting and toying with all your perceptions, until it’s so real you can catch the blood as it rolls down your neck. Aithar’s hand went to his jugular. It was dry, unbroken. And deathly cold. Just a taste of what can happen if you feel like going against what I say. You are mine. See that you don’t forget it.

Aethar’s presence almost vanished, settling into the recesses of his head like a thick fog crawling into a vale. Aithar shivered and rolled over on his mattress. First thing in the morning, he thought to himself, I buy that sword. Hopefully then Aethar won’t play games with my mind in front of other people! It’s bad enough going through it alone …

His last thought before he settled into sleep was that as Anatole had dashed into the streets a few minutes before, he had keenly sensed something far and away outside, to the northwest. Something like a tide of asphyxiatingly oppressive sensations emanating from a massive source. A smaller sensation, one of surrealism and dizzying, inexorable fate – the concept caught in Aithar’s mind like a coat caught on a bramble, and hung there; fate, which pulled in a thousand different directions at the very foundations of his being, threatening yet inviting – this uncanny feeling of fate moved with it.

I actually found myself holding my own thoat by the end of that last chapter! Bravo! *clap clap*

Your attention to detail is truly astounding, and so engaging! I actually feel very connected even to minor characters as they pass through the story, and can truly feel myself empathizing with thier moods. You have an excellent knack for capturing the tone that best conveys the atmosphere of each conversation, thought and action. I really feel like I'm getting it: right down to the subtlest expressions on the faces of the characters when they make a witty remark. Your humour is refreshing and clever, never overdone or cheap. Nothing is rushed, the pace of the story is remarkably well done. I really got into it!

I can't wait to see more! Go you! :thumbsup:

/bow /bow /bow thank you Valerathon! ^_^ I'm honored by such praise. I'll continue to write and post as often as I can! It really heats up, next chapter. :biggrin: Big bad battle coming up ... :sweat:

Incidently, now that you mention it, battles are another area you show particular strength in. It's difficult to write something like that. It's to the point where I'm used to skipping any parts that involve any kind of confrontation/battle/sparring, between individuals, or large miltary formations, or ships, etc, because I'm so used to getting utterly lost. As soon as I realise that an author can't handle conveying the move and flow and feel of a battle (because movement is alot harder to convey clearly than simple, straight forward speech/dialogue ), I stop paying attention to that particular author's attempts in those areas of his/her story-telling. Hopeless cause, I figure. I just skip to the outcome, and forget about the parts in between, because I know I'll just get lost along the way, and none of it will make any sense. That none of it will really contribute to the advancement of the plot, in my mind, and will only serve to confuse me, at best.

But with you... the sparring between Aithar and Dwimordene: I felt like I was beside that allyway, and was always acutely conscience of it being right there , ready to bring you down into it. It gave me a very stong sense of place, of where I was, right from the get go. The match also felt rapid, breathless, like I could see the gleam in both thier eyes as they anticipated the opponent's moves and thoughts and impulses. I could picture each new progression, each leap. Even the foot in the face! The battle between the Mithra, Kita, and the Battering Ram: the rain and the struggle, and the sense of exhaustion really came through. I could see the strain on her face as she faught off all the conflicting sensations she was feeling, and tried to focus. And the sense of impending doom as the eyes approached, and grew more numerous. And her sense of failure at the end really hit me: that showed real insight on your part, and gave her character depth. It all helped to bring out that sense of approaching conflict to Bastok, paralleled by the storm, and even Aithar's thinking about how it would be dark in La Thiene, all gave the atmosphere so much punch.

Anyway, looking forward to the next chapter!

I just realized there's somebody named Kita on these forums ... :sweat: oh well. No affiliation here. ;) Anyway ... this one's short and foreboding. Gotta love that foreboding business ... :cool: lol :spin: here it is, ch. 8:

8. Fuga Kitae

Aithar awoke having forgotten where he was and what had transpired the day before. The dreams had exhausted him mentally. He had forgotten the dreams, as well, but he figure that since he felt so trashed and fuzzy-headed, either his dreams had been an extraordinarily harrowing ordeal or he was simply hung over from whatever he had done last night. He quickly discounted that possibility as it all started to come back to him, in reverse order as things usually did when he had passed a rough night.

Halfway through remembering, Aithar got up and began to dress. He took his time, though; he was in no hurry to go downstairs, since he would have to make a certain special purchase before leaving anyway. Aithar grunted his displeasure to no one in particular. Trigara’s two-handed sword seemed about half as cool and flashy as it had last evening. It peeved him a little that his unwelcome alter ego, supposedly to be feared and unquestioningly obeyed, was acting like a spoiled child in a toy shoppe; it frustrated him that there was little he could do about it for fear of a repeat of last night’s illusion. If Aethar tried that in public, it would spell a one-way ticked to the Bastok Mental Institute for both of them. Of course, world domination or whatever such dreadfully cliché plot Aethar was undoubtedly cooking up in his spare time would be decidedly harder to achieve while confined to an asylum. Aithar figured he had the upper hand there, at least. Still, that his torment would remain private was a small comfort.

He got up and quickly dressed, Durendal seeming to whine at him as he adjusted it at his side. He would not be giving it up for the new weapon; in fact, if Aethar did not protest, Aithar planned on using the one-handed sword at least until he arrived in Mhaura. Turning, he went to the stairs, following the scent of burnt toast.

(Kondo & Minegishi, “Shop,” LoZ: Majora’s Mask OST) Downstairs, Trigara was engaged in what had become a day-to-day struggle to prepare edible breakfast. He figured that it was his punishment from the Crystals for having joined Majestic so young. Soon enough, though, he would be of age and ready to travel with the group he already served so well. He looked up from his egg-toast abomination to see Aithar descending the stairs. Turning over charred blobs with a branding iron, Trigara made to offer him what bore the closest resemblance to a comestible that he could find in the pan, realizing at that moment that his lack of success might have more to do with his trying to use a smithy’s forge as a cooking facility than with his lack of culinary skills. Aithar politely refused the quivering mass of foodstuffs and went over to the counter. Telling himself that most weapons shopkeepers were lucky enough to have an upstairs apartment, let alone a breakfast nook, Trigara walked over to the wall and took down one of his two-handed beauties. Setting it down on the countertop, he began:

“I once knew a spiky-haired guy who carried one of these … this particular blade is called Vis. Now, since I assume you won’t be paying out of pocket for this baby, let’s go into Majestic’s Monster Kills Redemption Program …”

By the time it was over, Aithar’s head was heavy, and his gil satchel was very light indeed. Of course, that plus his shield, which was actually worth quite a bit, had only covered some of the cost. He would have to bad a whole lot of Land Worms before this debt could be paid off. Though he felt awkward, and slightly ashamed, for having haggled with a boy no older than he, Aithar had managed to upgrade some of his equipment, bartering his old ‘rubber-suit’ all-too-generic ‘armor’ (if the flimsy stuff could even be called that) for some bright-white weather-resistant storm gear. Aithar wasn’t quite sure why he had wanted the storm gear, but after saying all of his thank-yous and good-byes and stepping outside, he knew exactly why.

***

(Uematsu, “Sometime, Somewhere,” FFXI OST) For having been out enough to think I was dead, Kita thought to herself as the world flooded into view around her, I certainly woke up quite suddenly.

She looked around nervously, half expecting a Yagudo to jump out of nowhere and do something particularly horrifying so as to send her spiraling back into unconsciousness. She sat up and decided that she was probably in Gustaberg, near Bastok. But why had the Yagudo set up camp here? She puzzled over this thought for a good deal of time before finally deciding that they meant to lay siege to the city and needed a pro tempore base of operations.

Kita’s face all but lit up, and she nearly leapt to her feet. “By the Crystals above!” she almost exclaimed before reminding herself that the last thing she needed was another encounter with her Yagudo captors. “There’s still time!” A dhamel grunted in the distance, and Kita became very suddenly aware of two things: first, that she was practically surrounded by the enemy and would have quite a time sneaking off; and second, that it was pouring rain and she was soaked to the bone.

Colossal thunderheads glowed with a continuous internal discharge of lightning, and an oppressive sheet of grayish-black clouds roiled endlessly across the sky, almost completely filtering out the sun. It made for an unnervingly eerie juxtaposition of darkness and light. The periodic flashes of light, though, made hiding in the darkness almost entirely out of the question, so her ‘daring’ escape proved to be very slow going. Kita would sneak as far as she could in any given direction, then be forced to turn back whenever she found a sentry blocking the way out. The fact that the Yagudo had camped in a thickly forested area with a central clearing was to her advantage, but every time Kita thought she was out of the woods, she would stumble upon a guard – sometimes literally so, in which case the hapless bird would have to be dispatched with a potent Sleep spell.

Hours passed. Nothing changed. Kita felt that it must be around noon by now It baffled her that the Yagudo had not moved on by now. Regardless, she had to go, and soon, before her luck ran out. Bastok was going to be a welcome sight. She felt almost as if she was being drawn there – that whatever she did, a series of events would deliver her there, where an inescapable sensation of fate seemed to dwell …

(Kondo, “Medium Boss,” LoZ: The Wind Waker OST) Wrapped up in these thoughts, she walked right into a Yagudo’s back. She gave a start as the creature spun around, making guttural noises. Its empty, soulless eyes glared menacingly at Kita, trying to paralyze her very mind. She focused on disconnecting from the world around her and seeking the protection her Black Mage crystal afforded her. She drew on its power, infinite, inexhaustible. The essence of the battle-wizard coursed through her, looming inside of her mind. Power … command of the elements … magic of terrible destruction. Kita began to focus the crystal’s energy into her forearm, the first step of an Aero spell. The use of Wind would make for a silent kill. She drew further power.

What happened next Kita had difficulty understanding. Something took her, like a whim, but irresistible and almost involuntary. She found herself leaping several yards back, and at the same time re-focusing the Wind-elemental power into the shape of a sphere. Kita sprung from the backward leap into a vertical aerial twist, leaving the incipient magic to hover in place. Barrel-rolling with unimaginable speed, she tensed the muscles in her tail. It struck the floating ball and set it in motion even quicker than she had been spinning. The Yagudo looked down at its abdomen, where a perfectly circular hole gaped. Kita could see the sphere speeding off like a shooting star through the missing section of the Yagudo’s body. It crumpled in a bloody mess.

“That was a sublimely magnificent shot,” Kita told herself. “The Crystals save me, though, how did I do that?” she put in shakily. It was a mind-bendingly improbable move …

Not waiting for the Yagudo to find the body and figure out she was gone, Kita took off running in the direction of the city. The rain had passed a while ago back at the camp, but soon she hit what seemed to be a solid wall of it. Even over the downpour, though, she could hear dhamels, the Yagudo’s giant beasts of burden, wailing – under reins and whips, Kita was sure. They were mobilizing. The unseen sun had just reached its zenith in the skies of Vana’diel.

Chapter nine is the longest yet, which explains the long delay ... :sweat:

9. Quietus Ante Tempestas

(Kondo & Minegishi, “Clock Town, Day 3,” LoZ: Majora’s Mask OST) Tension and humidity in equal measure gripped the air in the bustling streets of Bastok. Aithar pulled the storm gear tightly over his body, checking to make sure that they were all done up. The threat of rain hung heavy in the air. People hurried about nervously, eager to finish whatever it was they were doing and get indoors. Aithar realized for the first time that, as an Elvaan, he was a minority in this city. He felt surrounded by Humes, and members of the normally rare Galka species were here a common sight. He was sure that there were even more Mithras or TaruTarus than Elvaans out today. Feeling uncomfortable in his own skin as it were, he wound his way through the streets, proceeding towards the Bastokian Curia.

It was a magnificent building, with myriad columns and a giant central dome. Though Aithar could not see it, he knew from Trigara’s extensive lectures that there was a single oculus atop that dome. Across it, he remembered, was a lens-like prism that refracted the light of the noonday sun.

But there will be no noonday sun today, thought Aithar with a glance at the gray skies. Not with this cloud cover … Crowds of people milled around, many of them filing inside to get a good seat. Just over four hours had passed since dawn; the Senate would begin its discussion in less than one more. Already, many Senators and speakers from around the world – most notably Windurst, Aithar observed as an energetic Mithra arrived on Chocobo with an entourage of bodyguards – were beginning to arrive. Aithar understood the emphasis on security after last night. A Bastokian Senator arrived, hailed by cheers from the Gustaberg United Party. Despite the raucous chanting of his name, he conducted himself with what Aithar felt was a sickening arrogance. Ser’aubis, they chanted, though it sounded to Aithar suspiciously like “improbus,” Latin for ‘wicked.’ Aithar made the unfounded assumption that it was an alias.

(Uematsu, “Sadness,” FFXI OST) There were three chief languages in the history of Vana’diel, though only the Common Tongue was widely used anymore. Esperanto, now referred to as the Archaic Speech, was the oldest, and had the greatest cultural significance; such songs as the famous war lament Memoro de la S’tono were written in Esperanto, and its continued use today lay primarily in the arts. Latin was an old language as well, though not contemporary with the Archaic Speech; it had been used almost as much as the Common Tongue until the Great War not long ago; the fall of the nation of Battalia had also marked the sudden decline of the Latin language. Today it survived mostly in religious orders, though any schoolmaster worth his salt would give his students a thorough grounding in the language. Except that it had not been necessary for Aithar. He had known Latin all his life, somehow.

Aithar pushed the thought out of his head; he found himself doing that to many of his thoughts lately. He had never enjoyed reflecting on his origins or early childhood, however. His earliest memories were those of home in San d’Oria with the sagacious Thunderhawk, and he had never been very curious about who his parents were, a fact that Aithar now found just a touch odd. It had always been a fact of life to him while growing up. True, he had had many distractions to help divert his attention from it – his education and training with job crystals, not to mention falconry, the favorite pastime of his childhood years – but still, that he had demonstrated such placid acceptance of the mysterious circumstances of his existence bothered him, to a greater extent, even, than those circumstances themselves.

(Uematsu, “Hume Male,” FFXI OST) Wrapped up in so many tangled thoughts, he walked all the way around the Curia twice before he realized he had zoned out. Muttering about how ridiculous he must have looked tottering in circles about the great building, he turned and headed for the nearest point of ingress.

“Hey Aithar!” he heard behind him, and immediately tensed up. Aithar was relieved, if a little confused, to see Trigara standing behind him. The kid’s really dressed up nice, he thought. You’d think he was invited!

“I figured I’d surprise you,” Trigara explained, fiddling with his wispy, light-brown hair. His normally placid blue eyes, which lent the appearance of wisdom to his otherwise spry features, twinkled, exuding the young Hume’s anxiousness. Aithar opened his mouth to ask why it was worth coming all this way just to sneak up behind him before Trigara continued, “Once you got a good seat, that is. But it’s too late for that now isn’t is? Still, you’ll be able to make it in if you stick with me. I am a representative, after all,” he explained in a mock-conceited tone, trilling the ‘r’s.

Aithar unclogged both of his nostrils attempting to stifle the sharp exhalation that might have been laughter as it buzzed through his vocal cords. Watching as he wiped his nose and checked that no one else had noticed, Trigara decided to interpret it as an expression of shock. “Hard to believe, I know, but I am the only Majestic Knight left in Bastok,” he continued, cocking his head, “and the Senate wants representatives from all the major Linkshells, so …” Trigara cut off as the noise of the cheering crowd picked up sharply. “Ooo, oooooh!” Trigara suddenly brimmed with excitement, “Aithar, it’s Cid! We’ve got to go see Cid!!!”

“Who’s Cid again?” Aithar tried to inquire as Trigara yanked him by the forearm in the direction of the Curia. Trigara spoke a mile a minute as he bounded towards the crowd that had formed around an ungainly steel walking machine, whose operator, a rough-looking man with a whiskery beard, kind blue eyes, and goggles on his head, was busy shutting it down.

“Only the coolest blacksmith inventor person in the Republic of Bastok, in all of Vana’diel! He designed the first airship, he’s a national hero! He’s … kind of like, like the honorary mayor or something! And we’ve GOTTA go see him!”

“All right, Trigara. But promise me after that we can go in and get seats.”

***
(Kondo & Minegishi, “Mayor’s Meeting,” LoZ: Majora’s Mask OST) Aithar’s stomach began to growl for a very early lunch as the Senate meeting wore on, but he doggedly ignored it. He was enjoying watching the proceedings and listening to the arguments far too much to tear himself away for something so trivial as a bite to eat. It had surprised Aithar that he had turned out to have quite an eye for all the confusing happenings on the Senate floor, not to mention a remarkably quick understanding of the issue at hand. The conflict in the room was indeed heated; the Gustaberg United Party was trying to force the issue, pushing for a quick decision in a last-ditch effort to deny the Windurst representatives a chance to filibuster their bellicose plans into oblivion. Aithar saw it as sport, almost, but with the fate of world politics hanging in the balance. Bipartisanship at its most extreme, he thought, sure it creates strife, but is it eve fun to watch!

Aithar felt that neither side had really won him over yet. He saw the case for large-scale war, but unlike other campaigns in Vana’die’s past, victory here was far from assured. He also understood the concerns of the ‘doves,’ ostensibly better than the GUP did. Certainly the pro-war camp was not composed of his favorite people; with the vehement Ser’aubis at its head, Aithar occasionally questioned why anybody would want to side with them at all. Deep down, though, Aithar sensed that he was too fearless to be anything but a hawk. Sooner or later, he knew, the beastman armies would come streaming south, and four disparate, ill-prepared militias would be very hard put to stave off total annihilation, let alone hold the enemy back. The GUP called it a death sentence, and Aithar saw why. Still, it was not entirely a matter of who preempted whom; should a coalition force fail in the north, the collective fate of the enlightened peoples of Vana’diel would be all but sealed. “Risk the end of the world by trying to save it or sit around and wait for it to end anyway,” Aithar summarized quietly. “That’s no easy decision.”

He continued watching intently. Several minutes later, a great cacophony broke out on the chamber floor as everybody began to vociferate all at once: the Windurstian representative had thwarted the intentions of the GUP and was to begin her filibuster. When Aithar heard it, his eyes went straight to Ser’aubis. The man’s face contorted in a ghastly way; Aithar thought it looked very unnatural the way his ears seemed for a moment to sink into his head and his mouth widened and protruded, almost like that of a … lizard. Aithar looked on and saw Ser’aubis close his eyes as if deep in concentration.

The unseen sun had just reached its zenith in the skies of Vana’diel.

***

Chapter nine, part two :thumbsup: :

The filibuster may be an effective means of accomplishing one’s political motives, Aithar thought to himself exhaustedly, but is it ever boring! He found himself wishing that something exciting would happen to break the monotony. Aethar stirred in his mind.

Exciting? Really, now, how timely. Look alive, Aithar. Aethar snickered and dissipated. Aithar strained his eyes and ears, reached out with all his senses. … it was not a trick, he realized. Something was about to happen. His heart raced –

He associated the feelings and it clicked in his mind. This was it, whatever it was – the presence he had continually sensed, on whose heels came the storm. He knew because he felt bound and controlled by destiny, like a marionette on strings. Even as he reached for his weapon, he came to understand that it was not something hostile that approached. Simply something of paramount importance.

The crystalline covering of the building’s oculus began to shimmer with a glow of dark energy. The radiant force scattered as a beam of light would as it passed through the prism. Aithar looked at it blankly for a moment before he realized what it was.

“A Teleport spell!” many voices in the room cried out at once. The color gave it away. Like the glow of a Dark Knight crystal, only not as insidious. They all watched dumbstruck as the shafts of energy bent and converged at a single point in the center of the floor. The point grew and took on a humanoid shape.

(Uematsu, “The Unforgiven,” FFVI OSV) Again, Aithar’s eyes went straight to Ser’aubis, whom he suspected of foul play. But the expression on his face was neither a smirk nor one of shock; instead there was only annoyance, but with resolution. And his lips were moving. Magic, Aithar told himself, and glanced back to the center of attention. It had taken shape fully and had begun to disperse, revealing a Mithra, arms outstretched, her face all serenity. He glanced back. A spiral of fire was forming in front of the senator’s palms.

“Nobody dies in here today,” he said, and Saruman’s bow was in his hands. He felt in control again, but it was short-lived. His target was small, and he had but a fraction of a second to take aim. No time to fumble through the quiver for the right magic arrow, he decided, and hoped to the Guardians that he picked one of the opposing element …

Kita watched a blue streak cut through the air and strike her assailant’s incipient fireball. It vanished in a burst of steam, and a torrent of relief coursed through her. Kita saw the two trade stares: the senator glaring disgustedly and the Elvaan boy returning a look of defiance and unwavering firmness. Clearly, invoking the senator’s ire had not been an issue for this youth when he chose to save her life.

“What the hell’s going on here?” demanded Cid.

Deeply chagrinned for having lost focus as she had, Kita replied, “Forgive my intrusion, but I bring you awful news of dire urgency!”

“Who are you, and what news do you have?” Cid queried harshly.

“My name is Kita, and I hail from Windurst,” she replied. Lying through her teeth on both accounts, but it did not matter. To Kita, the lie was her life, now, more so than the truth could ever be – more so than she would ever let it be. “An army of Yagudo aggressors of terrible magnitude approaches the city as we speak! I alone escaped from imprisonment at their hands and made it here to warn you.” She squirmed, wondering if her tone had n