| I've been waiting forever to post this. Finally! Level 60! Full AF! (Although a bit anticlimatic... it just looks like I put clean gloves on, but still! I waited!)
**
My family's house is a small one situated towards the canyon walls of the residential district in Bastok. It has an average number of windows, with an average number of flowerpots sitting outside the windows. Mostly they're desert breeds, cactii and some of the spiny bushes that grow on the rocks in Gustaberg, which stand up to the sometimes harsh environment in our region of Quon without anyone having to pay too much attention to them. It's in an average neighbourhood, the neighbours all are quite normal, and even the local kids don't think there's anything peculiar about it.
In short, it's not until you walk inside the house that anything seems unusual about it.
Maybe it's just me that thinks it's weird. Maybe returning to the house you grew up in from the perspective of someone who's left and roams around the world makes it seem strange.
“Nana?” I poked my head cautiously around the door, scanning the hallway carefully before entering properly, dropping my gobbiebag by the floor next to it. “Nana, are you here?” I hesitated. “And dressed?” Three months ago I made the mistake of not asking that question and have regretted it ever since.
“Kitchen, darling!”
I headed in that direction, but was briefly foiled by tripping over a chocobo toy that seemed to have been enchanted to wave a Bastokan flag in one wing and wark out a peculiar variant on the Bastokan national anthem.
No, it's not just me. This place is strange.
I called out, once I had picked myself up off the floor, “Nana, have you been practicing magic again?”
“What's that, cookie?” Nana toddled out of the kitchen. She's a tiny woman. Smaller than me, smaller than a Dragoon friend of mine, but don't let that trick you. She's a master of deception. Just when you think she's sweet and harmless, she hooks you with a long winded tale of what she bought at the grocers last week and you'll be there for three and a half hours.
I held up the chocobo, and tried to pretend my ankle wasn't killing me.
“Oh, that silly thing.” Nana took it off me, perched it on a side table. “No, dear. Gift from one of the kiddies. Apparently there's this new magic teacher here. The little darling made it for me at her class. Isn't that just adorable?”
I thought the chocobo was giving me the evil eye. “Er. Of course, Nana. Kitchen?”
“Oh! Of course, sweetie. I hope you've not been filling up on those dreadful biscuits they say you magic types should eat. I have a proper dinner for you.”
The fact that if I had opened one cupboard I would have been buried in an avalanche of bubbly chocolate permitted me to call her a hypocrite, but only in the privacy of my own thoughts.
“Oh! And your father said he'd come and visit once he was done with his class of nitwits.”
I brightened. I hadn't seen Dad in a while. “You know, Nana, it's not nice to call all adventurers 'nitwits'.”
“Except for you, of course, tea cosy,” Nana patted me on the cheek and pointed me to a seat at the kitchen table before she returned to the stove, where she was finishing off the makings of dinner and starting to move them to the table.
I nearly tripped over another stack of odds and ends by the doorway. Nana isn't exactly the tidiest Hume in Bastok. Admittedly, she is rather old, and physically she can't do a lot. I've told her that if she spoke to the Mog House Management Union she might be able to hire to Moogle to help her around the house, but she apparently thought all the 'kupoing' might do her head in.
I told my Moogle this, and the little furball actually dropped out of midair he was laughing so hard.
I sat down, trying to surreptitiously cast a mild cure spell on my ankle without lighting up the whole kitchen. While I was trying to do this, though, I failed dramatically (my spells aren't exactly the sort designed to be targetted on a small area of the body) and the resulting illumination caught the gilt edging of some paper I hadn't seen when I entered, hidden from view behind the milk jug.
I pushed the jug aside and pulled the scroll towards me, unrolling it enough to see the top line. Hmm. Seemed a fairly standard spell-teaching scroll.
Nana seemed to come out of her usual doziness to look briefly startled as she set down the meat and then sat down herself at the head of the table. “'Ere,” she said, “You shouldn't read that. Them at the shops says it'll only work for one person.”
“No, it's alright, I've already read this one. You can't use a scroll twice.”
'Read on, mage of dread and power, of the most terrible potency of the element of Thunder...'
I tried not to roll my eyes at the florid prose. The contents of a spell scroll can always be distilled down to 'close your eyes and think really hard about what you want to do, and just hope you don't accidentally kill yourself in the process', but for some reason you still have to read the damned things through to the end. I did, however, momentarily bite my lip nervously, when I realised what this scroll being in Nana's possession meant.
“Learning Black Magic, Nana?”
“Hmm? Oh! Yes.” Nana pulled the scroll back and slid on her reading glasses, adjusting them slightly. “Anything to keep busy, you know?”
I was distracted from my growing sensation of panic (which normally precedes being set upon by Beastmen hordes) by the sound of the front door swinging shut, and glanced up to see Dad's frame fill the doorway. “Ah good,” he said, spying me sitting at the table. “At least you're punctual.”
I smiled. “Hi Dad.”
He grunted his greeting and pulled over his stool, the only stool in the house, that was comfortable and padded and designed to accommodate his tail.
For those of you who know me, and know that I am Hume, this may require some explanation. Dad is a Galka. My real mother and father, the Hume ones, both fought in the war, both died there. I'll be honest: it's a spectacularly stupid thing to both go off to war when you have a baby only a few months old, but I'll take a wild guess and say they weren't model parents. Dad was apparently a friend of theirs, a warrior, and made it something of his duty to come and raise me after they died. I'll admit that's all I really know about them. It never seemed important.
Nana's my only living blood relative. My parents had left me with her, so Dad really didn't /have/ to take care of me, I suppose. Although there is a small matter of Nana being absolutely round the bloody twist and no kind person would leave a child with a woman convinced of the healing properties of fish cakes garnished with half a bowl of sugar. To this day, I can't look at a fish without getting a sickly sweet taste in my mouth.
Dad being a Galka never was weird to me. He's just Dad. He just has a tail, and was bigger than all the other kids dads. I was never picked on at school. He spends most of his time giving fighting classes to new adventurers. He taught me some of the stuff I learnt when I started out as warrior, before I succumbed to the pull of shiny lights and the ability to teleport and followed the White Mage's path.
I still remember his reaction when I told him I was going to be an adventurer. He cried and said, in between sobs, “My little girl's all grown up and ready to kill things!” At which point he gave me such a large hug I thought I was going to suffocate.
Nana just cackled and told me to give 'those damned fruity long-ears what-for!'. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Bastok and San d'Oria haven't been at war for a good few decades.
“Hello!” Nana said cheerfully, pushing over the meat and gravy for Dad to have choicest picking from. “Eat up! Eat up! Food's not for wasting!”
“Thank you, Nana...” I suppose Dad got into the habit of calling her that because I did. I sometimes wonder if Nana can even remember what her own name is these days. “You're looking well, Cehra.”
Considering that I knew I was sporting a rather interesting set of mottled bruises that could be occasionally seen poking over the collar and cuffs of my tunic, souvenirs of getting the attention of an Orc who obviously wasn't fond of Hume girls, I thought this was perhaps a very loose definition of the term 'well'. Admittedly, I heal a little faster than most, a natural tendency of my profession to heal themselves without having to actively spellcast, but still, I appreciated the effort.
“Thanks,” I said, striving to sound as cheerful as Nana did, and tried to steal some decent bits of mutton before Dad managed to take it all. “It's the cut of my tunic,” I added, flippantly, “I'm told it adds vitality to my form.” Haha. Adventuring humour. Gotta love it.
Dad gave me a quick glance over. “Considering how long I've seen you wearing that outfit, I'm surprised it hasn't fallen to pieces yet.”
I automatically tugged on my tunic. I'd decided it was worth my while to try and be nice to the Goblin in Jeuno who had made me some very nice, and rather revealing, gear some time ago. The upshot is that he doesn't charge much to make repairs to my armor, the downside is that I have a Goblin who calls me 'toots' and probably makes unfavourable comparisons between me and the Goblin Gals Back Home behind my back. “What's wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Dad ignored Nana's muttered recitation of the spell scroll and speared a piece of meat, dropping it onto his plate. “Though I thought you'd told me that you'd been given an interesting set of gear by the White Mages in San d'Oria.”
Eheh. Yeah. That stuff. “I... decided I didn't really need to wear it all the time. It has its uses, yeah, but... I don't think I want to wear it.”
Dad may not know fashion, but he knows armor. “Why on Vana'Diel don't you want to wear good gear? Gifted to you, at that!”
“They were making me do their dirty work for them,” I protested, glancing down on my plate. Nana is too used to feeding a Galka. Not enough vegetables on the plate, and it's swimming in grease and gravy. I pushed my fork through the gravy, leaving lines in the oil. “And then they give me some clothes and act as if I should be grateful for it?”
“Let's see 'em...”
I stared at Dad, wondering if he was joking. When I realised he wasn't, I sighed, retrieving my gobbiebag from by the door and sitting back down. I pulled the red and white clothes out, neatly folded, courtesy of my Moogle, and laid them on the table. Dad seemed to recognise them.
“Ah,” He said. “I've seen White Mages wear these. I remember one of the ones at Cathedral telling me that they were given to healers who'd proven themselves.”
“What, proven that after drumming up enough support, it's possible to kill just about anything in this world? That the oh-so-esteemed Elvaan people would rather get an adventurer to do their jobs for them?”
Dad narrowed his eyes. I know that look. “Don't tell me that my daughter is suffering from some sort of incipient racism?”
Anyone else would be worried they'd caused offence. I know my Dad. “Don't be daft. No, I don't /like/ San d'Oria,” I groused, folding my arms and rocking my chair back onto two legs in such a way as to have earned me a sharp word as a child. “It's surrounded by trees, the walls are so... fortress-like. It's claustrophobic! And I'm not even going to mention my allergies whenever I go through La Theine...”
“So, you hate all San d'Orians.”
“I did not say that! I have a lot of San d'Orian friends!” I declared, loudly, then glanced furtively at Nana. Fortunately she was too absorbed in her scroll to berate me for falling victim to the charms of those long of ear and tall of body.
Dad narrowed his eyes at me. “Oh really?”
“Yes!” Admittedly, I have a lot of San d'Orian friends because it seems to be quite in fashion to defect at the moment.
“Then,” Dad said, waving his fork at me. “Tell me something good about them.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I stared at my food, scowling.
“Cehra...?”
“I'm thinking!” Unfortunately, the only San d'Orian I could think of was Thistle, and the last time I'd seen him. He'd been hanging around the lake in Ronfaure, fishing, completely starkers save for a pair of sunglasses and some lacy knickers he'd half-inched from some Undead in Tavnazia.
I didn't think Dad wanted to hear that. Nana probably would. She'd call him an example of why the Hume race was going to the dogs, and then would insist on meeting him and discussing his taste in lingerie. And some things in this world are just not meant to be.
“Have you ever considered what those clothes mean to the White Mages of the Cathedral? Why you see so many wearing it?”
I pressed my lips together. “I think it means that whoever designed it needs some serious lessons in fashion. I mean, red triangles...?”
Dad sighed. Actually sighed. I don't see him doing that a lot. “You've done so much, seen so many things and come so far, and yet you're still that little twit who got her head stuck in that flowerpot when she was eight.”
I set my chair on four legs with a thud, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creep over my face. “It wasn't my idea! Janey the baker's daughter dared me! Of course that girl had a freakishly small head-”
“The point is,” Dad interrupted, staring at me, “that you are so quite content to see and experience, but you don't understand any of it. You do what the Cathedral asks you because you hope you'll get something out of it, you don't bother to understand the whys? You're a materialistic girl, Cehra.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again with a click. That wasn't true. Was it?
“Why did you become a White Mage, girl?”
My flippant response about shiny magic spells and the ability to instantly zap from one side of the world to another seemed a little inadequate for the situation.
“I...” I floundered around for a response. Because of some wish to serve the forces of light? Because of some altruistic desire to make people feel better? Hmm. Definitely not.
“I... don't know.” Dad's look was annoyingly sharp, and I squirmed. “People always want White Mages. They like healers. They fight for longer, they can fight harder enemies, they can fight faster...”
“So, you chose the path you did because it was a popular one?”
“No, I- Dad!”
“The White Mages of the San d'Orian Cathedral consider it something of a divine honour, do you think? Don't you think they probably find it offensive that you treat it so callously? That's not what I hoped you'd become.”
I shifted uneasily. I suppose there was some sort of religious component to the practice of white magic. To restore a fighting force to full health and vigour, one spoke a Benediction, a blessing, something granted only to White Mages. Our spells were given names like 'Holy' and 'Banish' which are impossible to think of as completely separate from worship, and I suppose healing could be considered somewhat a gift from the gods, if one was inclined to believe in such things.
I'm Bastokan. I grew up in a city where I never heard of the name 'Altana' until the day I visited San d'Oria for the first time. I remember being shocked and slightly unnerved by the fervour with which the natives spoke of Altana and the Gates of Paradise. Visiting the Cathedral for the first time had been an experience in and of itself. But me? I never considered myself to believe in it.
Maybe that's why the gift from the White Mage of the San d'Orian Cathedral so discomforted me. Religion has never sat well with me. It smacks of blind faith and an unwillingness to think for yourself.
If this is Dad's way of trying to make me defect to San d'Oria, I'll teleport him to the Northlands and leave him there to walk back by himself.
“Dad, I am not having this argument!” I was dimly aware of Nana's scroll glowing briefly before disintegrating, a sign that it had been read and learnt. “I /became/ an adventurer. I thought you were pleased about that!”
“Of course I am,” Dad said dismissively. “But if all you to it for is for this bit of equipment or that bit of gil, then you're no better than a mercenary.”
That was the last straw. “That's not true!”
“Oh really?”
“Yes! Really!”
“Then prove it to me,” Dad set down his cutlery and leaned across the table. “Maybe you should wear those garments gifted to you from the Cathedral, understand what they mean. Maybe then you'd understand San d'Oria and then maybe rest of the world a little better!”
I slapped my hands on the table, ready to kick back my chair and get to my feet, the better to lean over the table and shout. “Then maybe I will!” More than anything else at that moment, such as sense, it seemed important to have volume.
There was a crack, a flash of light, and then the table disintegrated.
I jumped to my feet, reflexes honed by hours of fleeing when monsters come running for me, trying to remember whether or not Warping away from the dinner table was considered bad manners, while Dad, in lieu of being able to reach for a sword, had seized the butter knife and was wielding it in a decidedly menacing fashion.
At what had been the head of the table, Nana was clapping with delight and cackling gleefully. “Right in the bum!” She crowed.
The Thunder-scorched remnants of the table were smoking slightly, and there at her feet, on top of a slightly blackened metal plate, was a piece of meat that looked more like charcoal.
Dad and I exchanged glances. I know what he was thinking. 'What if it's hereditary?'
“Oh dear,” Nana finally seemed to realise what she'd done. “Did I kill our dinner?”
I clenched my hands together to quench the first few bright sparks of protective spells. “Yes, Nana.”
“Anything you can do about it?”
“Nana, I think some resurrections are beyond my powers...”
**
The next day, I changed my town outfit for the first time in a long while. My Moogle gave me an encouraging 'Kupopo!' as I slipped out of the room, unable to reflexively resist glancing left and right before I started to walk through the city, towards the Metalworks, and that little room I hadn't been to since I was a small girl and Janey the baker's daughter had challenged me to a game of hide and seek and then went and visited her aunt without bothering to find me first. Nice girl. I hear she's trying to get into the Senate these days.
The area was crowded, as usual, and I tried to ignore people as they glanced over what I felt was a terribly garish array of red and white. I tugged on the sleeves self-consciously and hurried down the stairs to the small room, out of sight of most Bastokans.
The guard at the small shrine looked surprised at a visitor. “Are you lost, miss?” she said, politely.
“Oh! Um... no,” I said nervously, wiped away an invisible wrinkle in my tunic. “No, I... uh... just was curious.”
The guard didn't look like she knew what I meant, but that was fine. I wasn't sure I did either. But at least that's a start.
But if I ever start saying anything about the Gates of Paradise opening... just shoot me. |
Cydori > You have the *best* stories. Congratulations on getting level 60! (08/07 20:17)
Sylf > Yes, your stories are so awesome. ^^ Congratulations! You look spiffy in that WHM AF. :) (08/07 22:40)
Aurian > *squees and claps!* I'm so proud of you~ Your full AF and actually visiting the shrine. <3 And don't worry, I'll shoot you if you promise to shoot me. ;3 I might be San d'Orian, but I'm no stuffy Elvaan! (08/07 23:47)
Ashn > Wow, that was a really good story, Cehra. And a very nice picture. (08/08 06:36)
Thistle > What great stories you have! I loved the 'quite in fashion to defect' line. And the part about me! *dies* I'd love to meet your Nana, I'm sure that would be an encounter to remember. ;) (08/08 10:52)
Linmayu > Yay Cehra-story! <3 Your Nana is awesome. xD (08/08 13:18)
Beanie > I loved it <3 Yay Cehra! (08/08 14:44)
Yosari > That is so awesome, Cehra. XD (08/09 15:22)
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