A thorn among roses

They haven’t spoken to me since we left the ship. Bartz cursed me, which seemed very out of order for him, as he seemed very much the gallant type after my foolish falling into the tribesmen outside the castle wood. And the old man who styles himself Galuf, he has been staring at me with the fiercest and yet softest eyes I’ve ever seen. He unnerves me.

The pirates docked at the port of Tule, and then walked us across the grasslands to the Lake-City of Tule. Being here now, I can understand why my father disallowed me from ever visiting. The Academy of Tule, while well-known throughout the kingdoms, is a beauty among the dens of wickedness that has spawned here. No wonder the pirates love this city so much. But the city seems to be wealthy beyond recognition, and little wonder to that as the builder of the canal lives here and because of their great gift to mankind, was given the task of controlling and taxing the canal by the kings and queens of our fair land.

While my father agreed to the decision to allow Tule as the gatekeeper of commerce for this area, they have not gone softly about it; a constant thorn in my father’s backside, and when times are tough, they restrict even more. What’s more, as of recent events Tule has become like a simpering child; the absence of wind has caused the canal to fill with the most unimaginable horrors (I’ve only heard in rumor, of course), as the Canal soldiers have returned to Tule and are not guarding the canal anymore.

Therefore, few trade ships brave the canal, and only those with sufficient manpower make it through alive. I’ve always believed that Zok, while playing the part of friend to my father, was always ruthless and yet had no backbone, a dangerous combination for someone so important. Perhaps father should have just kept him at Tycoon at his posh estate rather than sending him off to Tule where his corruption blossomed into a hopeless maelstrom.

We have decided (or rather forced) to spend the night at a seedy inn in Tule. The captain of the pirates has taken a room to himself, and sequestered the rest of us (along with his lecherous underlings) in the dining area of the tavern. The dancers are quite lewd, wearing almost no clothes and having no bearing on their sex, but the men seem to enjoy it. Even more, the old man who we found near the scorched rock also seems to be enjoying himself, almost too drunk to stand now but singing at the top of his lungs. Bartz, on the other hand, is sitting quietly near the stage, watching the dancers, hung over with what appears to be his second drink. He must really have low constitution.

I’m such a fool, to go off running to find father when I know he went so far away. I feel pity for the guards I convinced to come. I saw their bodies taken away by the tribesmen; no doubt their families will feel the pain of their loss. While fate seemed to spare me, it does not seem so now. Perhaps this is my punishment for taking the lives of those men and breaking apart their families.

I was surprised at the decision of the captain to spare us. I’ve heard stories from the court at Tycoon of pirates who brave the Median Sea, who have terrorized Tycoon’s trade for the last five years or so. While I am overjoyed to have discovered the location to their hideout, they will most likely just find a new one. Father will be pleased to know the identity of Faris Unworthy, as he is called by the soldiers, or in popular account, Faris the Bloodhound. He is known as a bloodthirsty villain who enjoys gutting the king’s man after gloating victory over them, and then looting every piece of gold and silver from the ship, finally setting fire to the ship and letting it drift to the end of the world.

Seeing the legend up close, though, he looks so soft and weak. Almost too perfect for a pirate. His men adore him, and were I a pirate I believe I would give my life for my captain as well. It’s lucky I was born royalty, then, and to the greatest king this land has yet seen.

I find myself out of place here: the last few days, I have been captured a prisoner by all those around me, from the gob tribesmen, to unscrupulous bounty hunters, to a den of the most wicked pirates in the Median Sea. I hope we will arrive at the shrine soon, and I can finally leave these cutthroats and be taken into the arms of the Cult, who while equally as questionable, at least have the decency of loyalty to the king. I will be glad to be away from this band of pond scum.

Among the Ruins

I have made an error in judgment.  Too late; the town is rubble, and I am hurt, perhaps far too hurt for consolation.

The girl is gone, as well as Cecil.  How did I think this would end?  I should have thought it through more clear, but everything was moving so quickly.  You are a fool, Highwind.  Just like your father.  Your father would have not thought this to the end, and you have caused setbacks.  He ran off to fight and did not foresee never coming back.  You nearly died, Highwind, and you must now make amends.

The town of Mist is gone.  The King’s ring was a wonder to behold; surely as a general against men of war, there could be nothing more fearsome than using the very powers of an army against themselves.  Man’s greatest power is his greatest weakness.  The summoners have been undone by the power of the Feymarch, although how the King found a ring so powerful eludes me.  Why he would choose to destroy and kill all of these people eludes me.  Were it power he wanted, he could have used them, imprisoned them.  The recent bloodlust of our kingdom is troubling.  But if our king truly knew they posed a grave threat, I would support him until the end.  The might of Baron shall have no end, for we are the greatest kingdom the world has ever seen, even before the strength and wonder of empires before.

The little girl left a rift in the earth, a hundred miles long.  There is no way across, so I shall return through the cave to Baron and seek the king’s audience.  The girl is powerful and he must be warned; it is not my place to criticize him, and I would not seek to demean my rank by doing so.  I have heard tale that our airships will be retrofitted soon, and with a force so powerful and agile, we will have no difficulty fording this chasm and finding Harvey and the girl.

The beauty of the valley, through the destruction, is enchanting.  I can understand why these people would live here, isolated from the rest of the world.  The mountain ranges into the clouds, and the grass is wet with dew that continues into the afternoon.  We will hold a grand celebration of the summoners of Mist in Baron, I am sure, and hold festivities and a dirge to lament their tragedy, treason, and memory.  No doubt they would not acquiesce to Baron’s demands, and were this kind of power to grow against the peace we bring the world, then no doubt that is why they have been slain.

I remember Harvey; I do not doubt he has somehow saved himself and the girl, and run into the wilderness.  Such was the horror on his face when the village was burning and the children and their parents dying from the flames.  His cry of horror and his tender embrace of the child as she collapsed and the earth shook and broke apart in half.  I do hope he is well and safe, and that he takes the girl to safe harbor, but far from the hands of Baron.  For were she to challenge us, either now or in the future, we would surely destroy her.

I pity the girl’s mother.  The summoners of Mist must be tied to their eidolons; perhaps the eidolon is a manifestation of their soul.  As we destroyed the beast, it almost felt unnatural.  But it is a good thing: those beasts have no right to our bodies, and the more of them sent to the nethers where they were spawned, the better.  No magic should control man’s mind or body; that is the very definition of a curse.  Surely the summoners were cursed, even if they chose it.  Why they would inflict that curse upon children is beyond me.

The road is long, and it will be lonely to travel through the mountains without Cecil.  The fog of the cave shall be gone, and forever, the magic of this valley dead.  I shall say a prayer for them during the nighttime hours of my solitary path.

Fallen from Heaven

I shall not refuse my father and my king.

The castle of Baron looks still from the plains. Evil is stirring in the grass. The sky calls to me; the moon is hidden from sight, but I know it is there. I dream of flying during my waking hours, and during the nighttime I see only the blood on my sword and my life falling to pieces.

Rosa, how far I've come. You must be disappointed at the boy you saw as a youth, desiring to change the world. Or so he told you.

I go to my demise; after treason, there is no greater hope.

Kain whispers to me during our battles. We have passed through forest and plain and seen the nests of monsters. For as long as I've been in the sky, the world has been growing with the sharpness and clarity of death. Dogs and cattle are slain by the wayside, farms are lit on fire, villages left in ruin and populated by monstrous creatures with a single eye and the wings of a bat. They hover over the trees, and their gaze turns all creatures against each other. Even the noble Greymark, the Eagle of Baron, has become a wandering scavenger and hideous carnivore, devouring anything in its path. Only Kain’s worthy spear has kept us from harm’s way as we make our way towards the Feymarch.

My armor is stained with the blood of animals and sweat. I tell myself that I answer to only myself, but I find that after so many of years of wearing the dark armor and wielding the sword, my life has disintegrated into nothing. I am a tool of the king, nothing more, and I have done even worse than that: I have angered him and told him he was a fool in front of his whole court. I deserve the punishment and worse: why did he spare me? At least lock me in the dungeons. I’m sure Kain is no doubt wondering that as well, for all the good the king has done for us over the course of our lives.

And yet I wonder, never once has the King acted so unaware of his position. To steal the Water Crystal of the Mysidians is tantamount to genocide, rendering them unprotected from the miseries of both the wrathful seas that boil around their country but also their national pride. But these are treasonous thoughts, and I need not bother with them.

Kain is approaching me.

“Cecil, night approaches. We must move.” His helmet is in his hands, and his hair is matted with the strain of the last five hours we have been making our way through the countryside.

“Have a rest, Kain,” I offer, taking a piece of bread from a traveling sack. “You are troubled by my actions, and we have not spoken of it since I was dismissed yesterday.”

“There is no need to speak of it,” Kain says. He has a powerful voice, one that he rarely uses unless called upon. “You spoke out of turn and were disciplined. You are only a man and you lost sight of what is important.”

I nod to him, and do not answer. He is correct. I have lost sight of what is good. The sword, with its dark metal, calls to me, sings to me. I hate it. But it gives me power, and the power over my destiny. The power over men. At least it did. No longer.

“Have you ever questioned what we do, Kain?” I ask him, knowing he will not answer. He does not.

“We must go; it is growing dark, and the forests are stirring with the impatience for our blood.”

I nod in silence. It is true. We have abandoned the world far too long, and in our absence, it has gone mad.

Light

They awoke with a start, unaware of their surroundings.

A forest. Dark, shadowy trees, and the hint of civilization between the branches, of a ivory city, gleaming like a pale moon. The sun was overhead.

They saw each other. It was strange, as if they hadn’t known this moment was any different than any other moment in their small, instantaneous lives. Slowly and tediously, they got to their hands and knees, blinking their eyes, staring, listening. There were noises, sounds in the woods.

The woman, rubbing her hands together, was trying to stave off some kind of cold. A bird flashed above in the trees, and her eyes, calm and strange, followed the shadow.

“What?..” one of the men asked. He had flashy red hair, and a strong face. His gaze whipped to a dark spot in the trees, and then there was a great scream.

A flash of metal, and the spilling of blood. The red-haired man, a maniacal look on his face, gripped the thrown spear, wincing from the wound in his arm. He launched the spear back into the woods, and a moment later, figures began to scurry from the darkness into the open, into the sunlit glade where the people lay, naked and now on their feet.

The green-faced creatures hobbled toward them, gripping steel spears and gibbering in a forced language.

The creatures advanced, and began striking with their spears. First to fall was the dark-haired man with red eyes. One spear stuck him in the side, and he fell to the earth, hissing through his teeth. Lightning flashed in his eyes, and he gripped the spear of the goblin, forcing the creature with a pull to the ground, but the goblin fell into him.

The red-haired man swiftly grabbed the goblin’s tunic, took the spear, and stabbed the creature through the neck. He held up the twitching carcass, snarled, and the other goblins scurried away.
The man with red eyes groaned and collapsed onto the earth, clutching his arm.

“Don’t move,” the red-haired man said. “You’ll only cause it to bleed more.”

“Here,” the woman said as she braced the man’s wound. “You there,” she motioned to the slender man with hazel eyes, “give me something to tie the wound with.”

The slender man, unspoken, walked up to the fallen goblin and tore part of his tunic, and then handed the cloth to the woman.

She made quick use of it. The man with red eyes winced, but the pain fell away, and his face lightened.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, and looked around at the men. “What is going on?”

The man with red hair stood there for a moment, staring blankly, and then said, “I have no memory.”

“Neither have I,” the slender man said. “This is a strange wood. What is this place?”

“It is a place we must go out from,” the woman replied.

“I hear a city to the east,” the wounded man said.

“You hear a city?” the red-haired man asked. He gazed strangely at the wounded man. “I hear nothing except for the rustle of leaves.”

“There are voices, a great many voices,” the wounded man replied.

“Then let us go,” the woman said. “We must tend to this man’s wounds.”


The woman helped the wounded man onto the shoulders of the other men. They grunted, but soon felt the weight shift, and wound their way towards the city.

Bleakrock

Bleakrock is bleak, but strangely vibrant. It's strange, but in the hectic nature of even quiet Davon's Watch and the busy square, the vibrancy of Bleakrock is even more evident. People know you, they greet you, they speak to you warmly even through their thick jackets and heavy gloves. When they greet you they embrace you and speak to you of their children, even though the island has little to speak of for education. A fishing village, some craftsmen and some traders, with the Pact's soldiers having occupied the territory (much to the chagrin of the locals).

Today I encountered a young woman in the wilds of Bleakrock who asked me to help find her friends, who had somehow been turned into oversized rats. I don't remember the details, but she had been very embarrassed about the whole situation, given me a strange wand, and told me if I found them to help her. For some reason, she assumed I wouldn't just waltz off with her magic wand - but on the other hand, I think she was oddly glad she didn't have to worry about carrying the cursed thing with her. There are so few visitors to the island, fewer still that venture into the bear and wolf-infested woods, and fewer still who make it into the ice-tipped lakes searching for themselves.

I admit, were it me and were my friends transformed by dark magic into rodents, I'd hand the thing off as soon as I found someone eager to take it off my hand. I can't say I was eager, more interested perhaps.

I found one of them on the other side of the island, after a particularly cold afternoon of wandering around the northern part of the island in search of iron ore (I've got a contract with a local Davon's Watch guildhouse for supplying them with iron). Turns out the rat was an Argonian. Perhaps I should have just left him a rat.

Tough love

     Early this afternoon, met we The Gold Trader.  They set off from Tule, carrying a hundred tons of leather bound for Walz, but we happily took them of their trade.  They did so ever politely, and we only had to throw five of their soldiers overboard until they submitted to our blades.  Pity for those men’s souls, but the better for us.  I’d rather not return to Tule, in case those soldiers will have returned.  We headed back to our cave and will for the winds to calm, figuratively speaking.
     The wind has been very poor as of late, and I’m worried poor Syldra has too much to do.  She, like our sailors, is tired from recent events.  We all are.  I feel bad for the boys not having the most recent take, as the ships sailing have been infrequent these last few days.  Tycoon’s usual freight bound for the shrine and Carwen have also been delayed it seems.  I miss seeing Captains Nex and Tessain and their smarmy comments.  They must be resting back at home, wondering why the world is coming to an end.  They always were determined to be a bit off on themselves.
     I do miss the winds of Jacole, those southerly gales that swept us from one side of the world to the other.  Seeing the mountains in the far mist with the waves under your feet, swifter than the wind, riding the back of a dragon.  It seems the romance, with time, is fading.  Too soon.  We are all too young it appears.
     Later in the afternoon the boys were taking naps, and like them, famished of sleepeye, I dozed off a bit.  When I awoke, the boys were all a flutter, as someone had raised the bridge.  Grabbing our weapons, we rushed to the ship, to find three thieves standing at the wheel of the ship, trying in vain to hoist the sails and take off.
     My boys raised their sabers and were ready to kill.  I could see the blood in their eyes.  Justino, in particular, was shaking with eagerness, probably far too excited after his recent outing to the Tule lounge and having promised some wench his next payment in gold.  He has a tender heart but a ruthless demeanor, and let no man say that he hasn’t been warned by the blades of Justino.  I do admire him.
     However, no blood should be spilled.  The leading man, a handsome buck with a great sword strapped to his back and dressed in a worn traveler’s cloak startled me, and I knew he would take down my men without a thought.  If this man knew where my hideout was, I needed him alive and to tell me how he found out.  If he was a spy of Tycoon, my men were no longer safe.
     “Take them into the brig!” I shouted, and the men, though only one knew of my sex, turned back as if in mutiny.  “These three aren’t worth the spoils of your strength,” I shouted to my men, and then raised my own saber in reply.  “If they don’t prove useful,” I said in a gentler voice, “you men may make of the woman as you will.”
     I was not that cold-hearted, but the men needed to know I could be.  It was a game we played - in order for us to mutually hold each other accountable, the challenge was issued, and a reply was given.  We hunted the seas because we thrilled a fight, thirsted for wealth, and no one or place would grant us safe harbor.  We were a different brand of people, more suited to catcalls and wild nights under the moon, and then off to a long night at sea until the salt boiled in our blood and we broke free from the reverie in a blood-stained battle.
     Besides, the woman looked to be more useful than the other two: she held herself with a dignity I had thought I had forgotten.  The pendant she wore around her neck was the same as mine, and that could only mean that she had stolen my father’s heart, or something far more insidious.
     The leading man, on the other hand, proved to be quite a bore and unchivalrous when thrown into the pit, remarking with several uncouth statements about the virility of my boys, who none took to quite well.  The old man turned out to be a hard lot to handle, and three of my boys had to knock him unconscious before he stopped struggling.

Fire from Heaven

  Bartz sat in the wastes of the plain, contemplating a leaf of grass.  He had been searching for freedom for so long, that watching this piece of plant, rooted in the dirt, suddenly made him envious.
  The vast plain of Jenal looked out from where he sat, his arms stretched out leisurely, his fingers digging into the rocky ground.  Mountains as tall as the sky circled him, their hillsides dotted with burnt stumps and the howling of the tribes of goblins.  Bartz saw the shadows of the goblins flitting between valleys, impossibly fast, carrying their heavy blades that bounced the light of the moon back into the sky during their night raids.
  They were moving into the northern valley tonight, Bartz sensed.  He dared not travel that direction, knowing that wherever the goblins went, the insanity of magic followed.  He had made a habit of avoiding anything magical during the past few years, and he intended to keep it that way.
  Bartz’s mount, the chocobo La’mere, grazed quietly nearby.  He could hear the sound of his chocobo’s snorts as he happily fed.  He was tired after the long ride from Talmon Village.  While Talmon was the closest habitable town, Bartz had no desire to return there.  The villagers were quite unhappy with him, having nearly hung him in the village square before he narrowly escaped.
He wasn’t sure where he was going next.  The next town, a one day ride, was the quaint hamlet of Troia.  Bartz knew from the tavern at Talmon that Troia was only slightly larger, but boasted women who were once bred as servants of the Ai, and then during the rebellion they escaped and disappeared into the wilderness.  Or at least that was the hearsay of Talmon.  He half chuckled when he heard that: the servants of Ai were often known for their beauty, but also for being contemptuous and vile.
Nevertheless, at least for the beauties, that might be a foreseeable stop.
La’mere had stopped grazing, and looked up at Bartz with his big black eyes.  The hair on his back had a slight lift to it: Bartz sensed the clouds rolling overhead and felt like a storm coming.
He slapped his thigh, and the chocobo trotted to him, nuzzling his face.  He smiled.
“You’re a good boy, you know that?”
La’mere, in response, brought his head up high, ready to move.  Bartz stood up, grabbed his gear, and swung onto the saddle.  With a kick, they were off.

They found a place to rest in the woods that border that border the plain.  They were unnamed for good reason: the villagers and farmers who lived nearby were afraid of the woods, as the goblins often came here for their bloody feasts.
Bartz set the fire and tied La’mere to a tree.  It took him several tries to get the fire started, but eventually a small flame was lit.  He took out some oil and spread it over the wood, causing a huge blossom of flame, and then sat down next to it, pulling out some rabbit meat and roasting it over the fire using a silver splinter from his pack.
It was quiet, except for the blowing ashes and the wind in the trees.  The stars were incredibly bright tonight; the moon was behind a cloud, half-shrouded in a dim sheath of gray, the other half like a broken face.
  La’mere whined, and tried to break out of the rope.  Bartz dropped the meat, and tried to quiet him down.
“What’s wrong, boy?” he whispered to her, stroking her hair.
  As if in response, he snapped his neck again, this time with more violence, and the rope came apart like a piece of thread.  He was a strong chocobo, and his impact caused him to prance forward, clambering over Bartz and disappearing into the darkness of the forest.
Bartz lay on the ground, feeling his arm.  It felt like it was broken, but he had known enough pain to quell it before it caused him too much of a distraction.  La’mere was not easily startled: he was a chocobo of war, one bred by a local king who had his share of battles with the darkness.  Bartz was suddenly afraid, and the pain came back to him with full force.  He fell on his back and watched up at the sky, and suddenly felt the pit of his stomach reach into his throat.
There was a screaming in the air.  It was as if the stars in the sky shifted aside to make room for something.  The screaming grew louder, and suddenly the fire pit exploded into a bulbous flame, spitting out sparks to an impossible distance.  Bartz brushed the smoldering flames off him; he felt the ground heave, dip, and roll about like the wave of an ocean.
  As the sound came to its zenith, a dark shape roared across the night sky.  It was covered in flames, as if it were the hand of God coming to destroy the world.  It was the size of a small town, with pitted sides like it had been forged in a smithy.  It screamed through the air, and as it passed by silence followed, like the afterburn of its flight carried some mysterious spell.
  There was an ultimate quiet, and then the voices came.  The goblins, in their bacchalic and mesmerizing singing, called out into the night veil like wolves in heat.  Bartz tried to move, but found the pain too great.
  “La’mere!” he cried out.  He was desperate; if the goblins found him here, they would cut him apart and use his skin as ornamentation.  Or their madness would spill into him, and he would become a haunt of the moon, spreading chaos and blood across the Earth until someone ended his suffering by sticking a piece of metal in his gullet.
  “La’mere!”
Out of the corner of the wood, his chocobo came, bounding towards him, with fire in his eyes.  Bartz struggled with getting up, and then threw himself on the back of the chocobo, using his good leg to slip through the leather of his pack.
  “Go,” he said.  The howling was closer.
  “Go!” he shouted.  La’mere danced a few steps, and then trailed out of the moon.  He could hear the sound of the goblins rushing into the campground and their delight at the fire licking the night sky.

  Once out of the wood, they slowed.  Bartz had regained some use of his legs, and though it hurt, he moved La’mere into the steppes so he could have a better look.
The strange rock that had flown through the sky left a trail of destruction in its wake.  The ground was scarred, trees burnt, and several woods were smoldering and hot orange still.  The goblins were everywhere, attracted like moths to the chaos.  Following the path was not hard at all; the huge town-sized rock had come to rest in a grove of trees to the far northwest, effectively cutting off the route to Troia.
  From behind him he heard the sounds of an amassing horde.  Further south, he heard the sounds of war cries and saw flames.
  Talmon.
  For a moment he felt like he should go back there and save the villagers.  The goblins were certainly there now, and the villagers must be scared as ever.  He imagined Kylene’s face, her blond hair spattered with blood, the heavy breathing of a goblin hovering over her, teeth rotted with bones, eyes pitch with scarlet.  Her quick breaths, as if she anticipated his cruelty and welcomed it, while at the same time struggling in his grasp and screaming for help, from any lover she had ever had during the course of her short life.
But Bartz’s pride held him back; why did they deserve to be saved, when they had nearly killed him; this was the answer to their cruelty.  Bartz felt guilty with these thoughts: they had all the right in the world to hold him accountable for his crimes, but no matter. That direction was simply too dangerous now.  He only had one route: north.  He was curious about the rock, and this gave him an adequate excuse.  He limped north, riding slowly.  It was as if La’mere also knew the dangers, and he moved forward cautiously.

  The rock was bigger than a village; more like the size of a small mountain.  It was covered  in fallen leaves, and was still smoking by the time Bartz approached the grove where it had fallen.  The summit of the rock could be seen over the treeline.  It had huge crevasses and dark pits, like a mountainside blasted with magical fire.
Bartz had heard of such things before, but never seen one himself.  In one of the Northern provinces, this kind of rock had fallen into a lake and caused a number of villages to be drowned.  It happened at the end of the fall season, and the flood had not receded by the period of snow and ice.  Those villages were lost to time, as the flooded waters froze over doorways, chimneys, stables, and beds.  Villagers had to bring ice picks to the village and break their way into their kitchens and stoves, just to retrieve their cooking supplies so they could last the winter.  When the summer season came, the wood had rotted and the villages unlivable.
  But this was different: when villagers dived into the lake to examine the rock, they discovered it to be a kind of grayish rock that broke apart when touched; this rock looked like it was hard like obsidian, as if the flames that surrounded it turned the rock into steel.  It nearly shone in the moonlight; Bartz saw the reflections of the stars on its surface, even from beyond the treeline.
  A rustling in the wood; cracking of branches, and a muffled cry.
Gritting through the pain, Bartz threw himself to the ground, rolling once and dragging La’mere into the border of the trees.  The goblins language was a compilation of tongues men spoke, smashed into one at once beautiful yet horrible speech.  It was filled with song, yet contained the brashest of words spoken by man across all the language of the earth.  Bartz had encountered them enough to know this was the language he heard.  However, he also heard struggling and pain.
  He withdrew his blade, gripped the hilt and waited.  The shadows of the goblins passed by him, and he saw they carried a young girl dressed in bright silks.  He gritted his teeth.  A simple village girl they were taking to continue their dark experiments.
  He saw the goblins closer now; their eyes contained the same madness as he remembered, shining with the kind of pure magic that they practiced on themselves that had made them outlawed in every province in the country.  They wore scraps of clothing they found, stitched together by hands that had been turned into claws or talons or worse; their muscles bulged as they walked, but they walked with a clumsy gait, as if they had not learned how to walk yet, still babes.
The girl had beautiful blond hair; just like Kylene, Bartz recalled.  But this girl’s nose was more elegant, and her eyes were fierce, shining with a luster of blue that caught Bartz off-guard; her clothes, in addition, decried her being any kind of villager, with spiral floral designs crafted onto the long sleeves, and beads of small stones threaded onto the rims of the dress.  This was no ordinary girl.
  Bartz jumped forward with his sword, and plunged it into one of the goblins.  She screamed out, gripping Bartz’s sword with both hands, pushing it further inside her until Bartz panicked and dropped to the ground.  The goblin had caught him off-guard, but as she slunk to the ground, he leapt forward and slid the sword out of her shaken body, ready for the next assault.
  “Please, be careful!” the young girl cried out.
The dark man holding her snarled and swung back an ornamented blade.  It was obvious to Bartz they must have ambushed the girl, killed her guards, and then stolen the weapons.  That sword was the kind of blade given to the king’s guard.  The goblin, however, had no idea how to properly wield the blade, and lunged forward without any kind of grace.
Bartz parried the swing and slapped the goblin’s sword arm away, causing him to momentarily lose his balance.  Taking advantage of the opening, Bartz winced through his pain and used his boot to kick the goblin back, and then swing his sword downward toward the neckline.  The goblin dropped the sword in a gasp of fear.
Before his sword connected, he was grabbed from behind.  Sticky hands coated with dry blood gripped him, and rather than going for the neck, he switched positions, shifted to the left, and shoved the blade under his right arm.  The figure holding him in the back wilted away, and dropped to the ground with a thud.
  The girl had managed to get out of her captor’s hands, picked up the sword, and plunged into the stunned goblin who now lay twitching on the ground.  The girl was heaving with deep breaths, staring at her hands.
  Bartz gathered his wits, walked forward, and took the sword from the girl, gathering her in his arms.
  “It’s ok, you are safe,” he said to her.  She trembled in his arms.
  “I’ve never killed a man,” she said after a moment.
  “They are not men.”
  “What are they?”  She stopped shaking, and moved out of Bartz’s arms, as if startled by even his embrace.
  “They are men who lost their minds to magic,” he said.
“Magic…” she was very quiet, and then collapsed.  Bartz moved forward and caught her before she fell to the ground.
  “You need to rest,” he said.
“No, it’s ok,’ the girl said.  “I can go on.  Just give me a moment.”
“Where are you going?”  Bartz released the girl, and she sat down on the ground.  “It’s not safe here, we need to move to safer ground.”
  She looked up at him, and then said, “I am going to the Wind Shrine.”
Bartz knew little of the Shrines, but what he did know was shrouded in mystery.  They were guarded by the King’s Cult, a group of religious men trained by the courts in Ai, who then took positions in various temples around the country.  He did know that the Wind Shrine was not located here, but quite far away, in a country far to the north, across the waters of the Median Sea.
“That is still quite far, lady,” Bartz said.  “By walking, at least a two weeks; by chocobo, I suppose you could travel there in three days.”
  “So you can see my urgency,” she snapped.
  Bartz was taken a bit aback.  She seemed to have little care for his saving of her life.  She was probably nobility, some little snot who grew up around extravagantly dressed servants, roasted pig, and handsome soldiers.  She apparently knew how to use a sword, but Bartz knew she had never seen the blood of a man before tonight.
“Your lady is free to go where she pleases,” Bartz said, bowing away.
The girl sighed.  “I am sorry, you did save my life.  Please accept my thanks.”  She curtseyed to Bartz, which was quite humorous given the tears and rips in her dress.
“No matter,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal.  “Perhaps you would like to join me, as I am headed north.”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” the girl said.  She looked at Bartz suddenly, fatigue covering her face.  “Forgive my temper.  My name is Lenna.  May I ride with you?”
  Bartz smiled for the first time tonight.  “For such a beautiful lady as yourself, I would take you wherever you please.  But first, we must take a look at the reason we are both here; if you would please follow me, we will see if there is a way out of these blasted woods.”

  It was impressive, Bartz noted, like a mountain just decided to fall from heaven, and burn up half the villages in the plains in its anger.  The ground was covered in burn, the tree trunks surrounded with scorched streaks, and many of the rocks nearby had simply been crushed into dust.  The earth was still hot.
  “Stay here,” Bartz told Lenna.  She did not respond, but it was clear from her expression she was surprised as well.
  Bartz made his way through the rubble, and touched the rock.  It stung him, hot to the touch.  The rock was still throwing smoke into the air, as if it was made of ash and brimstone.  Almost like the rock came from hell itself.
Bartz clambered up on the rock.  It was soft under his feet, like molten steel before fully cooled into a blade.  He made his way higher up the surface of the rock, and stopped cold.  He heard a sound.  A groan.
It was clearly a groan.  He rushed over to the sound and found a man on the ground, his clothes burnt and blackened.  He had soft red hair, with a full beard that had seemingly been untouched by the flames.
  Bartz shook him, and the man opened his eyes.
“Where…” he struggled, breathing in for what seemed to be the first time.
“How is it that you are alive, man!”  Bartz said.  “Come here, it’s not safe here.”
  Bartz lifted the man onto his shoulders and brought him out into the clearing.  Lenna gave a short gasp, and jumped off the chocobo, helping Bartz lower the old man to the ground.
“Careful,” Lenna said, smoothing his clothes with her slim and gentle hands.
  “Where… am I?” the old man asked.
“You are in the Junel Plain, near the border of Luca,” Lenna replied.
  “You were also on the top of this smoking rock,” Bartz said dismissively.  “Can you explain that?”
  The old man was puzzled at Bartz’s remark.  “My name… is Galuf.”  He scratched his head.  “But I don’t remember much else.  Where is Luca?”
Lenna looked with care at the old man, and she helped him sit up.  “You just need some time to rest; you’ll remember soon.”
  Bartz paced around the site.  The rock totally blocked the passage through to the other side of the mountain.  There was a short cave that led through part of the mountain, but the falling rock must have destroyed the passage.
“This way is closed off.  The only way through is through the pass, but the pass has been destroyed, and this time of the year it’s much too dangerous to try the scale the mountain, especially with our condition.”
  “What do you suggest?” Lenna asked.
“There is another way around, but we must go through goblin lands and to the north.  I believe I saw a port there when in passing, where we can catch a ship.”
Lenna sighed.  “We must hurry.  Are we in any danger?”
  “Just do what I say, and we won’t have any trouble with them.  You too, old man.  We’ll get you to a safe haven, but then you two have to go your own ways.”