The Story Begins

It was chance that the asteroid moving slowly and gradually through space entered a solar system that contained life. Chance that it struck a smaller asteroid and had its course altered just enough to veer unchangeably towards the only planet with a sentient species. Chance, not fate as the people of the planet would later proclaim, that the asteroid would forever change the lives of those who lived there. For of all the asteroids drifting through the vast emptiness of space, this one contained a lifeforce of its own. As it realized where it was headed, the being inside the asteroid stirred to consciousness. Soon.

The dew was still coating the grass when Tyrael's eyelids cracked open. He inhaled as deep a breath as he could, held it, then released it in a rush as he sat up. Every day, for as long as he could remember, he'd woken up the same way. With a groaning stretch he rapped his knuckles on an empty pot, and as he scrubbed his scalp with his fingers the dew on the grass began to glisten. Slowly, like a whirlpool beginning to form, the dew lifted from the grass and gathered in the pot, swirling inside until the pot was full. A final stretch was accompanied by the pop of his spine, before he picked up the pot and dumped the water over his head. He shook the extra water from his hair, running his fingers through his copper locks before setting the pot down and reaching for his clothes.

He'd camped on the grassy steppes between the Great River and the Great Mountain Pass. As he packed up his camp he smirked at the similar names. If there was one thing humans had going for them, it was that they were definitely more creative with their naming of locations. The only problem was that naming landmarks wasn't enough for them any more; now they wanted to create landmarks of their own.

"A capital city," Tyrael muttered, strapping his saddle into place on his chocobo and feeding it a green-green. "Have they learned nothing? Capital cities don't work."

His chocobo gave a light-hearted "wark!" that turned into a grunt as Tyrael fastened on the two heavy postmen's packs and mounted up. Despite his scepticism about a capital city, Tyrael was carrying letters and packages from across the world to exactly that spot. Human cities were springing up like weeds, but to strap them all together under the rule of a main city…

"It won't work," he stated again.

He gave his chocobo a nudge, but the bird didn't move. It turned its expectant eyes on him, and swallowing a curse he rummaged in his pack and pulled out their matching post caps. The chocobo had spent its whole life running the mail delivery routes, could probably do it blindfolded, but it refused to budge until it was appropriately attired.

Finally they left the campsite, and as they rode away Tyrael looked back. He'd used the same campsite the past four times in a row, and he could feel the lifestream urging him not to use it again. No one else used it, it was becoming his place, and Cetra weren't allowed to own places. That was the key difference between humans and Cetra.

As they raced across the steppes, Tyrael felt his pessimistic thoughts evaporating as the lifestream rose up to greet him. Yes, he was travelling an established route, but in his case the lifestream was willing to bend the rules. Within the Cetra were several distinct clans, separated by travel areas and further subdivided by colour. Tyrael was one of the WhiteHill clan; specifically, he was the last of the WhiteHills. As the only WhiteHill remaining, Tyrael's pushing of Cetra boundaries was treated with more leniency.

Around noon, Tyrael spotted the human capital city. It had grown massively since last he'd seen it, but even its new bulk failed to convince him that it would last. Named Hume after the man who'd envisioned its completion, the city was thriving with a young and enthusiastic population. Men and women worked tirelessly to build it into the greatest city on the planet, but underneath the initial atmosphere of diligent ambition lurked an ambition of another kind. The inhabitants of Hume were all strictly humans, and even then the number of humans from Wutai could be counted on one hand. It was true that Cetra were nomadic, but their entry into the city was discouraged and even denied.

Tyrael approached the city gates, readying his traveller's papers with guilt. He was registered as a human, and was required by social norms to complain good-naturedly about his job and the need to travel every time he entered town; especially in Hume. The people here seemed urgent to declare that they were sedentary, to differentiate themselves from the Cetra as much as possible.

The guard at the gate glared at him, clearly suspicious of his black chocobo, but Tyrael met his eyes and held them, "I run the mountain-river route. Is there a problem?"

"Nice route?"

"If you like rocks in your boots and thorns up your ass," he quipped.

The guard barked a laugh and handed back the papers, "Go ahead. You'll probably be sent out again today."

"Not even a night in a bed?"

"Dispatches," was all the guard said before turning to scrutinize the next traveller.

Tyrael rode into the city with thoughts whirling. If the city was going to war, it had three possible targets. First, it could attack Wutai, the Western Continent with a culture five hundred years older than Hume's, but that was unlikely. Only fifteen years ago Wutai had clashed with the rest of the humans over trade and immigration disputes. It had escalated into a three-year war, with the eventual surrender of Wutai. Despite losing the war, they got their way with regards to immigration, and the population of the continent stayed almost exclusively Wutaian.

Second, it could lash out at the growing city of Zolema, the golden city nestled against the mountains on the Eastern Continent and Hume's greatest rival. Both Hume and Zolema had fought in the Wutaian war, and on the same side, but the smaller population of Zolema was mostly artillery and had lost far fewer soldiers. To the residents of Hume this was seen as unfair and cowardly; it didn't seem to matter that the Zolemans had added a decisive edge to the war. To attack Zolema was also unlikely, as the Zolemans wouldn't sail to the Central Continent; they would wait, secure in their mountain defences, and rain projectiles down on attackers.

This left the third option, and it had Tyrael subconsciously brushing his fingers against his traveller's papers; the people of Hume could be planning a war against the Cetra. It seemed absurd, as the Cetra were nomadic and hardly prone to confrontation, but that same racial trait would make for an easier opponent than the other two.

The possibility of a war against his kin kept Tyrael's thoughts occupied all the way to the post office. On seeing the building, he allowed himself an appreciative smile; alright, so the humans had two good things about them. The Cetra had passed their news verbally, but then along came humans who decided they'd rather let their letters do the travelling, and now everyone used the postal service. He could just imagine the outrage in Hume if they ever found out that the Cetra used the mailing system as much as, if not more than, they did.

He tied his chocobo to the hitching post and stepped inside the building. The post office had once shared a building with the library, but the books had since been moved to the Central Hall further toward the interior and the shelves were beginning to fill with packages and letters. The shelf for the mountain-river route was empty, making Tyrael think that he would get a day off, but then he saw the Hume-desert route shelf and sighed; it was packed.

"Ty-boy!" A meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, leading him to wonder for the twentieth time why the post manager needed to be so burly, "I think Jaymond's dead, either that or he's buggered off, haven't seen him in three weeks. Cetra probably shot him, need you to take his route. Temporary, of course, there's a good man."

"You think the Cetra shot him?" Tyrael couldn't keep the bemused tone from his voice, "It's more likely he quit and just didn't tell you."

His boss spun him around to face him, his voice suddenly low, "What, you don't think the Cetra'd do it? Think all they want is peace?"

"I'm just saying why waste the arrow?" Tyrael shrugged, "Jay's a meatbag, Zalbez."

Zalbez conceded this point, then clapped Tyrael's shoulder again, "Hume-desert route, quick as you like, I'll buy you lunch if you go today. Easy route, no mountains or rivers, two pack chokeys'll do it fine."

Tyrael frowned, "Those pack chokeys are the foulest birds on the planet; I'd rather make three trips."

"No can do, it all needs to go now. Stuff's been here for two and a half weeks." Zalbez pulled Tyrael out the door and down two buildings to the tavern, appropriately named the Pack Chokey Pub. The cute mail-carrying chocobo displayed on the shackle looked nothing like the actual bird. Dirty, unkempt, and usually missing an eye from scraps with others, pack chocobos liked to deliver their parcels intact and their mailmen in pieces.

"Maybe Jaymond's chokey ate him," Tyrael suggested slyly, still hoping to weasel out of using the vicious birds.

"Then it's a good thing you have better animal skills."

Damn.

"Right!" Zalbez slammed his palms on the bar, "A postman's lunch for my favourite postman, and step on it!"

Tyrael noticed several other postmen in the pub, but they just smiled and rolled their eyes; one even looked at Tyrael with pity. You didn't have to work for Zalbez very long to figure out you were only his favourite when he wanted something from you.

Zalbez stayed long enough to pay for the meal and sneak the dessert, and then loudly announced that he was heading back to finalize afternoon deliveries. Taking their cue, most of the other postmen left as well. Not knowing those who remained, Tyrael took his lunch and sat by the window. He could hear the lifestream's gentle reprimand, but ignored it. Soon he'd be travelling a new route, which would make it pleased with him again.

The Pack Chokey was hardly the most boisterous pub in the city, with most of its patrons being postal workers back from a trek and exhausted, so when a loud and raucous group entered it all heads turned to see the newcomers. Tyrael's eyes raced back to the window as quickly as they could, but it wasn't fast enough to stay anonymous.

"Whitehall, you roaming vagabond," the tone was friendly despite the words, "I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"You've been busy, I suppose," Tyrael gave a half-smile at the human surname. Minor changes to their clan titles allowed Cetra to walk in Hume with none the wiser.

The large frame of Osrik Asakura dropped down onto the bench beside him with a bang, and Tyrael frowned. He really wasn't a small man, and was capable of matching sword or fist against anyone in Hume; he was just meeting up with all the city's titans in one day. Osrik stood a good half-foot taller than he did and was built like a musk ox; a blue-eyed, fair-haired musk ox. Asakura most definitely wasn't his last name from birth, but when Osrik's wife sat down across from him it was easy to see where he'd picked it up.

Lotsu Asakura was without question from a noble family of Wutai. It was in how she carried herself, how she spoke, and how she fought. Tyrael had no idea why she'd left that life behind to become a mercenary with her husband, but she had. Husband and wife carried their weapons strapped to their backs, a hammer and two-handed shurikan, respectively, and from the way their companions were ordering drinks it was clear they'd just received pay for a mission.

Lotsu smiled at him, "Have you noticed an increase in letters?"

"Yes, but my route's just been changed so I'm not an accurate judge." Tyrael always felt his guard lowering when he talked with Lotsu, so he ended up putting too much energy into hiking it back up and overcompensated, coming off sounding stiff. Thankfully, Lotsu had realized this long ago.

"You shouldn't be a postman!" Osrik exclaimed, "My god, what a tremendous waste of talent! You could outmatch any of the other mercenaries, maybe even me! Let someone else deliver the mail!"

Tyrael let him finish before crossing his arms and asking, "How many times did you practise that on the way here?"

"Five." Osrik didn't look embarrassed at all, "Did it work?"

"Not really."

Tyrael would have responded further, but a sudden commotion in the street interrupted and they peered out the window to see. A crowd was forming around a city guard patrol, but the window was raised above the street and they could see over the thrashing arms. The guards, all mounted on armoured chocobos, were dragging four women down the road towards the city center. The women's hands were bound, and they were staring at the hostile crowd with horror. Their feet were bare, and they were only wearing their shifts. This was a spectacle, and more than that; a warning. All four women had a "C" burned into their right shoulders, clearly marking them as Cetra. One of the women tripped and fell to the ground, but the guards continued to drag her carelessly.

As the crowd jeered and cast about for things to throw, Tyrael's hand closed over the hilt of his sword and he rose to his feet. The next second Osrik had pulled him back down. He struck out at the larger man and attempted to stand again, but once again Osrik forced him to retake his seat.

"It's barbaric!" Tyrael spat.

"It's Hume." Osrik's voice was quiet, trying to both sympathize and remain inconspicuous, "Things have changed since you were last here, Tyrael. Any Cetra in the area should know better than to come near."

"This city is sitting in the way of the only route to the Northern Continent," Tyrael seethed, "if they want to continue on their yearly migration, they don't have a choice. There's a reason it's called the Great Mountain Pass."

Osrik passed a frustrated hand over his face, then pinched his lips together and rubbed his chin. Eventually he took a deep breath and stood, "You should probably get going. I hear the post master is a slave driver."

Tyrael was finally allowed to rise, but as he was moving past Osrik the big man clamped a hand around his upper arm and leaned close to his ear, "Don't be an idiot, Tyrael. Get your mail and leave, and if you see any Cetra warn them off the Pass. I'll see if anything can be done for those women."

"I can…"

"You can do nothing for them." Osrik clapped a hand on his back, giving the appearance of a friend bidding farewell, "I might be able to. Go."

*

Tyrael exited the pub with the intent to pursue the crowd, but Zalbez was standing outside the post office with the reins to a pack chokey in each hand, and the birds were already loaded. Zalbez called to him immediately, and there was nothing Tyrael could do but walk over and take the reins. To say that he and his own chocobo were unhappy with travelling with the two extras was a vast understatement; his chocobo would have to watch itself if it wanted to keep all of its feathers.

"Straight down, straight back," Zalbez instructed firmly, "post office'll probably be swarmed while you're gone, and we're short-staffed as is."

"Straight down and back," Tyrael agreed. He mounted up after stringing the reins of the pack chocobos onto a guide line, but before going on his way he asked, "Why swarmed? The spring rush is over and it's still a few weeks until summer."

"I have my suspicions," Zalbez shrugged in an extremely unconvincing manner. "Rather safe than sorry, right?"

Tyrael gave a noncommittal shrug back before tapping his chocobo on the sides and riding off down the street. Zalbez was horrible at concealing the fact he was lying, but was actually quite good at keeping the secret he knew.

Once he was safely out of Hume and cresting one of the hills a mile distant, Tyrael looked back at the city with a lot less fondness than he had the past five years he'd been stationed there. It sat squarely in the way of the Mountain Pass, and Tyrael looked at the groundwork for the outer wall in disbelief. Already the wall was half-built, and it was made of stone. What was worse, once it was finished it would fit snugly with the Pass, meaning the only way through would be through Hume. The journey through the Pass took roughly a week, and for the Cetra, emerging at the other end was the greatest relief they could get. Now they would spend a week clambering over rock only to be confronted with a wall of it.

Tyrael's chocobo hopped, letting him know that they had mail to deliver, and he steered it down their new route. For the time being the pack chocobos were behaving, probably figuring out how to untie their reins from the guide line, and he didn't want to antagonize them by standing around thinking about what might or might not happen.

As he travelled he felt the lifestream pulsing from the earth, and sighed, thinking that it was disappointed at him for failing to act and save those women. It was probably best that he thought this; if he knew why the planet was actually upset, he most likely would have given up his Cetra status right then and there.