A.N.: Moogles. They're pink, they're fuzzy, they're surreal, they save your games...and Athene Miranda does not buy it for a second. Na-nah. I want to know what's really going on there, why they really stand in odd places writing diaries, and what they really think of the other denizens of Gaia - so I cornered one and asked him...
This starts very roughly a month and a half before the game. A very attentive reader may notice that a few details are off - moogles in the wrong places, that sorta thing. That's because I'm going to put it all back later; worry not.
Isil Caran is the 'red moon', the name is shameless Elvish. Moogles, Burmecians, et cetera supplied by Squaresoft, a few crossover jokes supplied by Douglas Adams because I couldn't resist it, fic supplied by Mene and I. Only the latter two agreed to this arrangement; the others just have to put up with it.
To the dear dear person who asked if The Diary Of Natalie would ever get an update, the answer is somewhere between no and maybe. I'm more proud of that fic than anything else I've posted, but it feels, well, finished. But if I ever need an angst-outlet that badly again (given the circumstances, I hope not) she could well speak to me again. My thanks to you for asking, though...and no, I can't believe you were the only reviewer, either. I guess this chapter is dedicated to you.
#1 - Made In Burmecia
Lindblum Industrial District
I guess this is goodbye.
It happens to a lot of us this time of year. Time's up, kit, grab your gear and get out of town. They like to keep us on our toes. Besides, there's always enough of us pleading for transfer, enough places like Esto Gaza where no-one ever sticks it out for over a year. I've been lucky enough to get two seasons in Lindblum, keeping the Diary in the Industrial District. But now Mognet wants me up north someplace.
This'll be my fifth season. Not bad for a runt like me, eh? They say twelve's a good career; Noggy's been going for at least sixteen, but he's had the sedate postings these past few, Treno, Daguerreo, you know the sort of place. I've had all the weird ones myself. I started off at Summit Station, which was pretty complicated. Everyone was always coming and going; you rarely saw the same place twice. And I heard so many traveller's tales! People came from everywhere, moving from one side of the mountain to the other, and I wrote about everyone, the little kids on their first journeys, chewing their toys and howling "Are we nearly there yet?", the seasoned pirates hocking the most exotic things across the border, usually stuffed in the middle of a South Gate Bundt Cake (you wouldn't believe what you can hide in a bundt cake…), everyone. That was fun, but pretty exhausting. It's still a boom-zone three years on; they sent two moogles last year and still turned a massive profit. I guess travel books are the 'in thing'.
The Iifa Tree was a doddle after that workwise, but the dark side of Isil Caran would've been a less weird place to keep a Diary. It was completely empty, especially compared to Summit Station - I had to write about sparrows and gargants most days. Sometimes no-one'd come along for a month or more. I saw nobody from November to the middle of February (except Stiltzkin, but there's no accounting for him). I hope they sold a few of my nature notes, 'cause everything else I wrote that year was pretty fucked-up - that place got into my dreams sometimes, and on the really bad days it got out of them too. I ought to ask the Central about my output, but I'm too worried about how I'd react if I found out they'd shifted 300 copies of The Amazing Adventures Of Trimalchio The Fire-Spitting Gargant or something else I couldn't remember writing. I tell you, I could've spent the whole year high on kupo nuts and not noticed any difference…
Then Lindblum. They certainly know how to rock down here. I've been working in the bar on Cid VIII Street ever since I got here - I turned up before Mopli left (I ran from that tree when I got my reassignment slip) and got pulled into his going-away party. When I (finally) woke up the next morning he'd already left for Oeilvert and Lilias was waving a six-month resident journalist contract at me. I'm still not sure when it was I signed that (before or after Moodon turned up with the goldfish…?), but I recall the next three slips well enough. I just love the place. It's a great pitch; all the engineering students come here and have those garbled, rapid-fire conversations that I've never understood a word of but I feel smarter just listening to. Add to that the town crowd…well, let's just say that I don't think there's anywhere with a higher standard of joke, unless you're adverse to anything above G-rated. Lilias is the absolute queen - I've seen stage-shows less dramatic than her put-downs. Plus there's that amazing mix of people you only get in cities; tradesmen, bandits, fortune-seekers (they never know quite what they want but what they get is usually female and negotiably affectionate for some reason), paupers, aristocrats, and tired, old men. I'd seen them all by the time the moons set on my second night here, and I stayed another two years on the buzz of it. I've done everything from taking scientific dictations to keeping minutes for a crime mob. But now it's over. The End.
"Be seeing you, Lindblum," I mutter as I check through my pack one last time. Clothes crammed on top, some of the warm ones I haven' worn for years - I might need them that far north. Eight weeks' supply of paper and ink, with deliveries arranged for the rest of the year. Proof if it were needed of what city life does to your forward planning ability - I've been getting soft, buying notebooks retail when I'm low. Plenty of handkerchiefs, thankyou Grandma Pickle, and greater thanks to Lilias for washing the smell out yesterday. Enough books to last the journey; Mogrich's 'The Alexandrian Monarchy' for when I'm feeling dry, a couple of novels ('The Shadow Of The Vampire' by Monev - he wrote that up at Mount Gulug, now there's a place to inspire a good horror story - and something by a human writer called Laudo Wren. Oh well, give it a go…) and a little something to help me settle in. 'The Outer Continent On Forty-Two Gil A Day' by Stiltzkin. Wish to gods he'd've got it out before my last trip north…
But then, if he had, we probably wouldn't have met like that. When else would you get two sane moogles half-way up a tree on a snowy winter's night? He was shivering and sneezing, huddling under soaking khakis and only still moving because he'd forgotten how to stop. I had to practically drag him into my shelter and wring him out, and I burned half a forest getting him dry again. He stayed a full three days under sufferance - I wouldn't let him go until his nose stopped dripping. He left when the snow was still falling and the next I heard of him was a letter a month later saying what a great time he'd had, and asking if I'd mind an insert in his book. I guess he's that kind of person, irrepressible, or just plain maddening…
What else is in here? Ah, my treat from Serino; a bagful of kupo nuts! That was most thoughtful of her. I got her something to last, a nice thick scarf for her travelling, because she isn't going to stop travelling any time soon. She got the Alexandrian Airship post! She's quite excited - well, who wouldn't be? She'll get to see a whole country…Airship placements are very coveted, and I'm surprised they gave one to a second-seasoner like her. They've been reserving them for the seniors for six years now, ever since a promising youngster got so hooked on the wanderlust when he spent his first year in an airship that he couldn't hold down a normal job afterwards. Let's see now, some kitten called Stiltzkin… Serino'll be good at it. She's a dedicated diarist, and she picked up enough high-class etiquette in her year at the Castle with the Fabools. She's quite a puzzle, a bit standoffish and pompous at first but really, really kind when you get to know her. I hear Mogki's getting her old placement - he'll love courtly life, he is one hell of a gossip.
I have one last glance around my room. No, I've packed everything already. I shoulder my baggage and flit down the stairs.
It's a sort of finality, I guess. Two years is a long time, and more than any place I've ever lived Lindblum has been a home to me. I know it's not meant to be that way; moogles don't have homes, we just up sticks and leave with a smile when the next job comes along, but then to be honest it's not the city I'll miss but the people I've met here. I've made a lot of friends, and I'll probably never see half of them again. That hurts far more than leaving actual Lindblum; that means very little to me. It's not a bad place, but it's not…my…
"Going so soon, Mene? The Festival hasn't even started yet."
She's leaning against the bar, cool and collected, exactly like it isn't just gone eight am. Even Lilias is still snoring through the walls (in a very ladylike way, of course) and she's noted for never being asleep. But she's standing there in the dawn light, red cloak swirling round her thin grey body, smiling like it's all just a joke and she'll never, never tell you the punchline. "L-lady Freya? What - I thought -"
"Yes, I decide to come a month early this year, get a little practice in round Pinnacle Rocks, you know. You're moving out?"
"Yes." She's a laid-back lady but I think Freya takes the Festival Of The Hunt more seriously than she lets on. She was runner-up to Belna last year, and not by such a great margin, and to come a month early for practice… She means it this year, I guess. She's going for the top.
She's come here every year I've been here, checking in just before the Festival then leaving as soon as it's finished. She doesn't talk much - or rather she does, but it's always weapons, or politics, or the weather forecast; she never ever talks about herself. She looks to be Burmecian, but I couldn't even swear to that. She's a damn fine fighter; maybe she was in the army once? Oh, I don't know. Does it matter? She's still…my friend…
"Hm. Relief not here yet?"
"Oh, I'm not being replaced. They decided three moogles was enough to cover Lindblum, because they wanted a second up in Dali."
"Dali?" She frowns. "Well…" The slow grin settles on her face again. "So where are you going?"
"Um, it's up north someplace," I reply cagily, knowing the rules about dealing with Mist Continent people but not knowing how they apply to Freya. "It's…in a desert."
"Vube Desert?" she asks sharply.
I take a half-step backwards. "N-no, f-further north than that."
Another little grin. Gods, she scared me then. "I see…" No, she's still scaring me, what is it she's not saying? I wave shyly anyhow, and make for the door.
"Hey." I turn. "Catch this." A - something? - thuds into my cupped hands. "It was a gift to me from a promising young thief, kit. The kind of boy who'd steal fire from the gods then sell it back to them for twice its weight in glory. I think he pulled it out of Treno last year, but that could have just been a rumour…" I unpeel the leather sheath to reveal a shining silver blade fully half the length of my body, decorated and engraved and beautiful. "I don't use them, and it's better for all of us if you get it off the continent for us." I think she sees my expression. "It's a mythril dagger, or 'broadsword' to you I suppose. They're not hard to use; you just point it at the bastard and push. Not an art, not like the lance…" She trails off, dreamily.
"Thanks." I tuck it into my belt reverently. "I really appreciate it."
"Yes. You write to me, kit. All the best." She tips her hat, and I incline my pompom politely as I step out into the big wide world.
There's people out here even now. They're all morning people, the fast-moving type who never meet your eyes, in case you meet theirs. Gypsy, the alleycat, slinks down the road, probably looking for puppies to menace - she slides round my legs, and I tickle her ears in farewell. I shake her off but she follows me down the steps to the statue anyway. I giggle when she starts chasing pigeons.
The station's empty, except for the attendant snoozing away in a corner. No cab in - guess I'll have to wait a few minutes. I sit down on the bench and pull a book out of the top of my pack. The Stiltzkin. I cast an eye down the contents page. 'Conde Petie - Life In the Mountains.' I never visited there; might make an interesting read. What else? 'Magdalene Forest - The Ruins,' hm…oh. 'The Iifa Tree - A Wonderful Place To Visit,' damn you Stiltzkin… Ah. 'The Desert Palace - Underworld Cathedral.' Page sixty-one. That looks like the place. Let's see…
'I reached the Desert Palace in the middle of the afternoon, late into spring. In the ranks
of imposing, awe-inspiring or landscape-defining architecture it simply doesn't figure;
the exterior of the Palace is merely a large hole in the sand. Dusty mosaic was chipped
across the cave floor; maybe it shone once, a long time ago, but now it is nothing more
than a faint splash of colour on the hard ground. It's a sad truth that most of the truly
great buildings outside the Mist Continent are abandoned and neglected, but too few
travellers ever come by to pity these shells of the past…'
The tracks rattle, so I put the book away. I love Stiltzkin's prose-style, he just sweeps you off on the waves of his journeys. I wish I was that good; I'm far too dreamy when I write, always chewing over little things and missing all the good bits. A cab pulls up, so I board, careful as ever on the gap above the platform -
- and am nearly knocked backwards by a flying ball of fuzz!
"KUPO!?" it exclaims, fluttering up and unravelling. Sleek, dark locks of fur unwind down his face -
I blink coldly. "Artemecion?" Looks like he's found a new trick, too, the jerk - last time I saw him it was hair-crimping. What'll he do next, dye his pompom? No wonder they made him postboy; if they left him too long anyplace he'd get thrown out. "What are - you - doing here?"
"Looking for you." He grabs me by the paw and yanks me into the car. I shake free and punch the button for the castle, whilst he smoothes down the (excessive amount of) fluff on his forearm.
"Me?" Gods, I've only had this dagger for five minutes and already I want to start using it.
He rummages in his holdall. "Yep. You got this." He waves a plump, brown package at me. I take it, curiosity briefly overcoming native spite, and I carefully open the flap.
Huh?
It's green, whatever it is. Green and blue and silky…there's tons of this stuff, pouring out in waves like a localised waterfall, and I try in vain to keep it all in my arms. It's tumbling everywhere, brushing across the not-entirely-grime-free floor before I can possibly catch all the tails. Finally, it stills. I shake the weird bundle, trying to fathom out its meaning - and a piece of paper drops out of it and lands by my foot.
From Stiltzkin To Mene
Heard you were hitting the trail again, and I thought
you could do with one of these. You can use it for almost
anything - trust me, I've tried!
Have a good trip!
Hm. Hey, friend, would you mind explaining something next time?
I have another go at the thing, working my way around the edges one by one. Artemecion is literally twitching with suppressed nosiness by the time I find the label.
RICH COTTON LINED WITH PURE SILK
EXTREMELY WATER ABSORBENT
MADE IN BURMECIA
Oh. That's…strange. But I guess I can trust Stiltzkin.
"What is it?" Artemecion squeaks in agitation.
"I think it's some sort of…towel."
"Ha." He's pushed the Arsehole lever again. I stuff the thing back in its packet and position it carefully at the top of my bag, within arms reach in an emergency. I can trust Stiltzkin… "Who was that from?" he asks venomously, blatantly delving for a new gossip target.
I straighten myself to the nearest I can get to ramrod with all this on my back. "Stiltzkin."
He's still gawking ten seconds later when the cab pulls in at the castle. "Hey! Wait up!" he howls, flapping along in my wake. I stride up to the dock, nod primly at the watchman, then turn into the red plush hallway. "Hey!" I sigh wearily and turn on one heel. "I - I've got to catch an airship now."
"Yes?"
"So - goodbye, right, Mene?"
"Right." He shifts his feet. "See you around, Artemecion." I head off to the lift before he can reply, smirking just ever-so-slightly.
Something about that man always sets my teeth on edge. He's so slimy, always clawing for some way to pull himself up at someone else's expense. Rumour-mongering, preening, talking down at me - I hate it! Plus, he's vain. Thinks he's pretty so does all that crap to his body in order to prove it. It's so - dishonest, it's enough to take the shine off the post! I wish they'd give him a post somewhere crazy like Oeilvert for five years, that'd be the only way to shut him up!
The guard waves me past him, through to the lift. I descend, gingerly clutching the rim, looking out into the castle one last time. The marble hallways fall away beneath me, and the cold stone of the underground tunnels comes up to meet my feet. You've been good to me, Lindblum. I've had fun here, and met so many of your wonderful people… But somehow, you've never really been mine. It's more like it was at Summit Station, all the people going back and forth and me left in the middle, scribbling away, trying to catch each day before it leaves me for good. Your buzzing presence isn't mine; however long I listen I won't ever become part of the noise. You're not my - not my…
It's there again, just out of reach. That place I'm looking for, the strange feeling of peace and serenity and soft flowing water, hovering above me like a forgotten dream… I don't know where it is or what it is or anything, but I know I'll know when I get there. I dream about it sometimes, but it escapes my mind before morning every time. All I can remember is the sound of the water…
Serpent's Gate beckons. After that, who knows?
T.B.C.
Case Notes: I always wondered what moogles did for a living, and then I realised Mognet Central could be just a great big scribes-guild-cum-publishing-house. I noticed last time I played that the mailman's name is spelt both "Artemecion" and "Artimecion", which is MOST aggravating to a Licenced Nitpicker like Thene... Square ought to give the moogles to someone who cares...
I think I shall reward the first reviewer who can tell me who Laudo Wren is with the choice of a Diary (ANY character in FFIX, a minor role for preference but a lead if you like, or any in-game moment you'd like told from an odd angle) to be written by me in the near future. Oh come on...!