Fiction and Memory
When Laguna Loire, Monster Hunter of Winhill settles down for the evening, it's not Marlboros and wayward Cactuars he studies; not subtleties of stealth nor patience of stalking. It's linguistics, form, manuals of written style.
When Raine checks on him to say goodnight he's often hunched over his keyboard, glow of computer screen illuminating his face and furrowed brow, wayward hairs falling haphazardly across his eyes. Raine will gently brush them away, ask softly, "Still working on your story?" and he'll turn and smile, arms crossed behind his head. "Always," he will say, and Raine knows the fame he desires is not one born of gun or sword but one birthed from the scrawling of a pencil, the tapping of keys on a keyboard, the birth of words, characters, worlds.
For now he sticks with the factual, submits his articles to Timber Maniacs, hopes for publication. Ellone, his personally dubbed Assistant Commander in Monster Hunting, is his biggest fan, and sometimes he'll read her what he's written while her eyes widen in wonder, as she asks her Uncle Laguna if all of that is really true.
"Course it is," he'll say. Kiss the young girl's forehead, close his eyes. Dream.