Welcome, one and all, to what I hope to become a window into the dark, sometimes sticky recesses of the innermost part of the innermost part of my brain. I'm writing this kind of like a hitchhiker's guide to Ivalice, with little tidbits of interesting info about the place if it actually existed. It delves deep into religion, philosophy, and the mating rituals of flans. Well, I haven't much to say, so let's get on with it, shall we?

The bangaa of Ivalice are a deeply religious people, and unsurprisingly, many young bangaas become clergymen. Most people are familiar with the white monks, which are the warrior priests of the church, but they are not the only kind. There are also the green monks, who live most of there life enclosed in monasteries, devoting there life to prayer and service to Adramalach. Among other things, the green monks often study other occupations, and many are weapon smiths, gardeners, architects, and there's an enclave in the Kudik Peaks known for their beer and wild parties. Go figure. The others are the red monks, who aren't monks, per say, but laymen who work for the church. Because they don't take the oaths of poverty and chastity of the green monks, and don't risk life and limb like the white monks, the proper name of a red monk roughly translated from the bangaa mother tongue is "pansy wuss".

Sprohm was a rough town. Run by the lizard like bangaa, the rules were strict, but often broken. The bars filled the air with the sounds of off key singing and brawls. For most people, you went only if you had business there, then you got out before that one mean looking moogle transvestite with the switch blade realizes that your shoes and jacket don't match. Such was the case for Arthur, a tallish but very skinny bangaa who was seated at one of Sprohm's many aforementioned bars, this one called the Bitter Old Bug, which had a humorous drawing of an antlion blearily gazing into his beer mug above its door. The young bangaa's clawed knuckles that he slung across his back showed him to be a white monk, and the lean look of his face belied the fact that he hadn't eaten in days. He sat at the bar, intently reading a book in front of him

"Hey, bookworm," came the rough voice of the bartender, "you here for something to eat or will you just sit there until you crumble into dust?"

"Hmmm?" Arthur said and quickly looked up from the book. "Oh, uh, yes, thank you sir. I'd just like some bread and butter and a cup of tea if you have any."
"Are you sadistic or poor?" the bartender half laughed. "I'll get you some real food. It's on me."

"Thank you again, sir," Arthur said.

"So, are you here for business, or something else?" the bartender asked as he plunked down a big pewter bowl filled with hearty stew.

Arthur didn't say much for a second; instead, he unceremoniously dumped half of the stew down his throat, and fell into a fit of violent coughing from the scalding soup. When he finally was able to talk, he croaked out, "Business, I suppose."

"Uh huh," the bartender said skeptically. "And how long will you be staying here in Sprohm?"

"For a while. I can't say when I'll have to leave. Any place you'd recommend for rooms?"

"Right here, young un," the bartender said, waving his arms across the entire bar. "Won't find a better pub for miles. I'll give you a good deal since you're staying for a while. I've got a small one bed room open, so let's say twenty gil a week?"

"I can't thank you enough," Arthur said graciously. "I think I'll go out for a walk, and I'll get the key when I come back in."

"Whatever," the bartender said, and took up Arthur's dishes.

Stepping onto the streets, Arthur was pleasantly surprised at how the crowd was starting to thin out with the onset of twilight. When he had first come in to the city, people had flooded the streets, rudely jostling each other and talking loudly over the din of everybody else. The pub with its large customers and brawls was almost a viable alternative.

Arthur shivered slightly and wrapped his muffler tighter around his throat. The monastery where he grew up in was farther south, and he had had yet to be acclimated to the slightly more chilly climate that Sprohm had. Still though, he was enjoying living in a big city for the first time in his life, after his sheltered youth.

"Besides," he said wryly, "it's not like I had a choice in the matter."

Finally, Arthur found what he was he was looking for. A small alleyway branched off an old back road. No one was there, and by the looks of the buildings, no one had lived there for a while. Arthur walked into the alleyway, made an odd sign with his right hand, and clasped his hands in prayer.

"Great Adramalach, I have been given a mission by your great church. Unfortunately, because the patrons of your church are cheapskates, they couldn't give me much as far as resources go. Seriously, you know that pansy wuss Macgregor? He has a gil coin on a piece of string and he… oh never mind. All I ask is that you guide me in my most worthy quest."

His prayer finished, Arthur got back up on his feet and started walking back to the pub.

"And not a moment too soon," Arthur said looking up. A wall of grey clouds had filled the sky, and snow was beginning to fall.

The snow soon became the least of Arthur's fears as he kept wandering around the streets and avenues. He had completely lost his way and there was no one around to help him. Looking around on the street he was on, he saw another pub. Hoping to find someone in there who knew where to find the Bitter Old Bug, he walked up to the door and raised a hand to knock at it.

However, before he even touched it, the door swung open and something small and furry drove into Arthur's stomach and knocked him backwards into the snow.

"And don't come back until you have some money!" a voice from inside the bar called angrily before slamming the door.

The projectile that had knocked Arthur on his bum had been a moogle, who proceeded to curse at the bartender before picking up her floppy straw hat and putting it on her head. The moogle looked youngish, about sixteen or seventeen, with large brown eyes and a round face. Her large ears were tipped with dark black, and she also had a thick mop of shiny black hair. She had worn her black glove's fingertips down to nothing and it seemed the only new and presentable thing on her was her dark blue robe, which bore the seal of a mage academy.

"Are you okay?" Arthur asked her.

"About as okay as one could be after being thrown out of every fucking pub in the city, kupo!" she yelled but then covered her mouth looking apologetic. "Oh damn it, I'm sorry, I should be asking you if you're okay, kupo. Did my fat ass do any damage to you?"

At first Arthur could not speak. Then he restrained himself from speaking because he knew the first thing he'd say would be a reprimand of her filthy mouth. Finally, he managed to say that he was fine.

"Oh but there should be something I can do to help," the moogle girl said, her eyes earnest.

"Well, you wouldn't know where a bar called the Bitter Old Bug is, do you?"

The girl's eyes lit up. "Do I fucking ever kupo! That's one my favorite watering holes! It's funny I forgot about it. Sure, I'll take you there," then she paused and looked up at Arthur sweetly. "Any chance you'd be willing to give a kupo cute girl a little Gil for a room?"

Arthur looked at the girl. Her soft girlish features had the same haggard look he did, as if she hadn't had any food to eat or a roof over her head for some time. "Certainly, now if you'd be so kind as to direct me to said bar, I'll see what I can do. I'm kind of in need myself, you see."

"Bitchin, kupo!" the moogle said.

"Although," he said in a slightly commanding tone, "If you don't stop cursing so much, I might not do anything."

"What?! Then I just won't show you where the fucking bar is, kupo!"

"I'm an ascetic," Arthur said drily, "Just guess which of us will be more comfortable out on the streets. Now enough, or I'm cleaning that mouth out with soap and chilis."

She fumed for a little while, but finally agreed.

"Thank you, miss."

"Kupo, don't call me miss," she ordered, "I'm probably younger than you."

"What should I call you then?"

"Call me Beth, kupo. Short for Bethany Winston, honors graduate from the Cyril School of Elemental Arts, and yet I can't find a fu-" Arthur looked at her severely. "Freaking job anywhere, kupo."

"Well, my name is Arthur Macfust, white monk of the order of saint Grigori the Wise, and currently on a holy mission."

"Ah. Well, kupo, I'm happy I met you, Arthur."

"Same to you Beth."

And with that, the two walked off to the bar.

And it is done. So, reviews please. I take all reviews, from helpful criticisms to crack infused nonsense, to pitiful flames. How about this, I'll give the person with the most helpful review or most creative flame a cameo appearance in the next chapter.