Author's note: Greetings, denizens of that august repository of fanfiction known as I know a lot of people who turn out to be very bad writers say this, but: this is my first fanfic, so bear with me. To differentiate from the normal text, disclaimers and the rare author's note will be in italics like this. I welcome, and occasionally listen to, reviews and constructive criticism; genuine flames will be laughed at and possibly saved to be laughed at more later.

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics Advance, nor do I own any places, concepts, or characters first introduced in the actual game. They belong to Square-Enix. I do own these original clanners, their personalities, and any mistakes I may make pertaining to the things I don't own.

Snow In Roda: The Chronicles of Clan Whatsit

Chapter 1: Marble, Marble, Everywhere

In which Matthias laments Baguba Port's décor, and a clan is born.

"I mean, it's not like I'm complaining, I like green marble, but I still think that covering everything with it is a bit much."

Matthias, a black mage newly released from apprenticeship, was expounding upon the few problems inherent in living his entire life in Baguba Port. His companion, Roland, a similarly new animist, nodded and stared into his drink. Matthias' father ran the Golden Gil, and Roland was always being invited to try the newest inventions before they were inflicted upon the customers. The latest was a mixture of lemons, sugar, and water. It was an outside sort of drink, so the two of them were sitting outside. Roland thought the drink was called "lemon-help," but he could have been mistaken.

"I suppose I see what you mean," he replied, "but it'd be a lot of work to take all the marble off, wouldn't it?" Roland tried to be a reasonable moogle most of the time; Famfrit knew Mat wouldn't bother.

"Roland?" Matthias began.

"Yup?"

"I just realized. I've known you for years, and yet you've never once said 'kupo.'"

"I wondered if you'd ever ask about that. I figured you were too polite. Guess I forgot who I was dealing with. Anyway, 's a speech impediment."

"Oh." Matthias swirled his lemon-help thoughtfully. "Are you sure it isn't all the other moogles who have speech impediments?" He had apparently decided to ignore the politeness comment.

Roland blinked. "D'you know, I think that's the most sensible thing you've said all month?"

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After a silent, reflective ten minutes of staring out over the water (they were perched on the harbor wall), something seemed to strike Matthias. "We'll be expected to join a clan eventually, won't we?"

"I suppose so…" Roland replied dubiously, not sure where this was going.

"Well, why don't we start our own clan? I'm sure my dad'll let us operate out of the pub here. In fact, he'll probably be thrilled to make some money off of us for a change."

"'Scuse me," a heavy Muscadet accent called suddenly. A quick look around revealed that the accent belonged to a human of about their age (well, about Matthias' age, anyway; moogles age somewhat more quickly) in the leather tabard and straw hat of an archer, who grinned broadly and doffed said hat in an elegant bow. Matthias, grinning an identical grin, mirrored his actions with his own large pointy black mage's hat; Mat was born to be a blue mage.

Roland, meanwhile, was trying to figure out why archers wore pointy hats.

Laughing at Matthias' mimicry, the archer continued, "I couldn't 'elp over'eahin' you gents, and, well, I been lookin' fer a clan meself. Name's Tony," he added as he held his hand out, "'n as you c'n prob'ly tell, 'm 'n archah, but," he paused, gesturing to the lute slung across his back, "'m also bit've a musician."

"Matthias. Call me Mat." Mat grinned widely (again) as he shook the proffered hand, mentally giving up on mimicking Tony's accent.

"Roland. Call me anything else and I'll gut you with a harmonica." Nevertheless, Roland too grinned at the antics of the new arrival.

Mat looked at Roland oddly. "You don't have a harmonica." Not waiting for a reply, he immediately launched into the next stage of clan planning (planning was something Mat was surprisingly good at). "Well, now we need just a few more people and we'll be a good size for a beginning clan. Lessee, we'll need a couple of melee fighters, definitely…" Mat trailed off into a world of battlefield tactics, weighing the benefits of various jobs that fit that description.

"And probably a healer, like a white mage; we can't rely on items all the time, you know, and I can't do healing yet," Roland put in.

"Hmm … fensah'n'a white monk, mebbe…" Tony opined.

"And a white mage." Roland was quite insistent on this point.

"That might work," Mat agreed, oblivious to Roland's protests.

"I vote Roland 'eah's the boss," Tony recommended.

"Motion seconded and carried," Mat decided.

"Alright then. Mat, put up the requests, wouldja? On fensah, I mean fencer, one white monk, and one white mage." Roland tended to speak in italics when provoked.

"Righto, Clan Chief Roland."

"Shut up, Mat."