You're still here. Thanks for that. I tried to make this chapter a bit longer than usual, so consider it my Christmas gift to you. If you don't celebrate Christmas, that's cool too, just don't look it in the mouth, yeah? Now on with you.

Few women are called to be monks amongst the bangaa, but it does happen. There are a good few convents who's holy women work in the same capacity as the green monks, taking care of the community and such. The men do have a traditional view about the women who wish to be white monks, however. It is the males, after all, who were meant to be the warriors. Women were meant to defend the home from enemies and protect the children when the men weren't there. It isn't because the bangaa see there women as weaker than the men. Indeed, the few times an army attempted to invade Sprohm, they were rebuffed by enraged wives, mothers, and sweethearts viciously smashing heads, snapping spines, and impaling soldiers on pitchforks, flagpoles, and sharpened rolling pins. The bangaa are proud of their strong women. Still though, women are supposed to stay near the hearth.

The main way women function in the clergy are as prophetesses. Prophesy in the bangaa church system is a rather arcane mix of a tiny bit of divinity and a lot more information assessment and statistical analysis. What will often happen is there will be a request sent from the patrons of various monasteries. The monastery sends it to the prophetess convent, and they will pray for judgment and clarity. After praying and researching what other monasteries are up to the challenge, along with what would be the best way of fulfilling the request, a prophecy is sent out to an available monastery. The prophecy doesn't have to actually be written in a poetic meter, but it's expected.

Joseph woke up just as the storm reached its fever pitch. It was a great plains storm that had surged across Giza, picking up power and attitude until it had hit Lutia, and ran right into the mountains. Now lightning arced and leapt across the boiling sky and in between the surging purple-black clouds. The whole thing was further tinged a dark blue from the snow which blew parallel to the ground and felt as if it was cutting through Joseph's little body. Hail too, fell from the sky, as big around as a gil coin.

Joseph decided to stay in the tent.

"How's the weather out there?" Matt asked, grinning as the tent's walls were beaten by the winds and hail stones.

"You know, there can be some bad storms up at Muscadet, kupo. They've even flooded the mines a few times. But this, kupo," Joseph shook his head and bundled even deeper into the furs laid out as his bed. "This is just ridiculous."

Matt nodded his head. "Yeah, but hey. Once we get through the Lutia pass, everything gets better. The mountains block most of the bad weather, so Cadoan's always nice."

"Why couldn't we have waited for this storm to pass again, kupo?"

Matt thought for a second. "Honestly, we probably could have. But I don't want to stay in one place too long. Katzu knows you quit your very cushy job at the mines and I'm the only apprentice to the sage he recently imprisoned, he's probably monitoring our movements. The sooner we get into Cadoan, the better."

Joseph nodded. "Makes sense, kupo. So how far are we from Cadoan anyway, kupo?"

Matt thought for a second. "Two days? From here we just cross the hills and we're there. Real woodsy, lots of monsters."

"That only sounds slightly better than the storm, kupo."

"It isn't too bad. Master left me in the middle of them for about two weeks so I could learn some blue magic on my own." Matt took a second to reminisce on those fourteen days of getting beaten by every monster imaginable. The rock knuckled punches, the poison, the zombies! It wasn't like there were any ruins or graves or anything, where did they come from?! It was ridiculous, there was even a Lamia! "Actually, in retrospect, those were probably the worst two weeks of my life. I still have a scar from where a Faerie tried to kill me with her bare hands."

Joseph massaged his temples. "You know, when I decided I was going to forego all hope I had of respect, social success, and even acceptance back into my family to rescue Beth, I didn't know what to expect , kupo. Thanks, Matt you've totally cleared my vision. I now know that this is going to completely suck. Completely, kupo."

"Ahh, but it is for your lady love, right? She'll definitely make it worth your while." Matt said, smiling a bit as his friend's long ears turned red. "Good to see blood's still circulating to your ears, frostbite's a real bugger. Anyway, would you rather take option two, with the Judgemasters?" Matt asked as he got up. "Now come on. We'd better leave the tent, it'll be too much effort packing it up again. Wrap the furs around you."

"Kupo?! We're walking through that?! I think I'd rather set off a mining charge with a short match, kupo! At least then I'd be assured a quick death!"

"This storm's only going to get worse, man. We stay in here any longer and we'll be dead in our sleeping bags before it's done with us."

Seeing no use arguing with that, Joseph got up and started to stuff furs into his foreman jacket. It stays cold around the underground rivers his shaft passed through, so it would have been excellent protection had he still been in the mine. Here though, he might as well have been wearing a flimsy silk nightie for all his jacket was doing for him.

After insulating himself, he grabbed his pack. He and Matt were traveling pretty light, so the only things in his pack were a bed roll, a shortened stock rifle he bought at a thrift store in Sprohm, and his violin.

Matt, having kitted himself up as well, opened the tent flap and the two ventured out into the snow, hail, and blustering winds. More lightning flashed across the sky and the two started to trudge down the path. Before they'd taken more than ten paces, Matt pulled out a rope and tossed an end to Joseph. The two tied their ends around their waists. They couldn't risk getting separated in a storm like this. Now firmly bound to each other, they set off to Cadoan again.

----------

"Quigley, how long has Arthur been back with us?" Abbot Paul asked his assistant. He was in his office, sorting through the newest prophecies he'd gotten.

"Oh, about three and a half months, your grace."

"He's been doing pretty well for himself since his mission, hasn't he?"

"Oh, very well, your grace. He's a grand worker, and he did a very good sermon a three weeks ago. He's been working feverishly cataloguing all those new books he got from Roda as well. I wouldn't be surprised if we could give him a small community to watch over. It's almost a waste just having him here in the monastery."

"I've actually been thinking about that, Quigley," Paul said, picking up a piece of paper. "Here, read this."

Quigley put on his spectacles and scanned the letter. "Hmm, Grigorian style accentual verse, eh? So it's from one of our convents. Lets see, 'ancient home of wisemen need, a priest to plant a mission's seed'. Is the Cadoan diocese expanding, then?"

Paul nodded. "The city's cathedral is. opening a new mission house in the labor quarter. They've been getting a lot more bangaa immigrants. It's a good place for young monks to get their feet wet. Not too many patrons, well established setting, I think we should send one of our boys there."

"And you're thinking of Arthur, then?" Quigley said, markedly surprised at his superior's resolve. "You're sure about this?"

"Um, yes. I mean, that's fine, isn't it?" Paul said, the resolve starting to melt away under the heat of his natural second guessing. "Arthur's a fine young man and he's proved himself to be responsible, right? I mean, his last mission trip was very successful, he even managed to get a good few books for our library, right?" The abbot was starting to work himself into hysterics. "It's not like I'm giving him something that he couldn't make head or tail of, right?! It's not like I'm making a terrible, terrible mistake that will haunt me to the end of my days, right?!!"

The splash of water from Quigley's ever present pail deposited Paul back into the realm of the rational, and with a deep breath he got back into his seat, which he'd leapt out of in the heat of the moment. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Quigley."

"Think nothing of it, your Grace. So, you do mean to send Arthur to Cadoan?"

Paul took a deep breath. "Yes. I really do. Arthur's a fine young monk, and I believe he has great potential. Also, I think he needs the experience."

"Ah, putting him on the fast track to the bishopric vestments eh?"

"No, not really," Paul said, looking out of his window to the monastery grounds. "He needs experience with people. He joined the white monks after that poor little thing died in his arms. Ruby lung's a terrible way to go, especially for so young a girl. It got to him. He transferred so he wouldn't have to worry about seeing people die again, but I feel he lost someone on his mission. He's been trying to use work to keep away from that fact, but it's obvious in the way he acts." He strode to his closet and took out his cassock, a fine black woolen thing. "The thing is, as a monk, you must give yourself to the people. Cutting yourself off from them so you must no longer feel heartache goes against your vows and is selfish." He put it on and wrapped a scarf around his neck. Finally, taking his staff in hand, he opened his office door and waved Quigley out. "Come Quigley, we need to tell Arthur of his new office."

Quigley, already warmed by a dark blue couerl skin wrapped around his cassock followed his superior out. He smiled. For all his neurotic phobias of choice and responsibility, Paul had an insight into the soul of a person that was amazing. It was no wonder he had become abbot. "Indeed, sir. A monk must walk for all his days with life on one side and death on the other."

Paul nodded. "We lay the sheets out after a birth and clear them after a death. It is our duty."

The monastery was a building of old gray stone. It was originally an army fort the monks had converted, and its Spartan feel suited its new ascetic residents just fine. The springs under it were used to heat the whole thing, making the monastery completely self sufficient. They didn't even need to pay for coal to heat the boilers.

Quigley took a moment to enjoy the smells from the kitchens to his right. Aahhh, it smelled like they were making ground hominy pudding. So buttery, so sweet. It was just a quart mug of stout away from being heaven. And was that a roast he smelled? No doubt having been in a pot, smothered in smoldering embers for the better part of the day, slowly cooking to juicy perfection. With onions, and garlic too if he was lucky. "Umm, perhaps we could have our discussion with Arthur in the dining hall, your grace?"

Paul smiled. He honestly didn't eat all that much, but it was cold that day and a little something warm in the belly sounded capitol. "That's a good idea, Quigley. Knowing Arthur though, he's probably in the library."

The two made their way from the abbot's study into the dormitories for the monks and out into the monastery yard. It was quite cold outside, and the two battled the winds until they made it to the main building on the other side of the walled complex. From their they went up a spiral staircase and through a hallway to a large door of wood and stone. The door creaked as Quigley struggled to push it open, and the two basked in the heat of the massive iron stove roaring in the middle of the monastery's great library.

There are two things that must be accounted for when you put a fire in a library. One, books are made of paper, and paper burns. It burns quite easily as a matter of fact. A mere spark is enough to turn a quiet hall of knowledge into a hellish inferno. This in itself would be an excellent reason to keep any type of fire out of the library, but there is another side to the argument. Mildew is the other dread enemy of librarians, and it only takes a little bit of moisture to allow it to survive, spreading from one book to another and destroying collections every bit as efficiently as any fire. Hence, the original monks of the monastery thought it necessary to keep a dry heat in the library at all times, and begrudgingly installed a very heavily grated wood stove to keep the fungus at bay.

Along with the crackling of the stove, the scratching of a crow quill pen could be heard in the library. Following the sound, the two saw Arthur's tall back hunched over a desk, numerous books smelling a bit of dirt stacked around him.

Paul approached him cautiously. Bangaa didn't have sweat glands, and thus were spared the curse of most unpleasant body odors, but the abbot could tell from the smell of Arthur's habit he'd been up her for some time. Delicate cleaning fluids for the ancient tomes joined the smell of fish bone glue, ground ink, and ratty old leather. "Arthur?" he asked softly.

The back stayed turned away.

"Arthur?" he tried again a bit louder.

The pen in Arthur's hand kept writing.

Paul finally laid his hand on the young monk's shoulder, and then his head snapped backwards, the stimulus of touch finally alerting him to his superior's presence. Arthur, normally lean, was downright skeletal at this point. His eyes bulged out, reddened from sleep deprivation and dilated from the feeble light of the library's hooded lanterns. "Oh, hello father abbot. I'm just doing some restoration and cataloguing on the books from Roda. How are you?"

"Great Adramalech, Arthur!" Paul said, astounded by the young man's transformation. "How long have you been up here?"

"Umm, a few days?" Arthur guessed, massaging his sinuses. "What day is it?"

"It's the twelfth of Huntmoon, Arthur," Quigley said.

"Oh. It's been about a week and a half, then."

Paul shook his head. This was more serious than he'd first expected. "Have you been eating, at least?"

Arthur nodded. "The monks on duty bring me tea and bread."

Quigley looked him straight in the eye. "Lad, that isn't eating. Come on, let's get you some proper food."

"Maybe after a bath and change of clothes, though. Come on, Arthur." The two helped the slightly dazed monk, who was a bit shaky on his feet after his week and a half bread and tea diet. "Um, Quigley? Do you think it would be a good idea to get someone else to do cataloguing for a while?"

"That sounds like an excellent decision, your grace. I'll get young Luther on it, shall I?"

"Er, very well then. See to it, Quigley."

Arthur, having finally gotten his bearings, straightened up. "Thank you both, but I think I can manage from here."

Paul nodded. "Very good then. Perhaps you wouldn't mind having dinner with us after your bath? We'd like to discuss something with you."

Arthur nodded. "It would be an honor. I'll just go clean up then, shall I?" With that he tottered down the stairs, through the monastery's common room, down another flight of stairs, into the grotto where the hot springs were, and after getting a towel and spare habit from the laundry room, he eased himself into one of the scalding hot springs. Being early in the evening, no one else was there, so he just sort of enjoyed the privacy. He sighed as the just about boiling water washed over his scales. With loofah in hand, he proceeded to go to town with the cleaning. It had been a while since he'd had a bath, and he came back out of the springs a new bangaa.

Going back up the stairs, he hurried across the blustering yard to the dorm rooms and made his way into the dining hall. Quigley and the abbot were sitting at a small four room table and they waved him over.

"Here we are, Arthur," Quigley said, pushing a massive plate of food towards they younger bangaa. "There's a bowl of ground hominy pudding, some fresh loaves from the morning, a fine slab of roast beef with carrots and potatoes, a black mushroom pasty, and a couple of bottles of beer to wash the whole thing down with. Dig in."

Arthur had only realized how hungry he was when he saw the food, but when it struck, he attacked the food with all his might. He tore into the fine, dill spiced brown bread that had been baked that day and supped up the juices of the roast with it. The pudding was shoved into his mouth, its buttery sweetness better than any kind of ambrosia. The monks that worked the kitchen line made the best pasties he'd tasted, and he just about shoved the whole black mushroom pie thing into his mouth at once. The beef was perfect, nothing more could be said. He actually ate with such fervor that as he was finishing up, he choked on a substantial piece of the roast beef and Quigley had to beat his back until it finally fell down into this gullet.

"Feel better, lad?" The elderly monk asked after Arthur finished.

"I had no idea how much I needed food until I saw it. Thank you both, I've been a bit busy lately, and I seemed to have lost myself."

"We've noticed that, actually," Paul said. "You haven't been the same since you came back from your mission."

"There's a lot to do is all," Arthur said, shrugging at the father abbot. "I might as well be the one who does it."

Paul gave Arthur an earnest look. "Arthur, what is the first statute of a Saint Grigori monk?"

" 'Don't piss in the shower, it stinks and plumbers are expensive'?" Arthur said. After a certain amount of time being deprived of sleep, autopilot kicks in, and almost comatose Arthur had forgotten that no one actually says the first first statute of Saint Grigori.

"We don't say that one in mass and you know it," Paul said, rubbing his eyes. It's a terrible thing when a holy man thinks he's funny. "Try again, Arthur."

"All life is sacred," he finally said, quite embarrassed.

"Right. All life. Arthur, you're killing yourself. Barely eating, barely sleeping, working yourself to death. The only hint that we have to your actual presence among the living is the fact your name's always first on the chore roster."

Arthur didn't have anything to say to this. How was he supposed to tell his superior that he'd been burying himself in his work, slowly cutting himself off from life, so that he could forget about what happened during his mission. He realized how selfish he had been for the past few months, and was ashamed at his behavior. "Father abbot, I-"

Paul held his hand up. "Nono, please. I realize exactly why you have been doing this. I should have seen it on your face from the day that you came back."

Arthur hung his head. He prepared for the lecture he knew he richly deserved.

"It's obvious that you've gotten a taste of the outside world, and want back out. Please, don't say anything," Paul interrupted, just as Arthur opened his mouth. The abbot was having fun with this. "It's understandable. The monastery seems a lot smaller now that you've been out there, like a fish returning back to his home pond after seeing the ocean. Men like you aren't meant to be holed up in a monastery in the middle of nowhere. So, I must congratulate you on your new post."

"Post?" Arthur said weakly. His low threshold for the unexpected was being tested.

"Aye lad," Quigley said with a grin on his face. "Or should I call you Father Macfust?"

Aaand, there it went. "Father? Like, my own temple under me kind of father?"

"Indeed." Paul went on to explain to the horrified Arthur about the prophecy and the fact that he had been chosen to start up the new mission house in Cadoan's labor quarter. "It's a very, very small temple, mind you. About seventy patrons, altogether. No other priests, but I understand a young Sister will be interning with you, and the responsibilities aren't all that bad. You two just have to keep the place clean, keep the bills paid, and do a weekly mass. I understand your rhetoric is above average, so this shouldn't be anything to big for you, eh?"

Arthur tried to find some logic in the situation. "There are other more experienced monks in the monastery, aren't there?"

Paul nodded. "This is true, but they're all quite happy where they are here."

"I'm happy where I am here!" Arthur practically cried out. "Who nominated me, anyway?"

"Well, the committee was comprised of myself, Quigley of course, and Brother Thomas."

"I haven't been able to dust that desk fer the past week and a half, ya little whatsit!" Brother Thomas, the chief librarian yelled from behind a massive bowl of ground hominy pudding. "Git that boy outta mah library, Father!"

Paul waved to the senior monk. "Well Arthur, I have no doubt you'll do us proud. It'll be good work in Cadoan. People work. You'll have a lot of responsibility, but I have no doubt you'll take it with grace and strength."

Arthur recoiled at the sound of people work. Still, prophecies aren't voluntary, what was he to do? Even so, he tried one more time. "You're certain the prophecy requires that I do it?"

"I think you're the one the prophecy most likely entails, yes. I also think you're the one who needs to do it, out of all here at this monastery."

"Well then," Arthur said at length, "I shall perform this duty with honor, and pray that I may work for the glory of Adramalech." What Arthur really hated about this whole thing was he suspected the Abbot knew the real reason he was apprehensive of leaving, and the fact the Abbot was right about him needing to do this mission.

Quigley grinned and slapped him on the back. "Good on yer, lad. I think it'll be good for you to be working with real people out there in the world again. Besides, just think of spending the rest of winter in the delightfully mild climes of Cadoan, eh? I almost envy you."

----------

"That's a panther, kupo. I'm certain that's a panther growling." Joseph was bent double from exhaustion and his whiskers had small icicles forming from the freezing of his dripping sweat.

Matt nodded from his position on one of the few places the sun managed to shine through the forest canopy. His hair was whitened from frost and stuck out like he'd seen something very scary. "We're in a very unenviable position."

"I thought the mountain's blocked this kind of stuff, kupo."

"Trust me, this is better than what's going on in the Pass. We could be dying out here and it would be better than the Pass."

"Matt kupo, we kind of are dying. Well, I am, anyway, I don't have a snazzy ancient life battery on my shoulder." Half asleep and half walking through a dazed fog, Joseph blearily picked out a patch of black in the middle of the sea of bluish gray that was the frozen over forest floor. "Kupo," he said, the with a faintness that was almost a whisper, "I think that's a crow on the ground, Matt. But it's striped. Am I hallucinating, kupo? Is that a symptom of something?"

"Could be, but I see it too." Matt walked to the crow and took it into its hands. It was rather big, maybe an inch or two shorter than a raven, and it had white and grey bars going down its back. "We're getting close, Joseph. This is a Cadoan Crow breed. I don't know which one though." Looking at the chest, he was happy to see its little chest heaving regularly.

"Is it good to eat, kupo?" Joseph mumbled, having finally slumped onto a tree. He rubbed his chest where there had been a substantial piece of wood a few months back. The cold weather was making the wound act up.

"No," his companion said. He took a look at a small cylinder tied to the crow's leg and read the address on its side. "But I think this'll be our meal ticket to a good dinner, if I'm any judge." He carefully wrapped the bird in one of his furs and stuffed him into his jacket. "We gotta keep this fellow warm."

"Snerk."

Matt looked to see his moogle friend passed out, his head on the roots of a venerable hemlock tree. He smiled a bit and walked over to him. As driven and willful as Joseph was, he was still a greenhorn to the whole adventuring thing and had to get used to the grueling pace Roland had set for Matt.

"Come on man, there'll be time to sleep in Cadoan. Joseph, Joseph," he called as he gently shook the moogle. Hearing a twig snap, he looked up.

And stared."Joseph, Joseph..." His shaking of Joseph became more frantic as before him stood the biggest, meanest looking, muscle bound, sinewy panther he had seen in his life.

You know, December's a cool month for me and this fic because it was conceived as a way to ease the inevitable but wonderful boredom of the winter holiday break. Nothing like six or seven days inside to get the creative juices flowing. Since then, I've been writing this venial sin at the blistering speed of a little less than one chapter per month. So here's my New Year's resolution. In a desperate attempt to improve on my craft, I promise to write two, that's right, two chapters a month. Of course like most resolutions, I'll probably abandon this one after a month or two, but let's ride this wave of good feeling while we can, folks. God bless, and good night.