Chapter 9: Inspiration

Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery

Paul was brimming with pride for his disciples. Though they had been battered and wounded in the process, they had succeeded at hunting an unknown monster in an area that they had never explored before. They probably didn't understand the significance of their achievement, but it was a glimpse at their true potential. Paul held hope in his heart that these young hunters could invigorate Avelucia's Hunter's Guild. What gladdened Paul the most, however, was to see that there will still those who hunted for a greater purpose. It seemed to Paul that Blake and Angel were not risking their lives for money, they were doing it because it simply needed to be done. Paul opened the still creaking doors of the guild hall for the triumphant warriors.

Angel walked through the hall doors feeling like a soldier who had been far from home for much too long. Though said home may have been a pitiful excuse for the majesty of other guild halls, here Angel and Blake were the guardians of a needy people. At least that was the way Angel imagined it; no matter how charred and ragged she may have appeared she was victorious. As she approached the clerk's counter she brandished a vibrant feather, courtesy of the slain Qurupeco.

"We'll take our reward, please," Angel said as she laid the feather on the counter.

The clerk gave a sigh that was all too long.

"I'll be back with your pay in just a moment," she said as she left to a room behind the counter.

"This really is a beautiful feather," Angel said to Blake.

She was mesmerized by the myriad of colors within the plume.

"What do you think the smith can make with it?" she asked.

"I can't say," Blake answered, "We'd have to check and see, but whatever he can make from it I'm sure I don't want to wear. That's way to colorful for me."

"Oh I'm a sucker for pretty colors," Angel admitted, "That's why I had my Velociprey armor made out of the bluest scales I could find."

Angel missed her old armor, she had put so much effort into it.

"It's a shame we couldn't bring the whole corpse with us then, you could have looked like a gaudy flower," Blake joked.

Angel was going to respond, but an annoyed clerk caught her attention. The clerk held a total of 2000z to be divided between the two hunters.

Angel awed at the money she held in her hands.

"I really want to see the smith now!" she shouted

"I think it's best you take a rest," Blake stated, "You're wounds are much worse than mine, so I'll see the blacksmith on your behalf."

Angel knew Blake's words were true, though she was eager to see what the smith could do.

"I guess I'll go back to Marigold's with Paul, but make sure that you get that blacksmith to make something colorful," Angel said to Blake as she left.

By his lonesome, Blake searched for the nearest smithy. He set his sights on a small stand right outside the guild hall. Avelucia's blacksmith betrayed Blake's conventional view of what smiths should be. This man was no short wvyerian, rather he was a slightly rugged man who ran out of a stall surrounding his unimpressive forge. The only merchandise for display was row after row of daggers.

So obvious, Blake thought, that the blacksmith of this filth-ridden city would specialize in concealed blades.

"Forty Zenny for one of the one's of the shelf, or speak with me about getting something made," the smith said, without looking away from his current task.

Obviously this man's usual clientele consisted of wretches looking for a quick tool to spill someone's guts, yet Blake watched as the smith meticulously set gems into the hilt of a would-be dagger. Deranged as his customers were, this smith still had a penchant for creating beautiful work.

"I've got some materials, and I was wondering what you could make with them," Blake said to the man.

"Looking for a sharper shiv, huh?" the smith responded.

"Actually, I wanted to know if you could make something decorative," Blake explained.

Obviously, the prospect of crafting something other than the usual dagger caught the man's attention, as he turned his gaze from his task at hand.

"That's refreshing," the smith said with a smirk, "I'm actually quite good at decorative crafts, but there's little room for extravagance on a simple dirk."

"I can imagine," Blake commented.

"Well what kind of materials do you have for me?" the smith asked.

Blake passed a bag filled with all of parts he had carved from the Qurupeco to the expectant smith. Sifting through the various scales, feathers, and bones, the smith withdrew the materials that he believed would be useful. In particular, he was astounded by the vibrant tail feather that had also charmed Angel.

"I could make a beautiful headdress with this," the smith said, staring at the feather from various angles.

After he finished looking over the rest of the parts the smith spoke again.

"I mean no offense, but the beauty of these materials would be wasted on a man," he stated.

"That's the thing," Blake responded, "This equipment would be for a woman. I'm just ordering it on her behalf."

"If that's the case, then I could make a headdress that would dazzle any passerby," the smith stated, "It also look like one of these bones would be suitable for an ax, but I'm not doing any work without some Zenny upfront."

"Fine then, how much would that be?" Blake asked.

"700, no less," the smith demanded.

"I expect this stuff to be pretty," Blake said as he reluctantly handed the man the money.

"Thank you for your custom!" the smith shouted as Blake left, "Natural materials are easy to work with, so I should have the equipment done on the morrow."

Blake couldn't wait to see what that man could come up with, but it would take time. For now, Blake made his way back to Marigold's house. He tried to drown out the happenings around him as he always did when walking the streets of Avelucia, but a child in the street caught his attention. The child was obviously touched by the plight of poverty, as rag were all that covered its malnourished frame. It wasn't until he had gotten closer that Blake could tell that the child was a girl. Through her matted tresses, the girl spoke to Blake.

"A Zenny, sir?" the child asked, holding her hand feebly outward.

Blake could not let such a child suffer.

"Here's forty Zenny, go buy yourself some food and clothes," Blake said as he gently placed the coin in the child's hand.

Joy lit across the girl's face like fireworks in the night sky. The sight made Blake smile as the child scurried away. He walked the rest of the distance to Marigold's house with a pep in his step. Blake knew that there were many suffering children in Avelucia, but today there would be one less.

When Blake arrived at his destination, he was greeted at the door by Angel. She wore a loose gown; Marigold must have treated her wounds.

"You seem happy," Angel said as Blake walked into the house, "I take it the visit to the smith went well?"

Angel's question caught Blake off guard; he was too focused on reveling in his good deed to remember everything the smith had said.

"Umm . . ." Blake paused.

"Come on, what did he say?" Angel asked, clasping her hands together.

"I showed him the materials," Blake began, making hand gestures in an attempt to occupy time, "and . . ."

Blake snapped his fingers as he finally remembered the details of his previous conversation.

"He said that he could make an ax and a headdress with those materials!" Blake shouted unintentionally.

"Oh I can't wait to see them," Angel said, she was practically giddy.

Blake had never seen this side of Angel before. He had always thought of her as haughty and aloof, but now she had decided to show him her inner self. Blake appreciated the gesture whether it was intentional or not, yet he wondered if he had ever done the same with her. Had Blake ever shared with Angel his intimate thoughts; the fact that he had been deeply troubled ever since his sister's death. No, no was the answer.

Perhaps now is the time, Blake thought.

He took a seat on the sofa.

"It feels good to be a hunter again," he said to Angel, "I've always felt like it was what I was born to do."

"Yeah, it is great," Angel said, taking a seat beside him, "Though I can't agree with you on the second part."

"Oh, what made you want to become a hunter?" Blake questioned.

"You might find this odd," Angel stated, "but I was inspired by one of the hunters in the town that I grew up in."

"I don't find that odd at all. It happens all the time," Blake responded.

"Maybe I should clarify," Angel began, "The odd part is how this hunter inspired me."

Angel continued, "He didn't carry about some virtuous facade or anything like that. In fact, the man was downright horrid. In his free-time he enjoyed talking down to others and abusing his privileges. The only thing is . . ."

Angel paused.

"I wanted what he had!" she shouted, "His power and the infamy made me green with envy. I wanted that kind of life, so I became a hunter."

Blake was not as surprised as Angel may have believed he would be, yet he still let out a gasp at her confession.

"You don't seem much like a pompous arse to me," Blake said to her.

"Oh you're just trying to flatter me," Angel rebuked, "Why do you think I like bold colors so much? I've always wanted people to pay attention to me like they did him."

As Angel spoke her eyes seemed to gaze into the distance, as though her attention was fixated on some distant spectacle beyond Blake's vision.

"Maybe what's more important is not how many people notice you, but who notices you," Blake said comfortingly.

"You're right," Angel said, bearing a stunning smile, "I guess we don't have to wind up like what inspires us."

Angel gave Blake a peck on the cheek, he couldn't help but blush.

"Hah, look at you," Angel said through laughter, "blushing from nothing!"

"Don't tell me I was wrong about the pompous arse part?" Blake jested.

"Oh yeah, you were completely wrong," Angel resonded.

Alongside Angel, Blake laughed away his worries. This was a sensation he felt that he could easily get used to.

Paul sat, deep in thought. He had no idea the Servants of Fate were so widespread, and the fact that they were here in Avelucia brought into question what their motives really were. Paul had always believed that they were a cult dedicated to the protest of poaching, but the hall in Avelucia is so small that there's no way a poaching ring could exist here. It seemed that the Servants of Fate saw the very existence of the guild as an affront to mankind; if their goal truly was to dissolve the Hunter's Guild, then Avelucia could be at risk of becoming their first victory. Paul pondered how he could maintain his position here without attracting their attention.

Paul felt a hand lay upon his shoulder.

"What's bothering you?" Marigold asked him.

Paul ran his hand slowly down his face.

"I've caught myself over-thinking things again," he responded, "Have faith in me."

"I will," Marigold said, wrapping her arms around Paul.

Her familiar touch comforted Paul, but he knew he couldn't just sit here.

"I'll be back soon," Paul said, as he gently broke from Marigold's embrace, "I've got to keep an ear on the streets."

Marigold simply nodded in response.

Paul needed Marigold to believe in him; someone had to, because he couldn't do it himself.

As Angel talked with Blake, she caught a glimpse of Paul walking out the door; he seemed to be in a hurry.

"You know Angel," Blake said, drawing her back into the conversation, "We haven't done anything to celebrate our victory."

"You're right," Angel responded, "Perhaps some festivities are in order."

"What do you say we grab some gourmet food?" Blake suggested.

"I think that's a great idea!" Angel shouted; she hadn't eaten anything since the hunt.

"Well there's no need to wait," Blake said, taking a stand, "There's a Felyne restaurant on the route to the guild hall."

Blake motioned for Angel to follow as he walked into the streets. After a quiet trip, they had reached the restaurant. In the fading sunlight, candles flickered around the restaurant, casting a subtle orange glow on the already warmly colored building. The smell of wondrous and mysterious meals permeated the air; Angel had to close her eyes to properly enjoy the sensation. The sound of plates rattling in the distance seemed to mimic the rhythm of Angel's stomach growling. She heard a perturbed nyah at her feet, realizing that she had nearly trampled one of the waiters in her trance.

"Watch yourself," Blake said, " those little guys are scampering about everywhere."

She and Blake took a seat at an empty bench. The decoration around the building was quaint, but the atmosphere was such that one lost the desire to use their sight anyways.

"How may I serve you, Nyah?" a waiter asked them, its voice was like a soft purr.

"Serve us something . . ." Blake paused, looking for the appropriate word.

"Enormous!" Angel shouted, completing Blake's sentence.

The Felyne gave a delighted nyah as it scampered away.

Angel waited many moments for her meal to come. The sight of others receiving their food and the delicious smell made her wish that the chefs would hurry. Just as the wait became unbearable Angel hear a resounding clang from what she assumed was the kitchen. Then came a quiet clatter which quickly became a thundering roar as Blake and Angel's order neared. Borne by three Felynes, the monumental dish was nearly the size of the entire table.

"Nyah!" echoed as the waiters heaved the platter into the air.

Angel shielded herself as the dish soared towards her. Amazingly, the platter landed cleanly in the center of the table. A single Felyne waiter hopped in the air to remove the lid from the serving tray. Time seemed to slow as the lid slowly lifted. Angel's eyes widened as more and more morsels came into sight. Angel was sent into another universe where the only sense she was aware of was taste. Useless things such as sight and smell became subtle undertones to glorious flavor. Angel wasn't aware how much she had been eating until she collided with Blake. As she snapped back to reality, Angel realized why Felyne chefs were so popular. Angel couldn't eat another bite, but she found the need to shout,

"Drink!"

It wasn't but a moment until a Felyne waiter brought two enormous flagons the sweetest smelling brew. Angel took no more than a swig before her vision began to blur. She couldn't resist the urge to sing a song. Angel stood upon the bench in which she sat.

"Kut-Ku, Kut-Ku, slay em' ev'ry day!" she sang, sloshing ale on to passerby as she swung her arms in tune with the imaginary beat.

"Rathian, Rathian, time to earn my pay!" Angel continued.

The ale numbed the sting from the gaze of strangers; in her drunken stupor, everyone was Angel's friend.

"Rathlos, Rathlos, time to run away!" Angel's song faded into unintelligible banter as she laid on her back.

She giggled, attempting to sing the melody again, but to no avail. Angel took a long drink from her nearly empty flagon. Under the pressure of alcohol's influence, reality collapsed.

Blake was astounded by the delicious food, but what had astounded him more was how quickly Angel had gotten drunk. Blake hadn't even begun drinking before Angel was a giggling mess.

Damn, Blake thought, I wanted to be the drunk one!

Now he would have to stay sober, as Avelucia was not a town where two drunks could safely wander their way home. Already, Blake felt the pressure of many prying eyes; even in this restaurant, how many strangers saw him as prey? Blake decided it was time to go. He tried to lift Angel from the floor, but she resisted as though she believed that she was comfy in her bed. When Blake had finally gotten Angel up he lead her out of the restaurant, onto the dark streets of Avelucia. As they walked, Blake couldn't help but search the shadows for signs of movement. The flickering of lights seemed like the dash of shadowy figures, and shadows seemed to shift in the unlit alleyways. Blake jumped as he caught glimpse of someone heading his way. He readied himself for a fight, but quickly let his guard down when he realized that he recognized the form. Walking towards him was the beggar girl Blake had encountered earlier.

"Hey there!" Blake shouted to the girl, though she didn't respond as she continued to walk towards him, "Did you get something nice with that zenny?"

To Blake's question the girl gave a simple nod as she neared ever closer.

Does she want a hug? Blake wondered.

Blake knelt to the girl's level, yet she said nothing. Blake saw a faint glint as she drew something from her tunic. He expected the girl to show him some trinket that she had bought, but instead she held within her hand a small dagger. Blake flinched as the girl swung her instrument of death. He felt the cold sting of steel as the dagger skimmed along his jaw. He clasped the wound for but a second until the girl stuck again. This time her target was Blake's side. The girl had not hit any vital organs, she was obviously not a trained warrior, but the pang of the dagger invading into his flesh made Blake shout.

"What the hell r' you doin'!" Angel yelled through her stupor.

She struck the girl, knocking her down to the cobbled street. Something in the recesses of Blake's mind objected to this situation; he desperately wanted to reject the reality that he was forced to defend himself against a child. Blake panicked, what if there were more assassins lying in wait? He grabbed Angel and darted down the street.

Paul wandered Avelucia, searching for pieces of the puzzle that had been confusing him for so long. Try as he might, Paul could not get a proper grasp of the Servants of Fate's objectives. He had hoped to find clues on the streets, but so far his search had borne no fruits. Paul refused to leave empty-handed; this was a mystery that he needed to solve, for the sake his disciples, if not for himself. Paul walked onward. He was not worried about the dangers of the night, for he had donned his majestic Akantor armor. Paul had hoped that keeping a high profile like this would catch the assassins' attention, but it seemed that he was wrong. Paul's foot caught something on the road. He turned to see that it was a human body that had nearly tripped him. Paul hoped that he had not stumbled upon the scene of a murder. He took a look at the victim, it was a beggar girl. Paul searched for a pulse on the girl; he gave a sigh when he discovered that she was alive. Paul wondered why there was an unconscious girl lying in the street, but this was something he couldn't bring himself to ignore. He would just have to wait until the girl woke up to question her.

Blake still rushed to safety, dragging Angel alongside him. He couldn't believe that a child was the only pawn on the assassins' chessboard. Perhaps they had meant to send a message, or maybe they had really meant to move in for the kill. The entire situation troubled Blake. As far as these assassins knew, Blake and Angel were just average hunters; this wasn't like in Santonia where they had been suspected of poaching. No, the Servants of Fate simply didn't care whether a hunter was a poacher of not, and that was what troubled Blake the most. He ran from the shadows that trailed at his heels, but Blake could never escape from what he truly feared.

Paul saw as the girl's eyes slowly opened. She rubbed her head before trying to rise to her feet. Paul held out his hand to help the girl stand. The girl did not take his hand, instead she let out a shrill cry.

"Are you the Devil?" she asked Paul, quivering with fear

Paul did not blame the girl for being scared of him, but he wondered why a girl so young would be awaiting the Devil after waking from unconsciousness. Paul decided to say nothing, he wanted to coax some answers from this mysterious girl.

"Please don't take me to Hell," the girl cried, "I only did what I was taught was right!"

Paul was intrigued, what could this girl have done that would justify a place in Hell? Paul retracted his hand and began to walk away, perhaps he could take advantage of his role as the Prince of Evil.

"I knew you would understand!" the girl shouted, "Those hunters need to be eradicated!"

Paul gave a quick turn back to the girl; he found the clue he had been searching for. The child crawled away as Paul approached, but he quickly overtook her and clasped his hand tightly around her wrist.

"What do you mean 'hunters need to be eradicated?'" Paul asked menacingly.

The girl's eyes lit up with fear. She shook her head back and forth, crying for the undertaker to leave her be. Paul realized that he could get no more information from this child if she still believed him to be the Devil.

"Listen," Paul said sternly, "I am not Death, nor am I the Devil. I am a hunter, and my name is Paul."

The girl still struggled to escape from Paul's grasp. He needed to calm her down.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Paul pleaded, "I just want to know why you hate hunters."

The girl stood still. She looked Paul dead in the eyes as she spoke.

"Why do I hate hunters?" the girl repeated Paul's question as though it was blasphemous.

"Yes," Paul responded, "that's all I want to know."

" How dare you ask me why I hate hunters!" the girl shouted, the hatred in her voice was not natural for someone her age, "Your kind stuff your bellies while I starve, and you can't even do your job right! You sit in the lap of luxury, feeding off of a business that brings ever closer to the wrath of Fate!"

Paul knew instantly after hearing the girl's reasoning that she was a member of the Servants of Fate. He shook his head; to think that children were now getting swept up into the storm of religious fanaticism.

"I'm sorry that you've been forced to grow up in such a troubled time," Paul said apologetically, "I want you to understand that any organization as big as the Hunter's Guild is bound to have flaws. There may be some among us who are guilty of wrongdoing, but those of us who do justice to our titles are not ashamed to bear arms with our brethren even if they don't represent our ideal. We do this because we know that each one of us represents something larger than ourselves, something that isn't perfect. A little stain in a cloth can make the highlights seem much brighter."

Paul matched the girl's gaze, her anger did not waive, but it seemed that she was much calmer.

"I want to know what happened here," Paul commanded, "Why were you unconscious in the street?"

The girl seemed troubled by the question, perhaps she understood that she had done something wrong after all.

"There was a hunter who had given me some zenny earlier today when I was begging," the girl's gaze lowered to the ground as she continued, "The elders say that any zenny I make should be donated to the cause, so I told them about it. They told me that I should buy a weapon for my initiation . . ."

the girl trailed off.

Initiation, Paul thought; he believed he knew where this was going. He only wondered who the hunter she spoke of might have been.

"I . . . I needed to kill a hunter in order to become an official warrior for the cause," the girl said, tears began to well in her eyes, "I noticed that the same hunter who had given me the zenny was unarmored as he was leaving that restaurant."

The girl pointed to a nearby building; it was closed now. Paul wondered how long this girl had been here unconscious, yet no one had even bothered to check on her.

"He was with a woman. She was drunk," the child continued, "He asked me if I had bought anything nice with the zenny he gave me, so I showed him the dagger I had bought."

Paul knew what the girl meant, but obviously she had not killed her target. He let the girl's wrist go; he had the information he needed. The girl started to scamper away.

"Wait," Paul said to her.

The girl stopped in her tracks.

"I want you to take a message to your 'elders'" he commanded, "Tell them that this guerrilla warfare is pointless. Trying to destroy and aspect of society that you don't agree with will never solve anything."

The girl didn't give a confirmatory gesture, but Paul believed that she got the point.

"Trust me, that's a lesson I learned a long time ago," Paul said to himself.

Chapter end