Introduction, Disclaimer, and Thanks

Yo,

Alright, if you're actually going to read this literary disaster, then there's a few things I'd like you to know. Part of this is to avoid confusion, and the rest is to ensure that the huge number of people out there who deserve credit get it. It should've been in originally, it wasn't; I'm correcting that now.

First up, the thanks (yeah, I'm doing this in reverse order, but…well, sod it). I think it would be kinda unfair to present this without giving all due props to my beta readers who have, over the years, helped convert this from a primer for an African clicking dictionary into something that approaches readable English. Chances are, if you've read a sentence that is a) coherent, b) understandable, and c) actually comes to an end instead of trailing off into some kind of interminable, rambling sentence that just never seems to end…then that's thanks to them. All of them.

Now onto the nitty-gritty legal stuff. It's simple, if it doesn't belong to me, it belongs to Squaresoft. The rest I'm not sure about. I'm an engineer (a bad one), not a solicitor.

By now you've probably guessed that I'm not much of a writer, either, 'cause I've put the introduction last. Basically, this is another take at the story of FF6, with suitable alterations and changes depending on what I feel like. I know novelisations have been done before, and to be frank it's probably just an attack of laziness, but hey, I like to think that I'm at least doing something slightly different.

That's everything. Enjoy the show.

If you've read this before (and you may have done) then please note that this is an attempt to bring earlier chapters into line with later chapters, and then proceed from there. There are a number of plot holes and inconsistencies that I'd like to thrash out before proceeding. In addition, the overall style will be harmonised.

Avarius Rising

You have no idea what you're letting yourself in for.

I have to say, that's a pretty dramatic first statement, but its right. Unfortunately, I know exactly what I've let myself in for, so any amusement I could get from your confusion would be pretty cold comfort. Instead, how's about we just dispense with the pleasantries and set the scene, shall we? My coffee's getting cold.

Right. I'd like you to imagine, if you can, the start of a fine spring day. The sky is blue, the sun is out, and there's the slightest hint of a breeze rippling through the trees. It's the kind of day where you might find lovesick deer skipping gaily through the meadows while birds serenade them with sweet trills from the branches. Sickening, right? Well, good news! I'm not allowed to participate. I am cooped up in this highly exciting study of mine having just concluded a one hour battle with my new typewriter and about fourteen dozen ink ribbons.

"Why?" you might ask, and it's a good question. Why in the name of the Goddess would I be spending one of my precious days off being assaulted by the world's smuggest bloody typewriter? I mean, I could be doing any number of things, like being outside setting snares and teaching lovable woodland creatures valuable lessons about loss and the cold, uncaring nature of the universe. Luckily, I'm pretty certain I can answer that question. In fact, I'm going to answer it in two words:

My sister.

Now, my sister will be turning up in about thirty seconds time, but I think it's only fair that I give you some advance warning. If you don't know what it's like to have an overprotective sibling with pyromaniacal tendencies and an apparent death wish, then you've lived a charmed life…right until this point. I'm a pretty forgiving guy and I'm not given to pointing fingers, but I think it's safe to say that everything bad that's ever happened to me can be traced back to her in some form or another. As an example, I present to you my ink-stained study and my fingers, some of which were almost stripped to the bone by the voracious carnivore that apparently doubles as a typewriter. This whole undertaking was her suggestion, and…well, when she makes a 'suggestion', it's often a good idea to follow up on it, particularly if your fire insurance doesn't start for another two weeks.

So anyways, I've introduced this literary train wreck, I've introduced my sister, so I suppose the polite thing to do would be to introduce myself. My name is Firmament Manduin Branford. It's unfortunate, but it's the truth; I've gotten used to it, and I'm sure you will with time as well. Now, what normally happens here is that we move swiftly onto a brilliant, witty description of oneself, where phrases that should never see the light of day (like 'rippling muscles', 'deep, dreamy eyes', or even 'long, luxurious hair, feathered like the wings of a majestic bird') are employed with gay abandon. Sorry; that's not happening today. I'm an average guy of average height with an average build, and if you were looking for a power fantasy that blots out the sun and can only fit through doors sideways, then you're in the wrong place. While my sister and I have some idiosyncratic features, I'm going to leave them to inference and just press on. They'll come up enough later as it is.

So, what are we actually covering today? Well, I'm guessing that everyone knows about that thing that happened when a certain madman took it upon himself to redesign the planet. What you may or may not be aware of are the specific events leading up to that terrible moment, or the subsequent actions that resulted in the world we now live in. If you were curious about what happened? Well, it's your lucky day! My sister, for one reason or another, has suddenly acquired a burning desire to know what really happened. You may not see quite how I fit into this, and neither, frankly, do I – and all I knew about all of this was when a letter dropped through my door, addressed to one 'Sr. Sen. F. Branford, South Figaro'. At first, I thought I could just ignore it, but then I made the fatal mistake of leaving the letter on the dining room table, where my fiancée (more on her later) picked it up when she came in from work. While she and my sister might enjoy a somewhat cool relationship, she actually agreed wholeheartedly with the idea and rushed out to buy the aforementioned ravenous typewriter on the spot. At that point, the game was up.

But anyway, it's the jobs that're never started that take the longest to finish, and so…well, where do we begin? Nice simple question, bloody difficult answer, mainly because the beginning, by which I mean the real, genuine, actual beginning, was about a millennia and a half before I was even born and nobody knows what happened. The problem here is that you can label nearly everything as a beginning. The Cataclysm, the release of Phunbaba, the first flight of the Quicksilver Wraith? All beginnings. Heck, even my abortive (not to say exothermic) attempts at making breakfast this morning could be considered as a beginning. It just all depends where you set your limits. We could even go from the first blow of the War of the Magi right up to those final moments when the world decided that it had had enough, and rose up as one to beat the ever-lovin' tar out of its would-be oppressors.

I don't think we will, however. It's more work than I'm prepared to do, and I don't think I'd be able to do it any better than the umpteen million history books on the matter which you can find at your local library. Instead, what I'm offering you here are my experiences, my opinions, and my story. They might not answer every question you've ever had, but maybe walking in my shoes will help put things in a different light.

So, light a cigar, take a draught of your favourite brandy, and place yourself in that particularly comfortable leather armchair of yours, while I attempt to explain why everything happened the way it did.