A.N.: yep, I love this kit but he's not mine... Plus I've been hacking Tolkien again - Vairë is the Elvish weaver-angel. There's something pretty Elvish about the Burmecians and Cleyrans. Noldor and Sindar... I guess the fic belongs to me, though. This bit introduces a few people, places and such. Hope someone out there likes it...
Huge thanks to the amazing Persephone for editing this chapter. Love you.
The Red Feather
I quite like the sea. It's soothing, watching the waves lap against the boat, up, rising like a breeze, down, falling like a leaf… It's quiet too, at least up here; it seems that of the six of us I'm the only one who travels at all well. Kuppo's not bad about it, actually, but he usually sleeps half the day. The rest prefer to stay below decks holding onto the furniture, which as Stiltzkin once told me is exactly the wrong thing to do if you're seasick; the deck is the most stable place on a moving ship.
They're a mixed crew, and mainly on the young side. Suzuna's the most experienced of us - she's been out there for eight years, and has been almost as many places as Stiltzkin. She's written some great stuff, mainly novels. She's not a very gregarious moogle; likes to be alone, way out in the country for preference. She's just come from Cleyra Treetrunk, which suited her temperament entirely, the elements buzzing round her and heightening her inspiration. I've spoken with her only briefly - she says she's feeling woozy, but she's probably being polite. I think she wants a bit of time to herself.
Kuppo could not be less like her if he tried. He's - loud. Really loud. I don't know how he ever gets anything written, he spends so much time having fun. He's a pure journalist, actually; writes up everything even remotely interesting that he sees in high-energy short-form, and does it very very well. I bought a couple of his anthologies last year and found them amazingly diverse and interesting. He sees an angle in everything - catches the nub of a situation and leads you straight to it. I don't know anyone who writes quite like him. Trouble is, he can't sit still for more than ten straight seconds. He spent last season in Alexandria and he got everywhere, treating the town like a beat not a placement, walking the backstreets, coasting the bars, talking to anyone with a tale to tell. His Diary was flat-out brilliant but he drove Mognet Central up the wall - the mailman'd spend all day looking for him, then find him in the HQ of the Proletarian Patrons Movement, or the upper room of the Morning Star or somewhere. And, well, let's just say I heard that he didn't respond too positively to their requests for restraint. Got worse would be more like it. You could've known that after that jaunt they'd do something to - spite? Punish? Teach him a lesson? I don't know…anyway, I thought they'd give him something dire this year but I had not reckoned on the Donna Plains. That kit is going to die this year; he will have absolutely no-one to listen to except himself, and will not be able to indulge in his usual quantity of nightlife, or indeed any. Visions cross my mind of Kuppo starting forest fires so he can write about the people who put them out…I hope it won't happen but I'm not confident…
A gull wheels overhead, ringing out a warcry. "Leave off," growls the boatswain, waving a rapier at its tail. The sailors are obviously more cordial to moogles than birds, though they don't talk to us much. We don't bother them either; there's too much that humans don't understand. The Red Feather's crew are mainly Burmecian (the cook is from Lindblum) like a lot of sailors - they're used to rough weather, for one thing, and they know the Outer Continent surprisingly well, because of fish stocks of something I think. I was pleasantly surprised to find that a lot of them carry those odd shawls, and put them to a variety of uses. Jay, the boatswain, wears one around his neck and uses it as a swordbelt when it's not needed for anything else. It's black, a symbolism I find slightly chilling, but it does look good with his all-red outfit.
He notices my attention. "Mornin', lad," he hollers, lifting a single grey finger in what to a Burmecian sailor is a considerably respectful greeting. "Takin' the ayre, are ye?"
I pause for a second to insert all the consonants. "Yes, sir. I - I like the ocean in the morning." He moves closer to me and stares out to sea.
"Hn." Something out south catches his eye, and he raises a telescope to his face with a rangy arm. He extends it with a brusque flick of the wrist. "Huh, looks like you won't be enjoyin' it much longer, lad. We'll be there by sunset if t'wind 'olds."
"We will?" I can see nothing but water in any direction.
"Aye. Look over there." He gestures at the seemingly empty space that he had been studying.
"I can't see anything."
"What about the 'aze?" Now he mentioned it, it did look a little misty in the far distance… I nod slowly. "Tha's land. You wanna see?"
I take the proffered telescope gingerly, and take a look. "What? I can't -"
He guffaws, and reverses it in my hand. "'S that way round, lad. Try now."
"Th - thanks." I close up my left eye, and sure enough, I can just make out a jagged coastline, tiny in the centre of the lens. "That's the Outer Continent?"
"Lucid Peninsula. We're wantin' east of there, Donna Plains-ways. Not far now, though." He folds up the telescope and tucks it in his belt. "Be seein' you, lad." He trots below, presumably to tell Captain Tuh of his discovery.
I stay at the rail, daydreaming. I'll be there tomorrow, inside the ancient Desert Palace, not trodden by mortal feet (except Stiltzkin's) for five hundred years, city of wonder, cathedral of dreams… I've read more about it these last few days, and it sounds fascinating. Lindblum seemed to run on clockwork, but the Desert Palace runs on magic; it's everywhere, coloured lights, shifting walls, even the doors run on mana-switches. And it's massive, the size of a small town - a lot bigger even than Lindblum Castle. Stiltzkin spent pages ranting about the disrepair of the place and still said it was probably the most beautiful building in the world, and I heard the new owner had restored it. Oh, my…
No-one seems to know anything about the new resident. He's just some rich guy who likes old houses, I guess, so he patched the place up and ordered two moogles to work it. I'm going with Mogryo - he's not bad, a little younger than me, and he seems a bit naïve but only because he likes to see of the world his own way. He seems to understand things…oh I don't know, I guess he's just a little unnerving sometimes. I'd rather spend a year with him than with most of the other people on this boat. Hell, he's a lot better than that glutton Mogmatt! Suzuna would never speak to me and Kuppo'd, oh I have no idea…
"Mene?" I spin around, startled, but it's only Mocchi. He's hovering over the stairs down, clutching one paw to his chest. Mocchi's small, even compared to me, only eight which is pretty young for a diarist; I guess Mogster must have figured him for a bright little kit and passed him out quicker than usual. He's still a bit shy in company, and still excitable at awkward moments, and he's as dreamy and ambitious as any other first seasoner, firmly expecting his masterpiece… I haven't the heart to tell him what the Iifa Tree's really like - poor kit, that's a rotten place to get your first year out.
"Hiah, Mocchi. What are you doing up here?" He's been out on deck twice in the past five days, once to see what it was like then again only to call me in to dinner. He's looking queasy already.
"Oh, I, I thought I'd -"
He shifts, and the slant of his paw suddenly becomes clear to me. "Oh, I see. How did that happen?" I drift over to attend to it.
"It was an accident." I blink at him suspiciously. "I - Kuppo wanted to play Feather, Paper, Stone, and -"
"- he forgot to mention that the latter was meant literally, Mocchi, he's been doing that one for years." I sigh, poking tentatively at the bruises - nothing too deep. It's a simple kit's game like a hundred others - the feather (index finger) marks the paper, the paper (splayed paw) wraps the stone and the stone (fist) smashes the feather. Kuppo has a byline in calling games then sabotaging them. Mocchi got the tame version; there's something in his second 'Skies Of Alexandria' book about the time he called a tournament in the Old Theatre hall and lured three entire families of pigeons in off the street.
Mocchi's face creeps down in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I know -"
"Sssh," I interrupt. "you aren't his first victim, and you won't be the last either, so you don't need to feel stupid." He looks up at me again, smiling just a bit, and I dare a little squeeze to his arm. "See if you can catch him out next time he tries something," I add, and he giggles.
I spread my towel (however much the Burmecians insist they are called 'vairës' I will persist in thinking of it as a 'towel') on the damp wood, and we sit together at the prow. I point out all the features of the decks, the wheel and the crow's nest and the forecastle, to his every-increasing fascination. Seems like all that time in his cabin has denied him the fun of nautical life. Finally I show him where the land is, and he beams in unalloyed pleasure.
I'm starting to seriously worry about his survival prospects. "You're still looking forward to the Iifa Tree?" I ask tentatively.
"Oh yes!" he gushes. "I've been reading a book that says a few things about it. It sounds great, really fun!"
"What's the book?" I inquire absently, wondering who in hell could make the Iifa Tree sound like anyone sane's idea of 'fun'.
"Oh, it's a story. A really fast fun story." The gulls fly over again; maybe they're more common this close to shore. I whistle, and one of them squawks a rude reply. "Kinda overdoes the semi-colons though. Strange thing is, it doesn't say who it's by."
"What?" I turn my wandering attention back to the conversation.
"The book. Doesn't say who wrote it. It's called 'The Amazing Adventures Of Trimalchio The Fire-Spitting Gargant.'"
I don't know quite what would have happened next if it hadn't have been for Mogmatt's cry of "Guys! Breakfast!"
T.B.C.
Case Notes: I've been running through the canon again taking reams of notes on what all the moogles are like - almost every one has its own distinct personality. I've tried to build on what I discovered. Kuppo you might remember - he wound up starting not forest fires but small avalanches, at the dark end of Fossil Roo. Now I've tapped that one, I suspect he'll be back later on...I think I like him...
I decided I needed to use Mogryo for Mene's partner because, well, you'll see why ;) before I opened the letter he sent to Mocchi at the Iifa Tree. I was so hoping he'd be an interesting one...then I had a Happy Fit because it was the Vivi's Eyes mail, my favourite Mognet Letter! Ack, I love Mogryo... *runs off to work on the next chapter so she can demonstrate why!*
Oh, yeah, the sailors - that's something I stole from R.L. (I'm cheap, I know!) There's a pretty solid theory that the British and Scandinavian fishing fleets knew damned well America existed by 1450-ish, but kept quiet about it to protect the cod stocks they'd found off the coast of Canada. And I needed an Idea that'd get all the moogles to the Outer Continent... Oh, and I presumed they sailed straight south off the edge of the planet. Just in case I confused anyone.
Even if you just want to flame, please review, I need to know what's wrong with me don't I? So review!
