![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenSo, with Hell Week over, papers done, and Freedom Sweet Freedom having been wrested from the cold dead teeth of my exams. I say to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chirachira: "Damnit, I can't write anything! Tell me to write things!" And then she did. And it is Tactics-- of the Final Fantasy variety, not the gay tengu variety...which is about all I know about that Tactics, yes. In conclusion, more FFT fic needs to exist period.
Ramza sighed and reined in his chocobo. “I’ll send word to my father,” he said quietly, watching the smoke drift skywards. “He may still be at Igros …we should…”
The wind shifted, then. He grew pale, catching a whiff of the air. A sour stench, it was.
He turned his head to the sound of clattering would—Delita, kicking down a charred panels of what might’ve once been a stable. “It was blowing west this morning.” Delita looked up. “The survivors would’ve gone east.”
“And the culprit?”
“…same direction.” Delita put a hand on his own mount and lurched himself back up. When Ramza looked at him in askance he smiled, darkly, and shook his head. “ ‘Burn away the corruption of the flesh.’ What else are you going to do, when the Plague comes?”
To that, Ramza could find no answer.
It was when they slowed that Alma realized that there was no point in shouting anymore. Her brother could no longer hear, and her captor was wearing armor. Her nails were not doing very much. It was a miserable state of affairs indeed, and when she was shifted-- so that she was no longer dangling quite so precariously-- she made herself as ungainly a package as possible. All elbows and poor spirits, she would make this easy for no one.
The silence that followed was, perhaps, a little bit awkward.
It was the knight who spoke first:
“You come from Gallionne, don’t you?”
Alma bit her lip and wriggled, angrily.
The knight put a hand over her shoulder. “That’s a beautiful country,” he said, holding her still as they passed over an old stone bridge. Wistfully, he went on: “…you know, I’ve always wanted to go hawking there…”
“Check--”
“No.”
Zalbag scowled firmly at the board.
…Dycedarg sighed, and began the explanation: “—mate. If you moved here, I would have you. If you moved there, I would have you. If you moved--”
“There,” Zalbag stuck a finger to a square. Dycedarg sighed for his board’s good dignity.
“No. You see--”
“EAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.”
….and that was when the four year old Ramza charged through the room with a bucket on his head. He rounded the table twice, bumped an unoccupied chair in the corner of the room, and charged out again. One could hear him collide with one of the tapestries.
“Zalbag…”
“I’ll get him.”
“Thank you,” said Dycedarg, rubbing his temples as Zalbag departed, the last echoes of their youngest brother’s war cry still ringing off the walls.
It was an improvisation on her part, Her Majesty’s ribbon. She’d stood as she was supposed to: pretty and immaculate. Young and sympathetic. Without fault or flaw and in utter rightness… such was their justification in it all. One by one the leaders of the departing forces knelt before her and one by one their young Queen gave them her blessing and good will. The people watched and were comforted. The Lords watched and were pleased.
It all went exhaustingly as expected, until it came to Delita. He bowed his head in the utmost solemnity. Truly, it would be impossible to find another more feeling in his pledge.
“But we are yours to command,” he pronounced, “Your Majesty.”
…Ovelia thought he wore humility like a silly, crooked hat.
So she let him clasp her hand she, with the other, pulled a length of silk from the mass of ceremonial knots that the ladies had made of her hair. She bent to the gasp of dozens. She tied it, deftly, about the hilt of his sword.
“You have Our blessing,” she said, straightening to the assembly.
“Oh, God save the Queen,” he whispered, grinning.
A gesture most gracious, indeed.
chirachira: "Damnit, I can't write anything! Tell me to write things!" And then she did. And it is Tactics-- of the Final Fantasy variety, not the gay tengu variety...which is about all I know about that Tactics, yes. In conclusion, more FFT fic needs to exist period. Ramza sighed and reined in his chocobo. “I’ll send word to my father,” he said quietly, watching the smoke drift skywards. “He may still be at Igros …we should…”
The wind shifted, then. He grew pale, catching a whiff of the air. A sour stench, it was.
He turned his head to the sound of clattering would—Delita, kicking down a charred panels of what might’ve once been a stable. “It was blowing west this morning.” Delita looked up. “The survivors would’ve gone east.”
“And the culprit?”
“…same direction.” Delita put a hand on his own mount and lurched himself back up. When Ramza looked at him in askance he smiled, darkly, and shook his head. “ ‘Burn away the corruption of the flesh.’ What else are you going to do, when the Plague comes?”
To that, Ramza could find no answer.
It was when they slowed that Alma realized that there was no point in shouting anymore. Her brother could no longer hear, and her captor was wearing armor. Her nails were not doing very much. It was a miserable state of affairs indeed, and when she was shifted-- so that she was no longer dangling quite so precariously-- she made herself as ungainly a package as possible. All elbows and poor spirits, she would make this easy for no one.
The silence that followed was, perhaps, a little bit awkward.
It was the knight who spoke first:
“You come from Gallionne, don’t you?”
Alma bit her lip and wriggled, angrily.
The knight put a hand over her shoulder. “That’s a beautiful country,” he said, holding her still as they passed over an old stone bridge. Wistfully, he went on: “…you know, I’ve always wanted to go hawking there…”
“Check--”
“No.”
Zalbag scowled firmly at the board.
…Dycedarg sighed, and began the explanation: “—mate. If you moved here, I would have you. If you moved there, I would have you. If you moved--”
“There,” Zalbag stuck a finger to a square. Dycedarg sighed for his board’s good dignity.
“No. You see--”
“EAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.”
….and that was when the four year old Ramza charged through the room with a bucket on his head. He rounded the table twice, bumped an unoccupied chair in the corner of the room, and charged out again. One could hear him collide with one of the tapestries.
“Zalbag…”
“I’ll get him.”
“Thank you,” said Dycedarg, rubbing his temples as Zalbag departed, the last echoes of their youngest brother’s war cry still ringing off the walls.
It was an improvisation on her part, Her Majesty’s ribbon. She’d stood as she was supposed to: pretty and immaculate. Young and sympathetic. Without fault or flaw and in utter rightness… such was their justification in it all. One by one the leaders of the departing forces knelt before her and one by one their young Queen gave them her blessing and good will. The people watched and were comforted. The Lords watched and were pleased.
It all went exhaustingly as expected, until it came to Delita. He bowed his head in the utmost solemnity. Truly, it would be impossible to find another more feeling in his pledge.
“But we are yours to command,” he pronounced, “Your Majesty.”
…Ovelia thought he wore humility like a silly, crooked hat.
So she let him clasp her hand she, with the other, pulled a length of silk from the mass of ceremonial knots that the ladies had made of her hair. She bent to the gasp of dozens. She tied it, deftly, about the hilt of his sword.
“You have Our blessing,” she said, straightening to the assembly.
“Oh, God save the Queen,” he whispered, grinning.
A gesture most gracious, indeed.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-19 09:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-19 10:25 pm (UTC)So. Bloody. Cute.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-27 12:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-11 05:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-11 05:58 pm (UTC)Surfed in from the