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year 5, quarter 3
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It came at them with the wrath equal to that of titan, its large arms swinging at its sides as it quickly began to close the distance. That precious safety net between it and them—it would end badly if they let it get close. Those arms didn’t look like they were for show, and its skin appeared to be tough as nails. Find another solution, brute force won’t work. It’d be suicide to let it get too close, and he hoped the other near him understood that. Glancing at the corpse of the antilion that had flown through the air earlier, Hope grimaced as he thought that, its fate could be theirs as well. Torn apart, smashed like a pancake, or eaten. There was also the all of the above choice, and Hope felt his stomach churn at the thought. He wasn’t ever going to step into another desert, ever again. Not with monsters like that just lying around, no one knowing about them.
So he thought about magic; what spell to throw out there. He didn’t need to think too long, though, as his companion was already throwing fire at it. Fire that swelled in the air, burning up the oxygen as it grew, and then launched like a missile towards the beast. He watched it proceed, and hardly had time to react as the spell flew back, just as fiery and towards Kuja. Magic won’t work on it. It has a reflect barrier of some kind, and if they threw magic at it, it’d end up turning on them like what had just happened. His mind processed this but couldn’t stand to bear it.
What were they going to do, then? Kuja seemed to be just as much oriented on magic as Hope was, and even better than him at it (Though he loathed to admit it. Hope thought he was better in healing though, so he held onto that bit of pride. Everyone that was showing up here were a bunch of overpowered monsters, it seemed like.) Find another solution, his analytic side whispered to him, and it sounded like he was mocking himself. What solution? There wasn’t any other solution, and Hope was just about as good at physical combat as a civilian, and a blunt weapon like his boomerang wouldn’t do anything other than break and probably make the beast even angrier than it already appeared to be. Great.
Hope decided that this world was a death trap, like Gran Pulse. Like any other place, he thought bitterly. Like Cocoon was any safer, if he ended up outside of it and Goddess knows where. Why he had ever ended up here, he didn’t know. Might have been something in his past life, where he probably dropped a few babies on their head or left kittens in the rain. As if. No, this was just life randomly picking people and messing with their lives like some game. Hope didn’t like to be played. Not by anyone, or anything.
He watched as Kuja attempted another spell, which ended up as the first had, back in his face. Hope’s hand darting behind his back to pull out his boomerang, the black holster glistening with the sheen of sunlight, and the straps with metal on the ends stung his fingers through the black gloves he was wearing. If they were going to die, then he might as well die not looking like a total wimp and letting someone kick the bucket without much as a how do you do?—from him. He was ready to do something out of desperation when he felt something change. He couldn’t put his hand on it, but his gut was telling him to wait. Don’t do anything stupid. So he didn’t, and he let his stiff shoulders and rigid knees keep him still and in place. It was upon them, ready to bare down with its impossibly strong arms and body, when another spell was cast at it. Hope was quite ready to tell Kuja to give up, it’s not going to work, they needed a different approach, but then saw something he didn’t expect. He couldn’t tell what spell it was, but it had beaten back the monster with bright flashes of light. He should’ve been paying more attention to it, he thought as the light disappeared and the monster was left screeching in a tone that dripped with malice. It might be out of his range, far beyond his understanding, but if it had taken down such a beast, then he wanted to at least see it on the end that wasn’t receiving the attack.
He should have been, but by then his attention had already shifted and was on the caster of said spell. His scientific, want to know and understand side would have to wait. Kuja looked slightly on the charred side, but Hope wasn’t in the mood for throwing sour comments that would start another pointless battle of insults. As the wind blew the sand around, finishing off the large monster, Hope was feeling for the magic that laid dormant in him. He knew it was there; he had used it earlier in his stay when he had a small mishap with some thugs that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He didn’t know how it was there, just that from where he came from, that meant you were cursed. A l’cie, but there was no brand on him, nothing to show that he had such a dreadful thing hanging over his head like a focus. He didn’t want to end up like the poor monsters that failed their focus, and he hoped he wouldn’t But, without the brand, he was at a loss on that front. Where did his magic come from, excluding his memories that urged him to protect himself and others, to fight, fight and survive to see another day? He didn’t know, maybe it was a strange effect of this world. Maybe he didn’t have a brand, and was cursed all the same. But Hope had to think positive, despite knowing that he had to accept the negative. Right now he had it, and right now, he was going to use it.
Just this once, his mind whispered. Next time he’d be walking it off, monster’s fault or no. Curasa—a single target healing spell that restored quite a chunk of vitality to the target of the spell, something told him. Hope held his hand out, as if throwing the spell at Kuja, once, and then another. The green glow flew like a fairy, vibrant and reflecting all that life should represent, or does to the human mind. He felt the trickle of energy leave him, but it wasn’t much of a loss. He hadn’t used any since he’d been rescued by the Caster, so he was pretty well off to cast that another couple times. His protector didn’t need it though, at the moment; that should have him set, if not a little sore from the shock of being almost burned alive by his own spell.
He pushed his unruly hair back, damp with sweat and speckled with sand, off of his forehead. Hope bent on knee, folding it under him and sat on the hot sand, letting it sizzle against his leg, marking it an angry red. One hand braced himself behind, and the other fiddled with the boomerang, turning it over to look at the metallic, bright orange and yellow designs that covered it. There wasn’t much to say, and he didn’t want to prod the other to go quite yet at the moment, after so soon evading death. He himself felt weak in the knees with relief, his arms jelly and his mind moving at a snail’s pace as his mind caught up with the events of the battle.
They were alive. They were alive, and there was still hope of getting out of this blasted desert, to leave it behind them and not look back.
Kuja could not heal himself. His magic came largely from the soul, and yet his soul could hardly remain conscious. Much of the power had left his blood, and he found that his body did not much wish to move against the weight of fatigue. Kuja had cast flare star before -- of course he had; he was its inventor -- but never had he done it so quickly, so desperately, and with so instant a repetition. He had released its power three times in less than two minutes. Any more and it might have killed him. No one could release that kind of magic so carelessly, not without --
Not without the power of trance.
But where had that thought come from? Kuja had never been able to enter trance. Garland had said it was because Kuja had an underdeveloped soul, but the idea was laughable. Kuja suspected it wasn't a problem with his soul so much as the vessel built for it. Still, it was a strange condition to consider, and it didn't exactly help. Here he was, still exhausted, still without magic, and still injured in the middle of a deserted wasteland.
Or perhaps not so injured anymore. As Kuja's thoughts wandered about themselves, he hadn't immediately noticed the soothing waves of curative magic wash over him. Almost at once, his pain lessened. Irritated skin cooled. When Kuja opened his eyes, he saw light dancing about him in celestial glimmers. Green, he noticed, the colors of life. Though his mind was no less muddled and his soul no less exhausted, his body repaired and soon he hadn't even the slightest ache to show for the inferno that had consumed him. A sideways glance showed the boy sitting innocently in the sand. He sat almost casually with a hand angled backwards to support him. He did not look at Kuja, but instead examined that useless hunk of wood he carried with him. Though the boy looked pale, he showed no panic. He did not seem like one who had stared down death.
"Hmph. You are a white mage?" Kuja was too tired for scorn. His voice sounded without its usual theatrics, mimicry, or disdain. "Perhaps you are not completely useless, after all." Or not. He found that his well for mockery ran infinitely deep.
Without the strength to continue, Kuja readjusted his weight. The monster was dead -- its corpse laid smoking in front of them. The power of his flare star had chased the remaining antlions from their caves. Whatever remained in their colony by the cliffs was surely dead by now. Kuja reclined back on his elbows so that his head didn't hit the sand. Like this, he was almost resting. He stretched one leg out while the other bent upwards at the knee. He tilted his head to watch the cloudless blue sky. Like this, he could almost remember the desert he had loved. No matter its dangers, it was still a place of light and heat.
"You wouldn't happen to have a spare ether?"Though he had hated the boy, it seemed that Hope could be of some use if he tried. Besides, he had already proven to be carrying water, a notebook, some kind of pen, and a telescope. Kuja felt his lips upturn into his usual smirk. "Your pockets seem to run infinitely deep."
[[OOC: o_o Oh my gosh, a post that isn't ridiculously long. What has become of me? Eh. Guess I'm feeling lazy. xD]]
"Hmph. You are a white mage? Perhaps you are not completely useless, after all."
Hope shot Kuja a dry look, the boomerang he’d been fiddling with dropping into his lap so her could brace the other hand behind him. The sand felt warm on his hands, soothing the cold chill that had ailed them. Yes, he looked alright on the outside, like nothing had happened, but his body said otherwise inside. “Yeah,” he slowly said, knowing the term white mage to be one that the people of this land used as well. Someone who could heal, apparently. Medic was the term that sat in his mind, stale and unused. “Looks like your flashy spells are worth something as well.” Not as good a jab as it could have been, but at the moment, the younger could care less.
He looked at the charred remains of the beast, listening to Kuja move slightly in one ear and the sound of scattering monsters in the other. None of them seemed keen to approach now that they had taken care of what seemed to be the king of the desert, in their eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have a spare ether? Your pockets seem to run infinitely deep."
Ether, completely different from the Ethersol that Hope knew was from his world. He’d seem some in the stores of Provo, ones that sold ‘adventuring’ supplies. He’d bought a few on a whim, wanting to see if they were truly the same, or something different. There were tests that needed to be run, one of them being Hope trying one on himself after he’d exhausted himself by throwing out magic one after the other.
“I have a couple,” He grudgingly admitted, his weight turning to one side as he undid the button that held his pocket closed, and stuck his hand inside to fish around. Really, the amount of things he seemed to carry was astounding, as if they were tiny little backpacks, all on their own. (The belt around his waist that held the pants up was buckled tight, keeping them up. With his small frame, and all the items that he carried around, it would be easy to just pull them down if he didn’t wear one without so much as a wrong move. It wasn’t like the items were a load, but there were many of them.) “Here,” he said as he tossed it towards Kuja in a small arc.
He snapped the pocket closed, and went back to looking at the sky while he waited for Kuja to recover, or do whatever it was that he needed to do. “We should reach the tree line soon, after clearing this hill. After that it’s a kinda-straight shot Torensten, just have to clear a river, but there’s a bridge we can take.” He informed the other, one of his hands retreating from the sand as he looked at the orange bandanna tied around his wrist. That was where he’d leave him, and turn in that stupid cart. Then it was back to Provo so he could check if anyone else had cropped up while he was away.
The boy confirmed that the curative spells had not simply been tossed down upon Kuja from the Heavens as a payment for tragedy. For all of his uselessness, the boy was in fact a white mage. Kuja didn't know why he'd been surprised. White magic was the only type that the Gaians had ever truly gotten the hang of. This boy was pale and scholarly enough for it, surely. He had the shriveling disregard of someone more comfortable with books than people. His attitude reminded Kuja of several magical archivists he had met during the course of his Gaian research. All of them had been so shocked that someone of Kuja's age and anonymity could possibly have learned even the simplest cure spell. They had dismissed him, as was their nature, for not having obtained the proper certificates and pedigrees. Yes, if Hope had to remind him of anyone, it would be of someone like that. Though Kuja doubted the boy had even so much as heard of Daguerreo.
"Looks like your flashy spells are worth something as well," the boy conceded. Kuja laughed. Given previous events, it was the worst attempt at dismissal he had ever witnessed.
"Well, I do have a penchant for the theatric," Kuja lamented, but how silly he was acting. His spells were not meant to attract attention, but to be efficient. They struck sharp and deadly without any unnecessary flourish. That their power drew attention regardless was only proof of his capability. Had the monster not been granted magical defenses against him, Kuja would never have opted for such an overpowered spell against it. He preferred to conserve magic when possible (he so loathed the mental sluggishness that came with magical fatigue) but survival was a petty thing that often came with sacrifice. He trailed his finger across the sand. "All joking matters aside, I'm afraid that this is twice you would have been slaughtered alone. You should thank whatever deities happened to toss me in your path. Believe me, I was anything but complicit." His musing was like a sigh on the wind. He opened his fingertips and let the sand fall through like the granules of an hourglass. Once released, they were swept away. "Upon the pharoah's gilded lands are winds that shift the ceaseless sands. Gaze upon it and despair, for naught but ruins tremble there." A pensive quote for a pensive mood. He had read it somewhere or another in one his countless volumes of Gaian poetry. He tried to remember the second stanza, but it had left him as quickly as grains of sand. His head was too muddled for it.
But wasn't this boy a surprise? It seemed he carried a cure for every ailment. The bottled ether was tossed carelessly towards him, and he snatched it from the air as though swatting a fly. The glass was cool in his hand, kept chilled by the magic inside. Kuja looked upon it and laughed again. "Perhaps fortune has not been so unkind to me," he said and uncorked the bottle with his thumb. The ether burnt his tongue, but filled him with a pleasant warmth. It spread through his blood until it tingled at his fingertips. The aching of his soul dulled, and Kuja sighed in relief. His thoughts had sharpened. It seemed this boy was both his burden and something of a salvation. How deeply and horrifically ironic.
“We should reach the tree line soon, after clearing this hill. After that it’s a kinda-straight shot Torensten, just have to clear a river, but there’s a bridge we can take.”
"Torensten?" Kuja echoed in a way that could have meant anything. He assumed it to be a settlement of some sort, though he had never heard of it. As he had already confirmed this to be an unfamiliar planet, he was not surprised. "Hm. Well, if you are sure, then I suppose there is no point in lingering here." Revitalized by the ether, Kuja slowly rose to his feet. Once standing, he straightened his skirt and brushed the dirt off his sleeves. Though hidden from sight, he felt his tail flick an uneasy rhythm. "Well? Shall we?" Kuja smirked and glanced at the boy. "I believe I've had more than enough of the desert."
[[OOC: Totally stole that poetry quote from one of my favorite fanfictions. xD I'm terrible at coming up with poetry, and it's what sprang to mind. Since I don't want to take credit for the line, I'll cite it here as Phobic by Greyrondo. It's a really good Dissidia fanfiction and everyone should read it sometime. But yes...]]
"Well, I do have a penchant for the theatric," Hope echoed that with a faint ‘Obviously’. His magic wasn’t the only thing that stood out about him. From his looks to the way he spoke, it was like Kuja was acting in a theatre and everyone around him was the audience. That meant him too, unfortunately.
"All joking matters aside, I'm afraid that this is twice you would have been slaughtered alone. You should thank whatever deities happened to toss me in your path. Believe me, I was anything but complicit."
“Must be a cursed deity or something,” Hope mumbled, one hand going back to the sand to poke around in it aimlessly. Probably has it out for him or something, or maybe he finds it funny to pit Hope with these powerful otherworldly people and see how much he has to run around to keep up. The boy was far from amused about this, and the corners of his lips sunk as a result.
"Upon the pharoah's gilded lands are winds that shift the ceaseless sands. Gaze upon it and despair, for naught but ruins tremble there." Now there’s poetry to add into the depressing whatever sort of mood that had settled on him. Good poetry, but Hope felt something in him shrivel up and die. Kuja seemed to have a penchant for doing that.
"Perhaps fortune has not been so unkind to me,"
“Glad I could be of service,” he drawled, the hand in the sand pulling away from it when the material of his glove became too warm. Hope looked over as he heard Kuja sigh, and saw that he had downed the ether. His green eyes squinted a bit, taking in the reaction for further notes that he would take. It was just as good to see someone drink it was it was for himself to, although he’d have to do it sooner or later. The Ether seemed to revitalize him somewhat, if his face was anything to go by.
"Hm. Well, if you are sure, then I suppose there is no point in lingering here. Well? Shall we? I believe I've had more than enough of the desert."
Leaning forward, Hope pushed himself up off of the ground and stood up, brushing the back of his pants off with a few pats. Giving his foot a shake, and then the other, he’d nod his head in assent. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s get out of here.” I’ve had more than enough of the desert, and you—he thought while bracing a hand on his shoulder and rolling it around a bit. When it popped, he would let go and start walking the way that had been previously barred off by the monster of the desert.
“If I ever come back here, it’s going to be too soon.”
Not so very long ago, Kuja had grown to love the desert. He had loved its changing heat, its warm isolation, and the harsh sting of its winds. Kuja had never had a home, but this had proved the closest. He had put more love and work into his masterpiece of a palace than he had in anything else that wasn't necessary for his survival. Yes, that place had almost been a home. With its marble halls, brooding statues, and cryptic poems lining every hallway, gallery, and library, that place had been an absolute expression of himself. It was the only place Kuja had ever been able to live without pretense. He did not have to worry for cries of treason in those silent halls. The stained glass eyes did not judge his plotting.
This new desert shared a superficial likeness to the almost-home he had loved, but its core was different. Rather than a refuge, this place had proven itself a hostile enemy. So it was that Kuja found himself agreeing with the boy's final thoughts on the subject: “If I ever come back here, it’s going to be too soon.” Though, of course, knowing his luck Kuja would be bound to return someday. Perhaps there was some magical relic that had fallen through dimensional planes with him. Perhaps he would discover some ancient ruins hidden deep within that would call for his exploration. Still, Kuja couldn't help but reflect the sentiment.
If he ever came back to this godforsaken desert again, it would be far, far too soon.
But the boy had not lied. Beyond those empty cliffs, the sands began to thin as rocky wasteland took its place. Farther still lied an expansive grassland. Kuja wondered how the two of them looked -- a burnt and exhausted pair coming stumbling from a deadly desert. It didn't take long to fight a road. Then it was a long march towards civilization. Kuja cursed the disappearance of his dragon. Further, he wished that teleportation came to him as easily as it did his creator. Just a touch of magic and -- Poof! -- he would arrive at his desired location without all of this hellacious walking. But that magic had only just fallen into his grasp. It had taken him years to master, and still required days of preparation to create a stationary teleporter. To do so instantaneously would require enough magic to incapacitate him. Kuja would never do something so reckless -- not while his life still meant so much to him.
So walking it was. They followed the road past wild flowers and long grasses. They passed expansive fields, woodlands, and other travelers (Who gave him quite the interested looks. He supposed he would never cease to draw the eye of strangers). Kuja recited poetry to pass the time. His mind hadn't quite recovered from its fatigue, but his thoughts were sharp enough to recall lines he'd recited breathlessly time and time again. Whytman, Blake, and of course, Lord Avon. As his eyes wandered to the darkening horizon, it was Avon's words that first came to mind.
"So, the sun is our enemy, too. The western sky grows bright. Will we not spread our wings, as yonder birds in joyous flight?" He had needed to tweak the wording a little for his purposes, but it proved fitting none the less. Kuja glanced at his unwilling companion and gave him a bitter smile. "Are we nearing our destination? Or should we consider our options as we approach the setting sun?" How strange it was that he should consider the boy's thoughts on the matter. Stranger still that Kuja hadn't killed him as soon as they'd left the desert. Still, the boy proved somewhat knowledgeable of the world, and without any direction on this strange planet, Kuja considered that most valuable. Though Kuja thought himself incapable of gratitude, it was also true that without the boy's ether and guidance, he might not have made it through the desert so quickly. The boy had proven himself useful, and thus extended his life. It was the natural order of things, and Kuja had no reason to revoke his polite persona to those lives he did not immediately plan to take.
"Should we be caught in the dark, monsters will undoubtedly pursue us. If you are not absolutely certain that we will reach civilization in time, then we should consider what position would be most advantageous."
Hope could have clawed his own eyes out. That wouldn’t have stopped the pain going in his ears, though, but it would have given him a distraction. The poetry was good the first ten minutes. Then it turned into thirty, and then an hour came, and Hope just couldn’t take it anymore. Homicide was a quick solution, but impossible for him with his skills. Maybe a comet or something will magically fall down and put him out of my misery?
No, no such thing happened, and here they were, a good stretch of miles into their journey and close to sundown.
"So, the sun is our enemy, too. The western sky grows bright. Will we not spread our wings, as yonder birds in joyous flight?"
There it was, he had lost count of what number it was, but there was another one to add to the many. He got what was being conveyed, his head tilting a tad to look at Kuja with a tired pair of eyes. "Are we nearing our destination? Or should we consider our options as we approach the setting sun?" So he was asking for his opinion instead of deciding what they should do for himself. Smart.
Because they were nearing the capital. Hope didn’t answer him immediately, and looked back forward. A few more steps, and there was a break of vision to where they could see the city—large, and civilized, with people in. Lots, and lots of people, and not monsters. Or sand. It looked like heaven to travel weary eyes. “There, Torensten.” His voice spoke volumes of finally, and Hope scratched under his scarf.
There was still so much sand stuck on his person. Hope would have to stop by an inn on the way to Provo and stay for the night, just so he could get cleaned up.
“They have patrols around the walls, so it’s unlikely that a monster would get this close, if it’s a threat, that is.” Maybe that would address the possible monster pursuit. Kuja wouldn’t have to worry about that, but Hope undoubtedly would have to. Unfortunately. If he didn’t have this stupid mission on his shoulders, then he’d go on inside and look around. The large city was colorful, with carrying ranges of shops and people.
The blue tops of the towers glowed in the sky, towering above them as they neared the gates. The noise of everyone inside busting about was like a backdrop to a city that appeared to be quite large, spread out across a large expanse behind a wall. He wondered what kind of books there would be in the second hand stores, waiting in stacks and covered with dust. Next time.
“This is it, then.” He paused, his mouth closing as he mused through what to say. Obviously, a lot of what he could wasn’t exactly nice, but Hope wanted to extract himself from Kuja’s side as soon as possible. Anymore poetry and snarky comments, and Hope was gonna have a paper face of himself in the streets.
“Bye.” Simple, and what he wanted to get across. That he was leaving, NOW. “Thanks.” For killing the monsters, and my ears.
The boy had not lied. As they reached the summit of one of the grassland's many hills, a city rose from the light of the setting sun. It was a place of imposing limestone walls and towers high enough to intimidate any lowly mortal who might gaze upon them. Their domes sparkled teal in the twilight, and there was something about that unnatural blue that set Kuja's teeth on edge. It felt somehow too cool -- too alive -- but it would have to do. Architecture that complex bespoke a society large enough to build it, and after so long in the desolate wilderness, society was exactly what Kuja needed. Civilization was his natural element -- lies and sweet words his weapons of choice -- and this would be his preferred battleground should the need for such things arise. The mere thought of it straightened his posture and gave Kuja his usual, innocent smile. He slipped into personas as easily as others changed clothes, and when the boy spoke, Kuja's laughter came in light breaths rather than the sarcastic sneerings that were natural to him.
"You sound so pleased," Kuja mused. In all reality, the boy looked as though he would rather stab his own eyes out with a fork than take another step with him. The boy's voice was dripping with so much haughtiness and disdain that Kuja was almost proud of him. It seemed that in their short time together, Kuja had taught Hope how to truly hate. It was as important a lesson as any, he supposed, and if nothing else, it deeply amused him.
That is why, when Hope announced his intentions to continue on alone, it almost disappointed him. It would have been greatly entertaining to impose his company on the unwilling boy for a while longer. Oh, the possibilities for raising contempt --Kuja hadn't even started on poetry more than three centuries old! -- but those idle imaginings would have to wait until another day.
"This is it, then," Hope said with all the antipathy that a child could muster.
"So it would seem," Kuja responded without the slightest hint of derision. He sounded more wistful if anything, as though he were too preoccupied with witty similes and rhyming couplets to pay proper attention to him. The silence between them could have been cut with a knife.
"Bye," the boy said abruptly, and then as though it pained him, "Thanks."
'Thanks.' Kuja could have laughed. The boy was proving infinitely sarcastic, ungrateful, and haughty. Yes, perhaps Kuja could have been proud of him. The boy masked his hatred behind the thinnest veil of politeness. Here in front of him was a child of unseemly intelligence, too weak to do anything but run a silver-tipped tongue. There was a certain stubbornness too, and a complete disregard for one's life in the face of indignity. All alone, forced to take jobs well out of his talent in order to survive, the boy kept the demeanor of a soldier rather than an inexperienced child. With that heated look in his eye, it almost reminded Kuja of someone. A clear-eyed someone with silver hair like feather down. But that was enough of his musing.
"Farewell," Kuja offered with a smile and a flourish of his hand. "I would like to say that this has been pleasant, but that would be a lie." And a rather egregious one at that. To think that Kuja had seriously considered murdering the child in cold blood! But that was no longer the case. Kuja's temperament had cooled -- his senses had returned. Though he doubted the act could be traced back to him, it was still unfitting for one to be tied to the merciless slaughter of children.
"Take care," Kuja said, and then as almost an afterthought added, "And try to stay out of any monster's nests. I would prefer that my efforts sparing your life not go to waste." He laughed with the delicate cadence of raindrops on glass. Then he lowered himself to an eloquent and proper bow with a flick of his overlong sleeves.
Was it too much? Perhaps, but as Kuja departed for his new destination, he regretted nothing. After some unpleasant exposition, a new act of his life spread before him awaiting dramatic betrayals, nail-biting suspense, and the darkest of tragedies. Through the movement of some divine hand, Kuja had been brought to a new stage, one in which no one knew his name. The world called for action, drama, and manipulative lies.
And Kuja was nothing if not the most skilled of actors.
