Moonlight fell like liquid glass upon rocky cliffs and swaying grasses. The night was silent. There was none of the temple's usual bustling now, nor were there voices, footsteps, or the hum of insects. There was only the single moon which gazed down upon the planet like a great, silver eye. There was no shadow behind it -- no crimson-washed parasite which would consume the world with time. There was only the moon and the vast realms of space. Perhaps there was something more beyond that, but it was impossible to say.

The answers wouldn't come. The rest was shrouded in black.

It had been several weeks since these thoughts began. Kuja had come to this temple as a means of research and perhaps the eventual acquisition of power. He had done no such thing, however, and yet he had not left. As he'd passed the hushed voices of archaeologists and scholars, their hurry had calmed the darkness lurking in the back of his mind. It reminded him greatly of Daguerreo. The scholars there had oozed pretension and their beliefs had been laughable at best, but there was something familiar in them which he had always admired. Here were those who had forsaken the world for the futile pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps had his life gone differently, Kuja would have counted himself among them. Perhaps if he'd been born Gaian, he might have taken up a pen rather than the fires of magic. Or indeed, if he'd been born at all.

But that was a useless sentiment suitable only for the pained and downtrodden. And Kuja was no longer so weak.

Alone among the tall grasses and the silver veils of moonlight, Kuja closed his eyes to the quiet stirrings of wind. It was strange how much he'd grown to love the weather. Rain, snow, heat, wind -- everything which caused others complaint gave him a deep sense of peace. Perhaps it was the vast scale of it or the hint of something greater than himself. This wind touched all equally -- Gaian and otherwise -- and it would continue long past his own existence. If Kuja closed his eyes, he could feel it still -- this natural pull of the planet. With the wind in his hair, he knew that he was not home and that he never would be again.

Down the winding mountain road, there was a quiet shuffle of movement and the sound of carriage wheels. Kuja paid it no mind. No one would question him now, or at least, no more than usual. Strangers had always noted his striking eyes, the finely sculpted tilts of his face, and his hair like rivulets of silver moonlight, and they had known somehow that he did not belong among them. In recent years, Kuja had embraced that difference and enhanced it in every conceivable way. He had decorated himself in deep purples, trims of gold, and tight angles of coral red. He had taken to accenting his curves, to highlighting the feminine draw of his cheeks, and lavishing in the whispers of ridicule and scandal. If only Garland could see him now. He would say...

He would say that Kuja's drive for self-expression was nothing but a defect of his cerebral cortex, an over-activity in his frontal lobes which stemmed from a residual spiritual imprint unaffected from the Cycle. His need for rebellion was the result of improperly firing synapses and an irregular absorption of the chemical dopamine. 

Even in his own daydreams, Kuja couldn't win. But Garland was nowhere to be found here (where-ever here was), and indeed, hadn't been for some time. It seemed that this planet was not within Terra's reach, and yet, Kuja could not bring himself to happiness. Since arriving in this forsaken land, Kuja had done nothing with his new-found freedom for the simple fact that he had nothing to do. There was no plotting, he had no orders, and his goals could only be summarized as "trying not to die." It didn't suit him, but then, he had no idea what had brought him here in the first place.

Maybe if Kuja had remembered, then he would have known who to properly take revenge upon. As it was, he could only recall that he'd taunted Zidane and waited for his idiot crew to open the way to Terra. After that, Kuja had the feeling that something terrible had happened and he might have done something he'd regretted. Then there was nothing but a heavy haze of frustration and uncertainty. He knew nothing about what happened then -- only that it had involved Zidane and it had gone on for far, far too long.

He'd wanted it to stop. He didn't know whether he'd achieved his wish.

In the silver flickerings of moonlight, Kuja thought that maybe he had. This planet was not a prison to him nor was it a dying husk that he might long to leave behind. With the wind snatching at his hair and sleeves, Kuja thought that he would never grow tired of this planet. Only of its people, its conflicts, and its over-arching sense of nothing.

His soul stirred with a restless wrath and sharpened claws. Soon this world would know him, but not yet. Not until he had his reason to strike.

OOC: ((Oh Jesus Christ, that was a lot of angst. I apologize to everyone for my self-indulgence. I couldn't help it. I felt it in my soul.)) 

Over the many years of Kuja's false life, he was not often given a chance for release. His mask had been finely crafted for innocence -- he spun words like spider's silk. With so much time living a lie, his magic had grown restless inside of him. His soul had stirred with its latent energy, and somewhere deep inside, he had grown restless. Oh, there were plenty of charms that he produced for sale and he was always experimenting with new spells, but that wasn't what he was built for. No, Kuja had been given life to end others. He had been granted power so he could release it from the heavens. In short, he had been built for moment like this, and while Kuja would never admit it, there was a certain satisfaction in the unbridled destruction of it all. He didn't have to have a reason -- he didn't have to offer explanations. There was only his power and those too stupid to fear it.

When his spell had finished, the air crackled with the harsh buzz of electricity. Thunder had scorched ancient brick walls and loosed its particles into the air. For a moment, it was all Kuja could do to cough into the back of his hand. Perhaps he had outdone himself? With the temple's amplifier, his magic had come stronger than he'd meant. With the temple walls so derelict, Kuja might have brought the whole structure down upon them. Still, the killing strike had been satisfying as always. Kuja wished that he could see through the dust to marvel at the results. 

But what had he felt before he'd indulged himself? And why did it feel as though he'd forgotten something...?

Kuja did not have time to ponder his unease. He had only enough time to recognize it before he saw something through the wreckage. It was a figure -- and not a dead one at that. The figure was of a man, looming in the shadows of mist. Or rather of a tall and hideously dressed moose-man with elongated antlers on either side. 

“Now unless you knew I was able to absorb Thunder-elemental magic, I don’t think that would be a good form of healing.”

The voice came as smug and aristocratic as ever. Kuja might have mocked the man's jumbled syntax in the false name of elegance had there not been a larger issue at hand. This man, it seemed, was completely unharmed. He could also nullify electricity, if his claims were to be believed. 

Well, then. How embarrassing. 

"Should I try another spell to test your limits?" Kuja offered, but after his previous outburst, the point felt moot. This man was clearly not human -- possibly not even alive -- and for the first time in a long time, Kuja had no idea what to think of it. There were certainly creatures on Gaia that had built resistance to electricity, but none of them were humanoid. Then there were amulets such as the Coral Ring which allowed one to absorb electrical power for one's own use. But that was assuming that this man abided by the normal laws of the universe, and that he was not, in fact, a collection of lingering souls given human form. 

From Kuja's previous observations, that seemed a rather large assumption.

"If you are dead, then why would you need healing, I wonder?" Kuja mused as lightly as ever, but it had something biting in it -- an accusation. "I have never met a soul which would benefit from even the strongest of elixirs. As they are, in fact, dead." That was not strictly true. In his research, he had studied many souls which had simply gone dormant and others that were kept purposefully from rebirth. Never had Kuja seen one that kept sentience nor had he seen any evidence that souls could project a visual representation. In most, there was only that muttered, half-present voice and a raw void of emotion. 

"Tell me. What is needed to be rid of you? A ritual? A special magic? Or must I wrench open the core of the planet itself? You see, I can't stand the feeling of wandering souls." Mist, the Iifa Tree, the depths of Pandemonium. They were all the same and they all made his skin crawl. Kuja always felt as though the souls were reaching for him with their ethereal tendrils. He felt as though they wanted to inhabit a body that was meant for him and him alone. 

Kuja brushed back a strand of hair over his armored shoulders. Such dark thoughts gave him a terrible mood that almost brought a smile to his lips. He looked up thoughtfully and pondered on the longings of his bloodlust. "Tell me, please, so I can end you."

Oftentimes, when searching for sources of mockery and disdain, Kuja had to work hard for his results. There were some like the nobles of Treno who had little to mock but pretension, and others like the Queen who had very much to mock, but also had the power to make such antipathy unwise. Usually, Kuja had to search for the slightest of missteps and then mask it in shrouds of literary allusion, rhyming couplets, and metaphor. He had practiced on the most difficult subject alive, after all. How did one scorn an immortal god with power over one's life and death? Very carefully, as it turned out, with great veils of subtlety, double-meanings, and tell-tale haughtiness. Through many years of trial and error, Kuja had honed his skills to utter perfection and could now sneer into the face of great soldiers, lofty nobles, and greedy royalty alike.

Then there were times when chances for mockery merely fell in his lap without the need for pretense. This was one of those times.

“There would be no need,” the moose man said with his air of detached nobility. Then he took a step forward, tripped over his ridiculous robes, and was sent careening into one of the ruins' many crumbling walls. Kuja laughed. He was so surprised and so deeply amused that he didn't bother hiding its tone behind arrogance, innocence, or even contempt. Instead, it came out as harsh and cold as had always been natural for him. Here was a man who fancied himself a nobleman but who looked and acted every part a blundering moron. Such pretension was unfitting of one who spoke, acted, and dressed so carelessly as this man. Kuja had worked tirelessly to earn his status among the elite, and even he had been forced to prove himself as their equals time and time again. This man's attempts, well, they were laughable really.

Only Kuja had stopped laughing. Where the idiot had landed against the wall came not blood, but small orbs of fluorescent light. They scattered from his wound like fireflies, their light ebbing and flowing in phosphorescent cycles. Kuja's tail bristled uneasily as they neared him. These were souls. There could be no doubt about that. This energy -- this prickling apprehension. The man was made of thousands of restless souls, all united into human form. 

But how was that possible? It was an undeniable law of the universe that souls were called back to the crystal. So what was this man standing before him, and why did it fill him with such unease? Kuja's tail lashed a precarious rhythm. He had seen a soul linger before. This was just like...

Just like Garland. The thought chilled him to the core. But why had his mind wandered to something like that? Garland was not a soul (Kuja had often questioned if he even had a soul), and he certainly had not died. Yet here was that thought, like so many others that had assaulted him recently -- disquieting thoughts that did not align with what he knew to be true. Where had they come from? What did they mean? The thoughts chased themselves around his mind like an ouroburos destined to swallow its own tail. His head was pounding.

This impossible man righted himself and called the light back to him. It gathered about his would-be wound and compressed into shape again. Skin was smoothed. Cloth was repaired. “Revival would not be necessary, but general recovery magic and potions would be grateful," the phantom said. What was he? And why did it hurt so much to think about?

Kuja laughed again, though shakier this time. He laughed at the impossibilities in his head and at the anxiety lurking beneath his soul. "What are you?" he asked, too shaken for his usual subtlety. Was this man a ghost? Some spawn of the Mist? Or was he, as his subconscious feared, a soul lingering past death? A soul which had gained freedom from the Cycle and could not be killed? Kuja touched his forehead. Sharpened fingernails dug into skin and feathered hair. Why did the possibility carry such an overwhelming sense of failure?

“Sorrow is a poison that infects the living. If you free yourself from the living, you free yourself from the same toxin, do you not?”

No. No, that wasn't true. Kuja had never...

'I won't have to be afraid anymore.'

"Shut up!" The cry came without restraint, without even consent from his willing mind. He pressed his palm harder over one eye. Images flashed in his subconscious -- scorched rock, orange light, and the crimson red flutterings of feathers. They whispered questions in the back of his mind -- terrible questions that he didn't want to answer. 

What had he done?

Kuja felt the magic in his hand. Just one blast and these questions would scatter like sand. He didn't need reminders. He didn't need anything that prompted such terrible uneasiness. Just one blast...

Kuja raised a hand. The heat left his eyes -- they narrowed with serpentine focus. "Thundaga," he hissed and brought the hand down. Magic sprang from his blood in fiery streaks. It erupted from above, below, and within. Whatever conduit of energy that had prompted this temple conducted his magic in deadly bolts. Kuja watched his destruction with the cool demeanor of a god. There was no hell, no mercy, and no reason to keep this headache alive. 

He rid himself of it as though swatting a fly. 

OOC: ((Just to be clear, Kuja just cast a very powerful spell on Seymour and then the narration made some assumptions about that. Seymour's going to have a rough time getting out of this (particularly injured) but Kuja's the one assuming Seymour loses -- not me.))

It had been nearly two weeks since Kuja had first appeared in the ruined wastes of what he could now identify as the Reikinto Sands and he had spent that time in the most useful way possible -- collecting information. Since his initial fall to this world, he had immersed himself among the populace and had studied their culture like a scholar examining some peculiar species of monster. It would not do to call this world primitive nor to praise it as a paragon of technology. It seemed to reside somewhere between the suppressed innovations of Gaia and the hyper-advanced alien dimension that Kuja had not called home. This world was a place of vast wilds, crumbling ruins, and high innovation alike. It would be best not to think of it as a single world at all -- but rather as a collage of different cultures and times. The fact that it appeared to be a dumping ground for dimension-torn travelers only strengthened this impression. Since his arrival, Kuja had heard many rumors of powerful strangers wandering among their midst. He'd heard of violent criminals battling street gangs, of confused wanderers taking jobs in dangerous locations, and of wrathful demigods warring by cliff-sides. There was so much gossip among the chaos that Kuja himself had managed to slip by mostly unnoticed. He took this chance to linger and listen as a passive player to the events unfolding before him.

On the map of this world, there stood a peculiar dot labeled Metaia Temple only a few day's south of Torensten. According to the locals, it was a long-abandoned ruin of some ancient technology. Some remnant power was said to still linger deep within it, and this unknowable power made the ruins a gathering point for mages and scholars alike. The description had peeked Kuja's interest. He had always had a love for forgotten magical knowledge and had used the power of long-abandoned lore to bring his last world to its knees. It was for this reason that Kuja set out for the temple only two weeks upon his arrival to Torensten. If there was some ancient magic to be had there, then he would not be satisfied until it was his. 

The ruins loomed at his approach like spiraling colossi. It appeared to be some kind of vast monument or maybe a machine. It towered in three bisecting rings of crumbling stone over a hundred feet high. At its base was the rumored Metaia Temple. Overshadowed by the ancient behemoth, it might have grown from the ruins like a fungi, first sprouting walls then towers then buildings unfolding overhead like mushroom caps. The temple buzzed with activity as Kuja approached. It was an isolated focus that brought to mind the dusty library of Alexandria or the pompous halls of Daguerreo. Kuja's mind spun with the scent of must and old parchment.

"Pardon," Kuja called as he approached the gate's guard, "But would you mind granting my entry?"

The temple's guard was a plain, forlorn sort who looked as though he could do with a visit to civilization and perhaps a shower. He eyed Kuja nervously and clutched at some form of projectile weapon. "Do you have a pass?"

"Hm? Oh no. I'm afraid no one mentioned that. And I've come all this way. What a pity."

The guard's eyes swept across feather-laced hair, golden embellishments, and violet-adorned hips. He cleared his throat nervously. "Are you...?" he started to say but seemed to think better of it. Kuja tilted his head and smiled.

"I thought that perhaps my otherworldly knowledge might come to some use here." Kuja touched the side of his cheek and let out a light sigh. "Whatever shall I do...?"

The guard noticeably stiffened at Kuja's words and gripped tighter at his weapon. It seemed that rumors of stranded travelers had spread as quickly as Kuja had hoped. The guard's eyes swept over him once more before finally settling on his face. Kuja's eyes hardened even as he kept his delicate smile. The guard bit his tongue and nodded. "Well, if that's the case, then I'm sure we can make an exception."

"Oh? How wonderful. You have my thanks."

Kuja was not checked for weapons nor was he carrying any. He quickly separated himself from wandering academics and amateur mages. He followed his intuition down crumbling passages and through dust-laden chambers. The steel of his boots echoed against uneven tile. Alone in the silence of this place, he could feel a strange power lurking within. He closed his eyes and felt the hot pulse of magic. He raised a hand and tested the elemental forces on his fingertips. Fire came easily to him and then the chill of ice, the rush of water, and the stirrings of wind. Finally, he brought forth the crackling electricity only to find that it sprang from his hand with an almost magnetic attraction. Frowning, Kuja tried the spell again. His power came stronger than intended. It lit the crumbling ruins in lilac flares then bolted in streaks towards the ground. Kuja knelt beside its point of disappearance and touched hot stone. Yes, there was power here, lurking deep within this ruins' core. If only he could find it.

As quickly as the thought came to him, Kuja was torn from his contemplation by another force. It washed over his consciousness like the chilled waves of Esto Gaza. This new power was neither elemental nor magical, but spiritual. Kuja shivered off corrosive energy and straightened to face it. Within this temple were the restless souls of the dead. Kuja swept irritably at the beads of sweat that had formed above his forehead. His stomach twisted with nausea. It was a feeling he had come to expect from the Iifa Tree where the dregs of souls gathered in mass. This aura was not so strong as that, yet it did not prove difficult to follow. What these souls lacked in quantity they made up for in sheer, raw aggression. They assaulted his vessel with grief, loneliness, and despair. 

'Even the wrath of that elephant woman couldn't compare,' Kuja thought, but where had that come from? He couldn't remember the composition of the late queen's soul, nor had he been given time to ponder it. All the casualties from his battle at the Iifa had been called to the Invincible. Yet he still could not shake his initial impression: that this was the single most turmoiled soul he had ever encountered -- even stronger than that hideous elephant woman's. 

Strangely, however, the spiritual energy led him not to a mass of wayward souls, but rather to a man. At first, Kuja thought that this man must have been a monster born of the Mist with elongated arms, pronounced veins, and what appeared to be antlers angled awkwardly from the back of its head. Further inspection proved it to be sentient and humanoid. What Kuja had assumed to be antlers were, in actuality, tufts of hair. The man wore several sweeping robes in soft blue and silken red tied together loosely at the waist with a delicately embroidered sash. His chest was bare but for a trailing set of beads and an oddly structured tattoo.

With Kuja's own elaborate sense of fashion, he should not have been one to judge the extravagances of another's wardrobe. However, Kuja was nothing if not a hypocrite, and if asked his opinion on the man before him, he would have said that he most closely resembled a middle-aged fashionista crossed with a bull moose. Kuja's temples seized with the dull poundings of a headache. 

"You. Why do you reek of the undead?" With his growing migraine, Kuja did not have the strength for feigned niceties. He folded one arm over his chest while the other hand massaged the ridge of his forehead. "Your soul offends me."