Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
at adventu, we believe that colorful story and plots far outweigh the need for a battle system. rp should be about the writing, the fun, and the creativity. you will see that the only system on our site is the encouragement to create amazing adventures with other members. welcome to adventu... how will you arrive?
year 5, quarter 3
Welcome one and all to our beautiful new skin! This marks the visual era of Adventu 4.0, our 4th and by far best design we've had. 3.0 suited our needs for a very long time, but as things are evolving around the site (and all for the better thanks to all of you), it was time for a new, sleek change. The Resource Site celebrity Pharaoh Leep was the amazing mastermind behind this with minor collaborations from your resident moogle. It's one-of-a-kind and suited specifically for Adventu. Click the image for a super easy new skin guide for a visual tour!
Final Fantasy Adventu is a roleplaying forum inspired by the Final Fantasy series. Images on the site are edited by KUPO of FF:A with all source material belonging to their respective artists (i.e. Square Enix, Pixiv Fantasia, etc). The board lyrics are from the Final Fantasy song "Otherworld" composed by Nobuo Uematsu and arranged by The Black Mages II.
The current skin was made by Pharaoh Leap of Pixel Perfect. Outside of that, individual posts and characters belong to their creators, and we claim no ownership to what which is not ours. Thank you for stopping by.
[attr=class,bulk] There was something different about Mikoto. He wasn’t sure what it was at first. He was far too involved in the prison of his thoughts to care for the details of a fledgling genome. She certainly seemed more downcast than usual though that wasn’t something he could call new. Was that a new outfit or…?
Her outfit.
What was she wearing?
”Is that...a moogle?” It seemed to be a white cloak of some kind draped over her shoulders with the hood pulled up, but the resemblance was obvious. From the bright red nose to the button eyes to rounded ears to the infuriating little pompom bobbing with every motion of her head, it was clearly meant to give off the impression of a lumpy, dead-eyed moogle.
But...why?
”Did someone give that to you?” He couldn’t fathom where she would have stumbled into it on her own, and he certainly hadn’t given her the money for it unless she’d taken to stealing. The thing was hideous. Whoever had lent it to her must have had a vendetta.
He was so distracted by her bizarre choice of fashion that he couldn’t help but blink when she turned the conversation back to him. ’Was he unwell?’ Kuja raised a hand to his forehead and breathed a haughty laugh.
”I’m fine,” he said. Yes, he was just fine and dandy, thank you very much. Nothing was the matter at all. Nothing that he cared to discuss with his diminutive successor, at least.
Though he did wonder, what would she make of it all? She’d tell him that he was being over dramatic most likely. Or perhaps she’d misinterpret the situation and conclude that Hilda had given him some terrible illness. Then Mikoto might want to kill her, and then Kuja might agree, and then he’d find one problem solved and replaced with a murder charge. He was trying to avoid those as of late.
She held out a bag for him, eyes wide with concern. Kuja raised an eyebrow and took it. There appeared to be pastries and other sweets inside. Apparently she’d tried to take his tastes into account. Well that was...nice.
”I was going for a walk.” His eyes drifted past her to the door. Might she come with him? Well, that would only ruin the very solitude he sought in the first place. But he supposed it would cause more trouble if he refused her. Then she might worry even harder and she’d come to the kinds of conclusion that he’d very much rather she not.
Damn it all.
”Do what you want.” He gave a short wave of his hand to show his disinterest as he walked past her and started outside. ”But take that thing off, won’t you? You look ridiculous.”
They walked together, Kuja in front and Mikoto trailing behind. He didn’t have anywhere in particular in mind. Had he been left to his own devices, he might have wandered back to the botanical gardens, but that was out of the question now. He’d resigned himself not to let his mind utter the word “Hilda” while he was under Mikoto’s watchful eye. She had an annoying habit of prying into his thoughts through psychic means, and he had no desire for her to witness whatever emotions might strike him at the place where it all began.
So the gardens were off limits. Which left...what, exactly?
They walked for about ten silent minutes before Kuja realized that he was still holding her bag of sweets. He must have forgotten to leave it on the table.
Kuja slowed to a stop and pressed his free hand to his forehead. He felt something building inside him. Something unpleasant that longed for violence.
”I don’t exactly have time to babysit you, you know.” Her constant presence was irritating to say the least. Even if she remained entirely quiet, he could feel her, and that was enough of a distraction. ”I don’t know what you think you’re doing with me. Do you long so terribly for subjugation? Or am I just another genome for you to fuss over?”
She’d said that she was a caretaker for them on Bran Bal, hadn’t she? Why Garland had thought he needed help monitoring those soulless dolls was beyond him. They were as disposable as they were dull.
”I’m the destroyer of Terra. Everything you were built to protect is gone and at my hand! I didn’t free anyone. I would have let you all die, and been quite pleased with the result!” His fist tightened. ”I killed our master. I spent twelve years plotting his downfall and then I murdered him in cold blood. Yet here you are, trotting after me like a wide-eyed puppy. Does that mean that I’ve inherited you now that he’s at the bottom of a ravine?”
She’d gone out and collected sweets for him. She was concerned for him. It was so ludicrous that he could have laughed. He didn’t though. He rather felt like setting something on fire.
That was the start of her letter -- just four simple words that spoke volumes. ’To my dearest angel.’ ‘My,’ showing a kind of ownership, ‘dearest,’ a term of affection, and ‘angel.’ She was always one for nicknames. They shared that in common, though for her it was a way to express endearment. For him, it was merely another display of his endless derision.
’Here I write to my captor and destroyer of worlds...I write towards the recently departed, hoping in vain my words reach you.’
He read it by candlelight the night after their rendezvous in the garden. He locked himself away in the back room of a villa he’d rented on the outskirts of the city and he carefully unfolded the letter’s soft pages. They smelled of her perfume, and as he read, it felt almost as though she stood beside him, watching with a passive indifference, waiting for his response.
’As we of intellect do, I reflected on the past.’
It was strange, reading of his own demise in a letter aged by years. It staggered his breath, and he felt his own mortality tight in his throat as he learned of Gaia’s joy at what occurred in that hideous tree. It welled within him the way it always did, quiet and painful and whispering its promises of oblivion. Still, he read on. He read her words in that quiet room so far from home -- if he’d ever had a home to begin with.
’When we sorcerers lose our temper, we tend to lose it well.’
How he longed to burn the thing and be done with it! It was a waste of time -- a matter of pure sentiment addressed to one who could never listen. Yet, he found that he couldn’t. How easily he could have broken her. How much easier to set her words alight and scatter the ashes! Why then did he feel compelled to read on again and again on the verge of madness? He read until there was nothing left and then he read it again. He revisited her letter time after time until he could, if asked, have recited it like poetry. It was the compulsion of a thought that had yet to take form.
’I am thankful for you, Kuja.’
Why did the words torment him so?
’I wished to see what you would have done with the life you won for yourself.’
With the life he had won…?
’Yes, please accept my deepest thanks. Thank you for shaking the world up.’
He’d meant nothing of the sort.
’Everything may be broken now, but we have a chance to rebuild something better.’
They would rebuild a world he couldn’t see. A world that had left him behind.
’I try to imagine what my life would be like if I could be left to my own passions. Then I think of you, and I wonder what you would do if left to your own devices. Would you continue the destruction? Or would you pursue art, beauty, or whatever else your heart may desire? In the end, your destiny is now in your hands.’
His destiny.
What was it now?
Kuja sighed and leaned back in his chair, quill pen idly threading itself between his fingers. It had been three nights since he’d first opened the letter -- two nights since he’d said that he’d only stay a single night longer. It was well past the witching hour in his dim, candlelit room. The city was silent beyond his window, still but for the thoughts of those too inspired or tormented for sleep. He couldn’t tell the time, not without a clock or a precise assessment of the position of the moon, but it hardly mattered. He came from a place where time was meaningless and the day to day cycles of sun and moon were nothing more than curiosities in ancient scientific texts.
A piece of paper glared up at him from the writing desk -- infuriatingly blank. He’d written, ‘Lady Hildagarde Fabool,’ then replaced it with, ‘Lady Hilda,’ and then merely ‘Hilda,’ before he’d crumpled it, cast it aside, and grabbed a fresh sheet. Said sheet now mocked him for his lack of clarity. ’Aren’t you supposed to be eloquent?’ it seemed to say. ’Since when have you been at a loss for words?’
In truth, he had plenty of them, more than he could possibly set to paper. They struck him with the wild ferocity of a whirlwind whenever he closed his eyes. Whole letters he would write, rewrite, then scrap in that silent mental space which he could never seem to access with a quill in his hand. He hadn’t slept longer than an hour in three days.
”How clever of you,” he muttered. ”To leave your thoughts at my disposal. Are you so determined to steal the last word?”
He couldn’t leave it like this. He had to respond, but how? His thoughts were an ever-present, howling force that resisted all attempts at order.
’To my dearest angel.’
’I am thankful for you, Kuja.’
’Your destiny is now in your hands.’
Kuja scowled and tossed the pen aside. He needed space.
He left his room and stalked down the hallway, too used to his own solitude to bother with caution. It was a time of night reserved largely for him and him alone -- for beings with too active minds and a body which had never fully adjusted to the daily cycle of time. On nights like these, he would have taken to the library of Alexandria or to the dark streets of Treno, confident that his scheming would go uninterrupted except for the occasional guard or drunkard, all of them yawning and cursing the night. He would stand by the canals, eyes lifted to the twin moons as he reveled in the silent isolation inherent to his singular, unique creation.
That is to say that while he should have sensed her presence in that strange way that all genomes could, he didn’t realize that Mikoto was awake until he came face to face with her in the living room on his way to the door. He froze at the sight of her, and her eyes raised to his expectantly.
Hollow eyes. Childish eyes. Eyes bright as the blue light of Gaia.
”Oh.” Kuja paused before crossing his arms and casting his gaze aside. ”Do you need something?”
[attr=class,bulk] Kuja’s eyebrow twitched with impatience. This woman was truly overstepping her bounds. Devil’s advocates, froggy woggies, and now she dared compare him to a Gimme Cat! She was the one to have offered him some nebulous gift, as it were. It was hardly fair to tease him for demanding it. Still, it was best to go along with her foolishness for now. Otherwise, it might never end.
What good would it do to point out that his talents and purpose were very much intertwined? Why should he dignify her speculations on the satisfaction of Terra’s destruction with a response? The science, the technology, the palace, the texts. All of it had already been brought to ruin. As for the survivors…
Why shouldn’t he bring ruin upon those hollow-eyed dolls? Mikoto could stay. As for Zidane, he hardly counted towards Terra’s legacy, did he? And if he didn’t count then Kuja didn’t have to consider it. It was all a foolish exercise anyway.
Once she’d finished her teasing, Hilda finally, mercifully got to her point. She gave a short whistle, and before Kuja had time to raise his eyebrows incredulously, the whistle was answered by a bird. Not just any bird, Kuja soon realized, but a mechanical one made of metal magic and whirring gears. His interest was instantly piqued. It was a simple automaton hardly more advanced than enchanted clockwork, and yet…
The aesthetics. They appealed to him.
”Fascinating. And what is its core processor? A computer chip, perhaps, or is it a trapped avian soul? It appears to act much like its organic counterpart in its passive time. Is that programmed behavior, or could it be…?”
He was asking too many questions. If it was the university who developed the mechanics of the thing then Hilda was nothing more than their patron. He waved a dismissive hand. ”It’s impressive,” he decided. ”A clever combination of magic and technology. I wouldn’t mind the chance to study it for my own purposes.”
Or perhaps he would merely recreate it in his own time. He had no doubt that he could make some improvements on the original concept.
She pulled an aged letter from her corset. That seemed an odd place to stash some things, and under the circumstances, perhaps a bit licentious for a woman of her status. She wrote it after the disaster in Memoria. This was apparently two years ago.
His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t certain as to what she was trying to say. He had the feeling it would do him no good.
”Zidane survived then?” He spoke cautiously, testing every word. So far, no one had been willing to tell him the aftermath of that terrible day at Iifa. They either knew nothing more than him or decried him as a violent madman who would be driven to destruction by any answers given. He couldn’t say that they were entirely wrong.
Two years after the Iifa Tree. Two years after he’d…
The bird shifted from her shoulder to his, and she gently took his hand, placing the envelope carefully in his grasp. It was slightly yellowed and softened with age. When she smiled, she seemed to look through him to some other time long gone. He wondered what she was seeing, and what awaited her after the damsel’s rescue from the claws of vanquished evil.
It would all be made clear in her letter, he supposed.
The university’s clocktower chimed the hour. The noise broke the distance between them, and she drew back with a polite curtsey. She had a prior engagement. How convenient…
He turned over the letter in his hands, considering it carefully. ”You wish to exchange letters with a war criminal? What would the people of Lindblum think of this, I wonder?”
No differently than the Alexandrians, he imagined. Or the Burmecians. Or whatever rats might have scurried out of the ruins of Cleyra. The princess in particular would be furious if she were to discover the company of the regentess.
Still, Hilda chose his acquaintance. She was no fool. Yet this was a foolish act, preceded by two years of foolishly keeping this confession (and he could only imagine that it was a confession) so close to her heart. What would she reveal to him? What secrets were so important that she could never part with them, even at the risk of her standing?
He laughed softly to himself. ”Though I suppose that hardly matters now, does it? As untethered as we find ourselves from usual circumstances?” He took the letter and magicked it away with a flick of his hand. It would be teleported back safely with the rest of his belongings. Unlike Hilda, he did not have a convenient bodice in which to stash his most valuable secrets.
”Here, I am no one, and you are the same. I suppose there is some freedom in that.” His eyes wandered to the clocktower, mindlessly ticking along with the cruel passage of time. When would it stop, he wondered? For him, if for no one else?
”If this is the path that you’ve chosen then I suppose I have no reason to refuse. I find myself low on company these days. Not that I’ve ever needed it, but it isn’t terrible to have a soundboard for my thoughts.”
That’s what he thought of their time together. It had been...nice. Having someone to talk to. Of course, his life then had suffered no shortage of conversations, but the rest had all been an act for the purpose of his game of conquest. Hilda had been different. She’d been…
Not genuine. But something close.
”Til next we meet, Lady Hilda.” Kuja offered her a short, but proper bow that he’d learned in the courts of Alexandria. It felt fitting, here in this garden of secrets and intrigue. ”Take care not to fall into unsavory hands. You never know what villains might lurk in the shadows.” His lips flickered with a smile. Their conversation was over, but he would allow her the last word. It was not too late to refuse him should she come to her senses, after all.
[attr=class,bulk] ”I am here with you. As you are with me.”
”Hm?” Kuja glanced back at the hollow-eyed genome beside him. Part of him wanted to bite back at her that he was only speaking metaphorically. Of course they were not physically alone, and she would do best to master idioms and other figurative language. Still, something else stilled his tongue. A strange feeling, perhaps exacerbated by the position of the moon.
He knew what she meant, and he knew that she was wrong, but some small part of him felt as though perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong at all.
”I...suppose.” It didn’t sit right with him, but as his eyes drifted back towards the sparkling night sky, that strange feeling only strengthened within him.
’We are not alone.’
Kuja shook the thought away. He didn’t know what to do with it.
”Well. I suppose that’s enough for one night.” He crossed his arms and returned his attention to the festival around him. As the night grew older, the remaining patrons were becoming wilder and more intoxicated. Most of the children had left by now, and there was an almost primal beat to the music echoing from the central square. It pounded like a pulse from the planet itself, something wild and primitive, evolved from a time when humans were hardly more than beasts themselves.
He imagined it might send Mikoto into shock if they stayed much longer.
”I’ll take you back to return that dress. If you insist.” Kuja waved his hand and started back into the crowds. ”I’ll have to prepare my research for your review. It might be too advanced for you, but you’re welcome to try.”
Why not? It wasn’t as though he was making much progress on his own. Perhaps a sounding board would prove useful in his methodology. It wasn’t as though she had anything more pressing to attend to.
Kuja idly watched the festival as they strolled through the streets on their slow, ambling way to leave it. It felt different now as though the strange feeling from before had infected every corner of his perspective, seeping through the cracks like rainwater. Mikoto looked more comfortable once she’d changed back to her usual Terran attire, and Kuja hummed something of the sort. Then they left together, and Kuja made his way to the outskirts of the city so that he could summon his silver dragon.
It had been a strange night, familiar and yet novel in a way that he couldn’t quite identify. The theater had been the same, more or less. The people here were interchangeable with the residents of Lindblum. Still, there was something so very odd about it all that lingered like a distasteful dream, and it had something to do with Mikoto.
’We are not alone.’
Something had shifted. Kuja could sense it like a foreign magic at his fingertips. As they took to the skies, they were met by a sea of stars.
[attr=class,ooc-notes]
[attr=class,tagline]@blacksuit4
I had some trouble ending this one. Hope it's okay!
For a moment, Kuja simply froze, too surprised to say much of anything. He should have brushed her away. He should have scowled and retorted with something biting, but he didn’t. Instead, he only looked at her, eyebrows raised, more confused than anything.
Her gesture felt almost intimate. But why…?
”It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” she said with a gentle smile. ”They raise and groom us. They mold us for a specific job. That we should yield ourselves to the entire existence of others. They call it our purpose. Condition us to the word.” She pulled her hand back, instead opting to anchor herself on both of his arms.
His eyes narrowed. ’Terrifying?’
He was not terrified.
”Really.” He listened as she went on about all the many purposes one could find for oneself in life. That moustache-clad tool of a regent was able to fulfill himself by using his talents to help the masses. How nice. She turned her eyes back to him. He felt the fur of his tail bristle in irritation.
”But what if I would rather it be destroyed? Completely?” The way that she said it, Terra wouldn’t truly die until all those descended from it were less than a memory. Kuja chose not to entertain that idea. He so hated when his desires were in conflict.
He wanted Terra to vanish into utter irrelevance, but was he not its strongest living legacy? He supposed a strong bout of amnesia would do the trick, but he didn’t want that either. He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to die. All that he wanted was…
Vengeance. But tearing that place apart hadn’t been enough. He’d unleashed every last passionate shred of his hatred upon that dreadful planet, yet he still wasn’t satisfied. Perhaps if Garland had had the decency to admit defeat and beg for his life a little longer…
Hilda took a few steps away like an actress pacing past her mark on stage. She made a proposition. Kuja raised an eyebrow.
”You ask for a companion, and you’d offer the position to me?” Kuja scowled and shook his head. ”I really don’t understand you.” Still, he moved to follow her despite his disdain. She had a way of stringing him along.
”You should know that I have no interest in helping the general public. While it might have satisfied your toad of a husband, philanthropy is nothing to me but a fool’s game.” And it certainly wouldn’t do for some self-made purpose. No, if he were to find some new goal for himself, it would have to be of benefit to him. But nothing seemed of much benefit now, so far removed from Gaia and Terra and every previous reality of his life. He could strive towards riches or fame, but that all felt strangely hollow.
”Fine. What is it then?” Kuja sighed and held out a hand. ”Your gift? I can’t say you haven’t caught my interest.”
[attr=class,bulk] As a work of theater, Kuja found the play to be melodramatic. It followed two love-struck, star-crossed teenagers so overcome by their passions that they led their houses to ruin and committed duel-suicide. It was a tragedy, which he appreciated, but he had the irksome feeling throughout it all that a not insignificant majority of the audience would find it somehow romantic. If the noticeable sniffling of a woman in the row behind him suggested anything, it was that the viewers were meant to relate to these immature morons and somehow feel pity for them. While Kuja could more than support the idea of destroying one’s family line in pursuit of passionate self-interest, it was the suicide that lost him.
Why someone would destroy themselves for the sake of another, he simply couldn’t fathom.
As the theater lights came on, Kuja sighed contentedly and leaned back in his seat, thoughtful with a finger at his lips. It wasn’t the worst play he’d ever seen. The fight choreography was fairly competent, for one, but he simply couldn’t forgive a playwright for centering such loathsome, unintelligent protagonists.
The crowd stood and cheered like the easily swayed masses they were. Mikoto looked at them uncertainly before moving to stand with them. She didn’t clap, however. She’d likely never heard of applause.
Once the ruckus cleared, Kuja joined her and began the long process of filing out of the theater, one row at a time. Mikoto watched him owlishly. Was she waiting for permission to speak?
’Why did two warring worlds pay heed to one human?’
The barrage of thoughts struck him like a migraine, thrust intrusively behind his right temple. ’Is a mother and father simply a creator and master? Is marriage so important? What compelled Romeo and Juliet to such frenzy? They do not have psychic bonds like genomes or does this love connect them similarly? Did you enjoy the play?’
Kuja winced and struggled not to slap her and force her very much out. Instead, he took a breath, calmed himself, and shut down their psychic connection with as delicate a hand as he was capable. ”I’d much prefer you use your words if you don't mind,” he said with just enough bite to make obvious his disdain.
Psychic expression was convenient. It was useful when one wished to communicate beyond the frequencies of Gaian comprehension. It was also hideously invasive, and while her thoughts were nothing like the piercing chill of Garland’s, the association made him itch.
”You see why I’ve found plays to be most instructive as to the nuances of societal culture. They cover a great range of topics, all crafted into themes that color the human experience. I’d suggest you see more of them if you’d like to keep fueling your questions. I suppose I wouldn’t mind joining you.”
He shrugged. ”The play itself was fine. I don’t think it was a hack work, but…” He waved a hand. ”Art is subjective, and I think the cast was comprised entirely of idiots.
”You asked as to the nature of love earlier, did you not? Well, that play offered a general conception of it. To them, it's something maddening and so deeply bonded that once experienced, it would be better to self-destruct than to go without it. Plays are crafted from one’s personal experience and place of bias. There are many who experience love exactly like the characters on stage.”
They’d exited the theater now, and the captive crowd filtered back into the festival in small, excitable groups. Most were discussing the play. A few women were still crying. Kuja drifted far enough to give himself distance from them before he slowed to a stop, arms crossed. He didn’t know what he was feeling, in truth. The theater had been a place of familiarity. The style wasn’t so dissimilar to that of Gaia, and yet…
He felt a dull ache within him.
”It feels strange, doesn’t it?” he asked without turning to her. ”Standing here beneath the night sky, lit by a single moon.” His eyes drifted up to meet it -- silver and lifeless. The ache within him intensified. ”We truly are alone.”
[attr=class,ooc-notes]
[attr=class,tagline]@blacksuit4
I have no idea where Kuja's moods will take him at any given moment.
Kuja had no idea. It seemed a sense of self-preservation was involved now, of course, but would such instincts not yell louder to simply run away? It was obvious that the beast could make no ground here, and it was far more obvious that it was outmatched. So why did it struggle so fiercely against the weight of his spell?
”You know, you could simply turn tail and run. I might even promise not to strike you in the back.” Kuja smiled mockingly though truth be told, he wasn’t exactly in a smiling kind of mood. His plans had been ruined. His miserable morning would last even longer, and it was all the fault of some barely-sentient, half-clothed cat man with a sharp stick.
As the creature shrugged off his magic and stumbled back to its feet, Kuja gave a light sigh behind the back of his hand. ”Why not simply admit defeat?”
His dragon was agitated, more so now that the hideous cat man was on its feet and glaring daggers again. There was something about the stance that must have triggered some kind of animalistic instinct in her, and the dragon was enthusiastic to express it for herself. There was all manner of stomping and flapping and chuffing that Kuja only generally saw when she thought that something might steal her food. Between the monster man’s posturing and his dragon’s snarls, it felt a little like being left out of a conversation spoken entirely in riddles. They were on their own feral wavelength, communicating in primal body language that meant nothing to him.
Kuja was not particularly amused.
The cat man grabbed his spear and made a show of crossing its arms over its chest in a kind of tribal gesture that looked like it was meant to intimidate him but only left him with more questions. Was the creature from some kind of native community, infesting the mountainside? Was this some kind of ritual show of aggression against intruders? Whatever it was trying to prove, it seemed satisfied with itself as it let out a wild roar, baring its elongated fangs similarly to irritable yeti.
Some kind of magic shot from the beast’s core, latched itself onto his silver dragon, and then returned. Far from dealing any serious damage, this magical attack only served to further frenzy his dragon into a full rage. She flapped her wings again, unleashing a cyclone upon the beast that turned the entire clearing into a deadly whirlwind of disorienting color. Kuja grit his teeth and braced himself against the force, hands raised to protect his stinging eyes.
Was she trying to blow them both off the mountain entirely?
”Ava. Calm.”
No matter where he went, it seemed the universe was intent upon obstructing him. Taking a lovely stroll through an art gala? Why not run into an ex-captive! Lending an infant genome money at the shopping center? Here comes a self-righteous princess to accuse him of villainy! Flying to an isolated mountain cliffside to pick flowers?
Have an inexplicably hostile beast man to ruin your day. Truly, the cosmos was endless in its generosity!
”Could you not?” Kuja cast Blind on the cat creature. Followed by Slow and then Sleep just to see what would stick. Most monsters like this one had resistance to such afflictions, but there was something to be said for persistence when one’s only wish was a moment to breathe after being attacked.
[attr=class,bulk] Hilda listened. He wasn’t entirely certain that she would, given his generally derisive tone. She may have asked for his story, but that didn’t mean that she had to accept it, let alone comprehend it. Yet Hilda listened. She sat perched on one of the garden’s stone benches, roughly hewn like a ritualistic altar. Kuja remained standing, head tilted and arms crossed as he barely restrained a scowl.
How strange it was to tell his secrets in the light of day. In public no less! There was something different here from the ethereal, labyrinthine halls of his palace. That had been his space, a place without intrusion or vulnerability, but here in this bustling garden of the arts…
It felt as though anyone could be listening. He fought the urge to glance cautiously towards the skies.
’The Gaians are enemies of Terra, but they are ignorant of such truths. They will fuel the cycle and Terra’s rebirth. If they were to learn of their fate…’
Kuja’s nails dug into the fabric of his sleeve. Hilda was speaking.
She began with a humorous dismantling of his analogy followed by some concessions of understanding. She thanked him of all the things for ‘taking the time to indulge her.’ Truly, she was a diplomat through and through, a woman whose only power stemmed from words and status. It wasn’t a terrible strategy if she intended to keep his attention long enough to sway him to other matters.
Lies, truth, and secrets. What did any of it matter now? Even if they weren’t both stranded on this unfamiliar planet, Gaia had already broken the yokes of its master. Terra’s plan had failed. Five thousand years of work wasted, a long-dormant population of souls extinguished in a single moment of passion at the hands of a broken tool.
Garland had called him a defect. His soul was defective. Because he was unstable. Because he’d never unlocked the secrets of Trance.
Kuja scoffed at Hilda’s protests. ”Miracles, malfunctions, it’s all the same,” he said. ”The Black Mages weren’t meant to gain souls, and yet they did. Gaia’s atmosphere is far more spiritual rich than that of Terra’s, and their make was far shoddier than any genome. Souls naturally seek a host. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, Gaian souls would come to inhabit the mages at a rate of approximately one per every two hundred produced. An acceptable margin of error given their purpose.”
Miracles were merely a phenomena proclaimed by those too ignorant and incurious to imagine a rational cause. Though it seemed Hilda wasn’t incapable of coming to her own conclusions.
”I didn’t mean the genomes with souls. Were you listening?” Kuja pushed back his bangs, flipping them to the side. ”Zidane, Mikoto, and I were the only ones granted such a thing. The rest were nothing more than machines, entirely incapable of their own self-preservation let alone a strong emotional response. Of course I’m better than-”
”Remember that day you returned to the palace gravely injured? You were in quite a foul mood. This creator did that to you, didn’t he?”
”I…”
Kuja trailed off, momentarily stunned. She remembered that? To her, it must have been nothing more than one of his mysterious appearances after he’d left for one reason or another. She’d had no way to comprehend the full scale of the situation even if he’d felt like telling her that Alexandria had fallen -- which of course, he hadn’t. He’d simply stormed into the hall of his palace, heart still racing, knowing that after all of his attempts at power, after all of his devotion to secrecy, that finally his traitorous thoughts had come to light. How long had Garland known what Kuja had been planning? How long had he waited to quell Kuja’s final moment of triumph?
”Your words remind me of another poem,” Hilda went on. True to her nature, Hilda’s recitation was as eloquent as it was apt. ’An angel sole, bewinged, bedight in veil, and drowned in tears.’
Him? In tears? He was as incapable of grief as he was of remorse. He touched his forehead and laughed quietly.
”’Free of cataclysm.’ ‘An agent of assimilation.’” Strange, the words she chose. As though he were some victim in it all. ”I told you, I don’t know. I’ve worked well enough in my craft to make something of a living. I’ve unleashed some horrors upon the world for my own personal gain. But I lack, well…” His lips turned in an ironic smile. ”Purpose, I suppose.”
Purpose. How he hated the word! It had been ingrained in him from his moment of awakening. The reason for his creation. The sole meaning of his existence.
”Whether I sought to pursue or defy it, it always hung above my head with its hateful smile! Now it’s all meaningless! What am I supposed to…?” Kuja stopped and closed his eyes, laughing louder. ”Why am I telling you any of this?”
[attr=class,ooc-notes]
[attr=class,tagline]@ladyhilda
Holy shit, he's being honest. Out loud. Miracles really do exist.
[attr=class,bulk] The creature dodged his lightning.
He dodged it.
Kuja didn’t know that was possible. Not with his magic and not with his spells. It would have taken some kind of illogical combination of animal senses and practice to sense the lightning strike before it came, and to know the exact maneuver and timing to avoid what was already laser targeted. Which wasn’t exactly practical. Who on earth could practice such a thing?
Yet, unmistakably, the beast bounded out of the way, and as the blinding light cleared and the echoing thunder rattled in the earth, Kuja saw in its place nothing but a circle of burned and ruined flowers.
He felt his tail bristle irritably. This was already more trouble than it was worth.
The beast kept running about, circling them with narrowed eyes, searching for some opening or another. Kuja wasn’t about to give it to him. Between Ava’s powerful wingbeats and Kuja’s flippant magical strikes, the once pristine mountain cliffside was a complete chaos of scattered petals and singed grass. He’d have to find another clearing to search, and that sounded miserable when he was already half-shivering in the alpine chill.
”Would you stay still and die already?” Kuja’s eyes narrowed. If he couldn’t end this in a single well-aimed spell then a little more destruction might be necessary. Even if he didn’t quite care for the idea of making this last longer.
Kuja gathered magic to his hand. It was of a different kind now. No longer sharp and biting, this was a slower kind of magic -- dark and pervasive. Kuja summoned it from the depths of his own malice and, once it had taken shape, unleashed it upon the creature before him.
It burst in a quiet sphere around his prey, slow and crackling and heavy with its own necrotic energy. Demi. It would seize all within its grasp in its own gravitational pull, suffocating them. How could one escape that which pulled them back?
She had no idea what she was talking about. She had no idea what she was asking. Her thoughts, though laced with judgment and accusation, were entirely void of basis. Kuja listened and then he laughed, bitter and dry, as he ran a hand through his bangs and flicked them back behind his ear. Why did such talk make him feel so sardonic?
”You wouldn’t understand,” he said, and then before she could object, ”Or rather, you couldn’t. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you were tasked with the job of explaining the complex workings of your husband’s engineering to the dwarves of Condie Petie. These dwarves, by the way, have never seen technology more complex than their own spears. They live on the Outer Continent and don’t know what a city is either. Or your tools, equipment, culture…” Kuja waved a hand. ”You could take days explaining what they could never grasp without witnessing it firsthand, but you’d probably lose patience and tell them your husband’s machines were alive instead.”
Kuja took a long drink of his wine. That was a mistake. Champagne was meant to be sipped and savored, and he felt the carbonation fizz unpleasantly in his throat. It didn’t matter.
”Terra exists within Gaia.” Using simple language like that made him sound crazy. It wasn’t the first time, and he had no doubts that she would try to conceptualize the idea using physical space rather than dimensional approximates.
Still, she’d asked, hadn’t she? Why not humor her?
”The planet itself is a kind of interstellar parasite. In order to prolong its own life, it seeks out the core of developing planets and fuses with them, merging the two into one and eradicating all life from the host. Five thousand years ago, it stood once again on the brink of ruin, but there were no optimal hosts to be found. Gaia was too developed for the process, but out of desperation, they attempted Fusion anyway. The failure laid waste to what was left of the Terran population and trapped the planet within Gaia’s sphere.
”A planet’s core is its crystal, and it works to siphon and cycle the souls of the dead into new life. Within Gaia’s sphere, Terra is blocked from sunlight and is instead assaulted by the blue light of Gaia’s crystal.” Kuja tilted his head to the side, sighing. ”Does that make sense?”
Of course it wouldn’t. But after he’d so condescended to her, would Hilda dare say as much?
”When I spoke of the living, I meant natural life. The fungi. The monsters. All life stemming from a weakened crystal, born through natural means. If Terra’s stasis were to end, they would require more energy than the planet could provide and so would die.
”But I am not natural. My body does not metabolize the same way as yours. I am ageless.”
Not immortal. No, he was very capable of death, and was in fact destined for it the same as any Gaian. But he wouldn’t wither the same way. He would never grow old.
”Gaia was a doomed planet. Terra had been parasitizing it for five thousand years, and the time of a successful assimilation was close at hand. Neither was exactly ’grand.’ I only wished to survive the cataclysm.” Kuja shrugged. ”That involved killing my creator, and that was why I sought power. You speak of life and loss, but at the time of its destruction, the only sentient beings on that planet were myself, my creator, and Zidane’s merry band of idiots. Also Mikoto, I suppose, though I had no idea she existed.”
Something he had made clear time and time again whenever Mikoto claimed he’d freed her of her purpose. She didn’t seem to care if he’d lacked any kind of selfless intent. It was maddening.
”You’re familiar with my black mages.” It wasn’t a question. She’d lived with him, after all. ”They are artificially created. They are capable of action and autonomous decision making, but barring a rare malfunction, they lack true sentience. Their internal processes are more like-” He almost said ’computers’ before remembering his current audience. ”Like machines. To an inexperienced dwarf, your husband’s airships might seem alive, but you know that its movement is due to nothing more than a complex series of mechanical interactions. The same can be said of most mages.
”I am a genome,” he said. ”I was created as I am. My body is artificial. I was granted a soul so that I might act as my creator’s agent on Gaia and hasten the planets’ assimilation, but I was the only one. Then Zidane. Then Mikoto.” He drank again. He wished for something stronger.
”You ask if the other life there felt loss. When Lindblum was razed, did your airship feel loss for its home? It’s impossible to say, I suppose, but one can make an educated guess.”
No matter how others might try to moralize with him over their lives, no matter how Mikoto tried to assign the hollow genomes personhood, they were nothing more than objects in the end to be disposed of without pity.
He smirked. ”Quite the topic for light conversation, isn’t it?”
[attr=class,ooc-notes]
[attr=class,tagline]@ladyhilda
The danger of getting Kuja started on something he cares about
