#germonique

The Zeirchele River was known for its raw power; fed by the snow and rain from the Algost mountains, the tallest and most weather-beaten peaks in Ivalice, the river was too wild for water transport. Almost its entire length was riddled with rapids, creating a near impossible border to cross; there were only a handful of passable fords.

The river was one of two that served as natural defenses for Fort Besselat. From Mount Germinas to the east came the Dorvauldar—though a calmer river, it made up its difference in size, a wide, deep river that had once fed Lake Poescas, but now traveled uninterrupted across Zeltennia and Limberry, dividing them in twain, before reaching the sluices at Besselat and draining into the Dorvauldar Marsh. To reach the isolated Besselat, you must cross the well-guarded dam to the east, or cross the Zeirchele to the west.

While most came to Besselat via the Bethla Causeway, which crossed the river directly at the fortress, the group had agreed that Delita could not dare show himself there with the princess. The causeway, a broad stone bridge that passed the fortress on its southern side, was a taxed crossing. While King Denamda IV had instituted the tax under the pretenses of keeping Besselat's upkeep, it was largely a defensive measure – inspections were commonplace. Even with the fortress likely being Delita's goal, Duke Goltanna could not accept the princess into Besselat publicly without announcing himself as party to the plot. More likely instead that he would travel north to the falls and Germonique's Crossing.

And she was so tired. She fought with love, and saw truth and beauty in the faces of those she witnessed, in the struggles for freedom, freedom was all any of them ever, ever sought, she was emboldened, but so tired.

Her hand yet held, but she felt so heavy.

They marched her, Ajora, through the streets to Golgollada, and she was so tired. For a moment she was Orran, instead, and she started to cry. But the gallows grew closer, and she would not let them break her at the end. She’d not let Germonique see her weep.

“You can stop this,” she whispered.

“Why would I?” asked Ajora.

“I speak not to you,” she said, “But the woman you wear; I know she lingers still; she was stronger than I, you’ve proven that time and again.”

“We are the same.” Ultima’s voice was soft, like falling feathers.

“You are not.” She shook her head as the noose was lowered around her neck. “You shared a common pain, but I do not. You seek to make our cause common, but what you show to me is not a truth of value.”

“My power cannot be resisted forever,” said Ultima, and Alma offered a weak smile as the rope pulled taut.

“You gave that power to me.” And she refused to let the Mist burn.

The experience of being hanged. It is not a quick break of the neck; it is an agonized, slow strangulation, feet struggling to find purchase, the world hazing as it contracts to a single flickering dot. It is unlike anything else. Each part of her goes numb in turn as the blood ceases flow... it feels like turning to air. To Mist.

And for a moment, she thinks that she’s made a mistake, that this fallen angel has been right, that she is yet another woman self-sacrificed to keep the wheel turning.

But her hand holds.

Her hand holds.

 ...to wit, a spy of sorts - disseminating information across a network of underground sympathisers and empire antagonists. Rather than a child of the Gods it would be safer to call 'Saint Ajora' a kind of well-intentioned terrorist.

 Doubtless he knew what his underlings were doing with that information though he studiously kept his own hands clean. I am all too aware of how it works - deniable assets - gold leaving trails - a dangerous business.

 Of course they trusted the small man in a holy man's robes. And now they idolise him. I can only hope this book isn't suppressed before it's too late. 

 Mayhap I must become a martyr to unmake a martyr.

 The taught rope is merciful as a broken neck. Below the gallows a pendulous body does not bleed. Germonique shuts his eyes, slowly.

 "He's dead," he says, to no-one, though of course Zomal is listening. Before the magnitude or even flavour of his emotions (relief? loss? guilt? loathing?) can solidify, the power held in that small body hammers at any Mage or Viera present for a dozen miles.

 Something screams and the Mist curdles, goes rancid. Besides him, Mrja gasps and, with the grace of a Viera, buckles to the floor.

 Germonique can taste it in the boiling Mist. Her rage. Her loss. Altima.

"Your vainglorious godling... she rages," Zomal offers. The voice scratches at the back of his mind. "Your 'Great Crystal'."

 Zomal feels Germonique's ripple of understanding and leaves the sentence there, its alien intelligence probing the surroundings. The Blood-Glyph on Germonique's chest prickles as it always does with the Time God's subtle threat.

 Some moments print themselves like coins on the malleable gold of a young mind. Later others may come and try to strike a different face into that surface - but it cannot be done. All that remains are confused ridges, malformed mountains of doubt and frustration. 

 Germonique feels he has been moulded a hundred times by now. He has been hammered flat, to start anew. All he looks for is a seal, wandering empty-handed into an abyss of time and freedom. 

 The first was an unclean blow, unskilled. Half the seal on the coin, the other half in emptiness. The rest in him blank, cut off by the edge of the design like teeth. That was what he felt like. Half-formed, unloved, destined for smelting. Assimilation. He would press the cross against his mouth, feeling it cut his lips. He would do it because it felt more like control than what the Church would normally have him do.

 Sinner, they had called him, false-seed. Get of two priests, sin made flesh, a punishment for them. Rather than cleanse themselves, they cleansed him.

 Dark spaces like cupboard or wombs; he cannot abide them now. Vulnerable like an idiot fawn they make him feel, dizzy and boneless. Germonique needs open skies, clouds, spice-smells, rain or grit or blood, anything but that.

 He was 'Sicar' then. More a dog's tag than a name.

 Next a hail of circumstances, which he emerged from with more blades than made sense. A bandoleer of them at his hip, two swords he rarely took with him. Trained in the ways of the travelers from the East in somes ways, as a mage in others. Adept at neither, not yet. 

 Even later, a mage not aware that he would become legendary for it - even then his Magicks were exceptional only because of their origin. Of the standard Grimoires he knew little. Time Magicks, mostly. With them his blades struck one after the other before his opponent could so much as twitch.

 He considered many things, even the sky, but he was bad with machinery and worse at dealing with Moogles. A short-haired Viera told him where home was - nowhere. 

 Not yet, he thought. Not until these foundations are in ashes, and I am free. 

 He was known as Rozzarian, because of his skin. In truth, only his Mother was. 

 And then - ash. They burned them with his books. Mother, Father. Just words. Like bitch or whelp, they meant blood and blood alone. All he remember of her now is the smell of smoke, the stubborn way she tried not to scream until the very end. 

 He cut his hair, he walked, he kept walking. 

 And then the Saint. He should have killed him earlier than he did. Saved the world and himself the pain of a pretty corpse and a martyr. 

 Even when he was in front of the bars between that man and the gallows, he called him 'Aji'. 

 In the storm that followed he wrote a book, a book that would last longer than his 'eternal soul'. Eaten by a mad God, jealous of unworldly secrets. Blind now, his feet walk, but the mind does not. 

 Now he is timeless like Zomal. 

  (write for) 15 minutes * unreliable or confused character *

taking off your mask

When your mask has become your face - when your face, I

mean, deprived of light has some way atrophied - when the

mask is removed will we be bloody, or will our pale effigies

have outgrown?

If I take it off, will I die or be free - both? The mask

perhaps is the shadow on my face, perhaps it is - it is -

maybe indifference, to be sure, or quiet-speaking, maybe...

that is... I am so lost and alone...

Blood... perhaps the mask is off already. I have been...

flayed through I am pierced through only once. Maybe

twice...

He thinks I am dead or maskless, so pale I am that dark-

kept shoot... bloodless and wan... the portal is broken and

with it my strength; my head drops. I am unmasked and dying,

that I know. Do I think like a lunatic or only more clearly

than before?

I smell blood - mine or others' or Ivalice's - I feel -

panic - or comfort - or confusion - maybe pain,

melancholy... Because I can smell the incense, a Church-

musk, that always came with him. On my clothes... as likely

on my skin, like bleeding.

I think of Hell as darkness or fire or ice or turbulence...

I think of Hell as anything for it does not matter... only

that I am unmasked, that too is Hell, I go there - it's dark

- even Ralseph - I am not afraid any more

too tired i

waited for this

it is where i belong is it not

sleep

(write for) 10 minutes * journal entry * know you better

...to wit, a spy of sorts - disseminating information

across a network of underground sympathisers and empire

antagonists. Rather than a child of the Gods it would be

safer to call 'Saint Ajora' a kind of well-intentioned

terrorist.

Doubtless he knew what his underlings were doing with that

information though he studiously kept his own hands clean. I

am all too aware of how it works - deniable assets - gold

leaving trails - a dangerous business.

Of course they trusted the small man in a holy man's robes.

And now they idolise it. I can only hope this book isn't

suppressed before it's too late.

Mayhap I must become a martyr to unmake a martyr.

(You know I knew you better than anyone. We were the only

ones who could bear to see each other how we truly were...

and yet you still remained. You may as well have knotted

that noose yourself. Now look what I have wrought... I

warned you, Aji.)

1000+ words * male character * last request

It's a sunny day and it reminds him of escape. The breeze

is cool, the sun hot, all around the glass languishes, but

peacefully. Summer, his favourite season, a time of joyous

excess and coming open. He turns his face to the wind and

feels it blow through his hair.

Today is not a day he wanted to happen. Either today he or

she will feed the earth with their blood or, to save

themselves, they must become the monsters they swore they

would not. He can hear them coming, faintly. More he can

smell them on the breeze like an animal: their sweat, their

trepidation, the blood from her bandaged cut. A man and a

woman. She smells familiar, in a way. He knows her but can't

identify her from smell alone.

Her green hood even in the heat tips him off, visible over

yellow grass. They seem tired, not quite afraid. Proud.

These are monsters that are fearsome, they must think,

monsters that can be beaten. Monsters that killed her

brother and stole his sister.

A monster he became for her... and would do so again. Hell

is no sacrifice.

"They're coming, bird," he says quietly, though she's

already looking. They'll take a while and, sure, they could

run again. Take off like hind and hart, keep running. Chased

across Ivalice - but what life is that? Maybe they fear

pursuit or maybe they are simply too proud of tired, too

battered and hurt and too unwilling to risk separation. They

fall together, one way or another. Without a word he takes

her hand, presses her knuckles to his lips with a smile.

Despite the power in her stone her hand is on her blade. He

wonders if she'll prove Hume until the last, or not. He

doubts he can. Not if she's hurt.

When they crest the hill, he can see how tired they are -

the blonde-haired young man, younger than him, and the woman

their age with her father's grim strength but none of the

cruelty.

He bows because, well, they are worthy adversaries. Ma

taught him well; he'd rather die a gentleman.

They fight too fast to follow - clash - sword - parry - man

on man and woman on woman but - he is no warrior, though the

daemon is - he is no warrior and the spear pierces his chest

with an alien feeling. Body-rending... the ultimate. He

understands that he is dead, that is is the daemon that

holds him, that threatens to remake him, fight back, fight

harder.

But she - she bloodied and torn, her armour - she is still

beautiful, and on her knees still Hume, and when she looks

at him he only smiles and ignoring the blood on his mouth he

says,

"Find me."

drabble (100 words) * mystery * blinded by the light

The workings of the world are a mystery to me, as they are

to all Humes. The Father did not see fit in the making of

the world to grant us omniscience - because we must

discover, struggle, and feel the light of understanding for

ourselves. It is a privilege and a reward, not a right. it

is the outcome of a man's years of struggling on this plane.

This is what I have been told all my life, I have preached

for years, I have read in countless books and heard from

numberless mouths. It is a truth that is without name and it

should be part of me: the Father knows.

It's what I said to the undead horde. These cultists and

shambling wrecks I despise and - I admit - fear. I fear

their fate. Their power.

Without questioning, I served you, Father. But blinded by

the light, I have fallen into the Dark.

(write for) 25 minutes * unreliable or confused character *

start a fire

As above, so below. As begun, so ended. Fire is the spark

of life but a jealous master... stolen from the Gods it was

and so it envies us. It is the quickest route back to the

cycle of souls. One spark among thousands as the body burns

to ash.

I - am - confused. I am not sure what I expected to feel.

Father repented, and the mercy for such is a throttling...

not to feel the cleansing flames on the treacherous body.

But Mother -

Do I still hear her scream? Or do they burn only in my

memory? Was it only in my dreams that I wipe their ash from

the lines of my face - in my wishes that I feel guilt, or

sadness - or pride, or loathing? I feel nothing. Looking in

the fire I saw with great clarity and only with my eyes.

Red, orange, white, brown, blood, the way her hair fell in

her face, the kindling mercifully dry, the blue sky, a kite

swooping past. I could have seen the lines of the wind

itself if I chose to... I swear I could.

I bury in ash everything they held dear. They call me

'Judas', but I am Germonique.

(write for) 10 minutes * conflict * devotion

Devotion - it is a word like love, but not quite. Purer,

maybe, than love. But better - stronger - weaker? Does one

follow the other?

Perhaps not. Devotion could be said to be like need. A need

to need, or be needed. A need to do anything for someone,

perhaps to prove you are alive.

You - you know you are a damned fool. That you are knocking

your head against circumstance and wondering why you bruise

- walking into the den of the lion, knowing he is hungry,

knowing that one cannot live while the other survives.

But you do it, perhaps, because you are cold. You do it

because you are sick inside and you crave the claws. You do

it because being ripped apart is what you desire but your

pride and your cowardice would not let you do so.

Maybe you are devoted because you wish to end with purpose.

Or, you think, as you watch the way he moves, perhaps you

are devoted because you love him the only way a broken man

Our version of the Cataclysm started with Venat's passing. The Occuria lost influence in Ivalice, and the Great Crystal's power began to wane. Myst continued to leak from it, but it wasn't being replaced. It weakened over the next century, very gradually.

As well as this, the Empire shackled its scientists somewhat, and technological advances slowed and, as such, Ivalice began to stagnate.

It was with Ajora's death that things got worse. We propose that Giruvegan is within what was later named the continent of Mullonde. In a fit of rage the High Seraph used her influence on the weakened Great Crystal (she is after all found in it) to detonate it, wiping out Giruvegan and, with it, a large portion of the continent. Here Zomal intervened on his vessel's behalf, trapping part of Mullonde to save it from the blast. Airships overhead fell abruptly, creating the graveyard, and the place became time-locked, and still is. Germonique who was, of course, spared by this, made a portal to get out. The scar of powerful magicks left on the other side is within Orbonne. So he escaped to write the Scriptures, and the incantation he used to escape. Meanwhile, the rest of Mullonde fell into the hole left by the explosion (you saw what the Sun-cryst did!). All that remained was miles of ocean and a strange, myst-ravanged tower over a great, black hole – the scar of Giruvegan, which would become Midlight's Deep.

With the myst gone, technologies failed. Airships gradually ceased to work. The myst-starved Viera began to die out, and over time, the Cataclysm took all but the Humes. From this the Church of Glabados led the Humes, rewriting history as it chose. The ignorant Humes, without technologies or strong magicks, were kept from advancing by a Church who wanted power over them. And into that situation was Ramza born.

(This all makes a lot more sense if you know my version of Germonique, which Ashy convinced me to write up:)

Someone should take my tablet away.