1. Prologue

****This is my first attempt at a fanfic, based on Final Fantasy Tactics A2, obviously. I haven't completed the game, and I also haven't played in a while, so bear with me on new chapters.

Strap in for the prologue.

Legal Disclaimer: All characters, elements, settings, etc. are the properties of their respective owners, though I have put my own spin on some of the elements of the game

**Prologue- Crisis Point**

The nu mou waddled down the hallway as quickly as he dared. With night already upon the land, the entire building was quiet, and hasty footsteps would only disturb the peaceful sleep of others. The restless flame of the torch in hand cast flickering shadows over the stone walls as he moved by, weaving through the maze of corridors with the ease of knowledge. A large, dusty tome was nestled in the crook of his right arm: a bit of reading for a vain attempt at easing his mind. Unfortunately, there would be no peaceful respite for Aldous. There hadn't been for some time. There had been a time, perhaps a hundred years ago or more, when he would have been able to rest easily, but those days were no more. Ever since the new "arrivals" to Ivalice, there had been seemingly no end to his problems. Even though the two humes had arrived several hundreds of years apart, it seemed that they had both managed to cause trouble when they arrived. Marche. Luso. Those were their names. Names recorded and passed into legend. They had both been humes, both claiming to be from a different dimension, and looking to return home. By raising powerful clans, they had been able to do just that, and inadvertently became legends along the way. Yet they had both challenged normal conventions, pushed the envelope, if you will. It simply wasn't enough for them to find a way back home. They took on the government, the system of judging itself, and won. And therein lay the problem: there weren't supposed to be winners.

Not winners on this scale. Clans could win engagements, amass territories, gather resources, and perform jobs all they wanted, but the system was designed to keep them in check. Ancient magic worked into Ivalice's constitution had laid the groundwork. Numerous archmages and scholars had simply adjusted and finished the job, yet the premise was simple: follow the laws of the land, and you will not die. No one could remember a time when a thing such as death in battle existed, because it never had. The laws had been made, the first clans were established, and that was that. The government took over to perfect the system, police the clans. Eventually, more rules had been instituted to prevent needless engagements and senseless bloodshed. The laws had been made stricter to prevent excessive violence. How could it have all gone to hell? How could the system have failed? No matter how many times he thought about it, Aldous couldn't figure out how exactly it had happened. It started off small, and then escalated fiercely and swiftly. No one knew what had happened until it happened, and by then it was chaos: riots in the cities and wars everywhere else. Bloodshed, race riots, and rampant destruction had ruled Ivalice for some time. In a way, they still did. After all, without the laws it was only a matter of time until the next incident. The next fight. The next death.

So lost in thought was he, the nu mou almost didn't realize that he had reached his destination. Pushing open the heavy oak door, he waddled forward into the room. A small fire blazed in the hearth of the airy chamber. A large, rectangular window on the far side of the room let in the night air and gave a beautiful view of the sky and stars. Aside from that, the room was fairly plain: there was a circular table and chairs, a few tapestries here and there, and a large rug placed in the middle of the room. A gift from the merchants of Graszton Seaways, procured from some eastern land. It was a pretty thing, though a bit worn from age, but still it served for decoration and a bit of comfort. A large bookcase graced the wall near the fireplace, and it was here that Aldous went first. He put the book in a gap between two others, and made his way to the window. A dark figure stood on the balcony outside, facing away from the nu mou and looking out over the sea. Suddenly the nu mou was very nervous. Even with his face turned away, the king made an imposing figure.

"Sire?"

The king turned suddenly at the voice.

"Ah, Aldous. I've been expecting you. What news?"

The king's voice sounded as weary as Aldous felt.

"More of the same sire. The registered clans called Rookwood and Highmoon have been eradicated. The Bangaa Brotherhood destroyed Highmoon. Monsters claimed Rookwood."

The king remained stoic, but the concern was etched across his face: although still fairly young by hume standards, the king looked about thirty years too old for his age. Numerous lines stretched across his face, a haggard beard grew about his mouth, and his hair was going prematurely white in several places. Still, he was a tall man and powerfully built, easily towering over Aldous even when not on his throne. Even in a simple nightshirt and breeches, he looked quite regal.

"We have also had a messenger from the Bisga Greenlands about outlaw clans. Since they are unable to assimilate into any of the more powerful clans, numerous smaller clans have formed raiding parties and taken to the wilderness. They harass travelers and take what supplies they need to survive. Often they kill travelers from other clans as well. There have been more reports of the same from the Rupie Mountains and the Tramdine Fens."

The king's jaw clenched. In fact, it seemed that his entire body clenched with unspoken rage and frustration.

"This is madness, Aldous." he said angrily. "If these were the early days, I could simply tell the judges to crack down….."

The king trailed off.

"T-the judges are no more, Your Grace."

The king snorted derisively.

"I know that Aldous. All too well." He turned towards the nu mou now, an intense look glittering in his eyes as he placed two strong hands on Aldous's shoulders. "But have you found what I asked you to look for?"

"Y-y-yes, Sire." Aldous swallowed noisily, clearly nervous. "Are you sure it's the only way? It seems a bit…. extreme."

"The situation calls for nothing if not extremity, Aldous." the king remarked gravely. "These years have been dark and bleak and full of death. The clans suffer, the land suffers, and I suffer. But the people suffer the most."

There was a long pause.

"This must be done." he concluded as he turned away again. It was clear that the decision pained him, but there was no other way. At least not that he could see.

"Take as many of the palace guards as you need along with you, Aldous. You will have need of them, I'm sure."

"But, sire-"

"Do not question me in this, Aldous. It matters not what happens to me, so long as your mission is successful. A king is replaceable, but his kingdom is decidedly less so. If they come, I will fight. And most likely die, but you must not. Unless you complete this task, Ivalice will fall into utter ruin."

Aldous was quiet for a moment, biting back what words he would have said. "I…. I will….. do as you command, Sire."

"See that you do, Aldous. You have been a faithful servant to me over the years. This is likely the last order I will give to you as king."

The king crouched down now, placed his hands once again on Aldous's shoulders, and looked him directly in the eyes. The urgency that had not been in his voice was in his eyes, and he spoke very clearly, without hesitation.

"Destroy the clans, Aldous. All of them. There is no other choice."


	2. Strange New World

**Chapter 1- Hunting Clan Weyrwood: Royce**

**Targ Wood**

**16****th**** Goldsun**

It was not yet dawn, but Royce was up. Bow in hand, he kept low to the ground and downwind, moving as swiftly and silently as he dared. The night had been cool. Almost uncomfortably so, but after wrapping up in a Blaze Robe, the chill had abated. If he had been able to light a fire, he would have done so, but fire would most likely scare his prey. Or warn of his advancement. Either way, he hadn't lit the fire, and had spent the cold night on the ground huddled beneath the warmth of the robe. It wasn't the worst way to spend a night, and there were far more inhospitable places in Ivalice than Targ Wood. His experience on the Rupie Mountains came to mind almost immediately, causing an involuntary shiver to travel through Royce's body as he continued to pick his way through the forest. Just one three-day hunt amidst the snow-capped mountains' peaks had been enough for Royce to request for his clan leader never to send him there again.

_Felt more like three weeks…_ he recalled, remembering the hard ground, slick with patches of ice and covered in snow and filled with some hapless Ranger's trapping glyphs. The game had been easy to follow until the snow started falling and covering the tracks, and then they had had to rely on some ancient, tottering beastmaster and his kennel of dogs to track the animals and find the scent. The worst part, though, was the wind: bitter cold and filled with snow, bits of ice, and occasionally hail. It had buffeted them constantly as they worked and driven right through all layers of clothing. All the Blaze Robes in Ivalice couldn't protect you from the winds of the Rupies. Or so the legends said. Eventually, they had caught something: a good old-fashioned sickness. Near everyone who went on the hunt came back with a debilitating cold, and no game to show for it. Royce himself had spent a good couple of days laying abed and feeling terrible. It was a good thing Royce would never have to worry about that again. Just one Blaze Robe worked great in Targ Wood.

The first pale streams of morning light began to bring color to the woods around him as Royce crested over a small hill, and came upon what he had been hunting for the past few days: a magnificent stag, with a head of massive, beautiful antlers that could impale a man with one sure stroke. Those antlers would probably make a fine bow, or even better, a trophy to show off to his clanmates. Perhaps that would get them to give him a bit more respect. Even though he was one of Weyrwood's senior members, he got precious little recognition. After the disaster of a hunt in the Rupie Mountains, they had made jests behind his back. Insults about his leadership ability and toughness were bandied about by even the greenest members of Weyrwood, and some of the bolder members had made not-so-veiled mockeries of his sickness upon returning. Royce was not as young as he had been, and had taken the longest to recover out of all those who had gone, but even so the disaster that had been the Rupie Mountains had eroded the guildmaster's trust in him. Most of his jobs nowadays consisted of hunting down Dreamhares and tomato stalks for some farmer to put in his soup for dinner or finding some woman's brooch that she had lost in the darkness of the wood. Such things were beneath him: a waste of his skill as a hunter. Royce hadn't been put on a real assignment in years, yet others who joined after him were chasing after wyrms in the Aldanna Range or hunting after unicorns near the Ruins of Delgantua. Still others were tasked with clearing areas besieged by monsters near the Tramdine Fens or the Galerria Deep in order to aid excavations or research or whatever other bullshit there was for such things. And here was Royce, on a job he had created for himself. There was no client, no posting in the pub, no reward save for his own satisfaction of the stag mounted above his mantle at home or his new bow, fashioned from the horns and strung with the taut black thread he had found the other day. Truthfully, anything would be better than the simple wooden Longbow in his hands. He had had it for years, but had grown tired of it. He wanted something better, something more worthy of him. He would show them, all of them who had laughed at him, or called him old or "washed-up". They would soon have their youthful pride crammed right back down their throats. Driven by the thought, Royce reached over his shoulder for an arrow and nocked it to the bowstring, keeping eyes on his target as he did.

A slight breeze kicked up from behind him as he raised the bow, and drew back the string to his ear, waiting. Royce lined the arrow up to the stag's neck, every muscle in his body tensed with anticipation. A clean shot to the windpipe would put it down for the count, and would be a lot easier than trying to get an arrow into its head and through the skull. Royce was a fair shot with a bow, but he didn't fancy his chances of hitting it in the head. The neck, at least, was a bigger target, and equally as apt to fell the animal. If he tried for the body, it would only serve to the stag as it ran, and the legs were much the same, and even skinnier targets. No, it had to be the neck. And it had to be done perfectly. Suddenly, the breeze abated Royce loosed, letting arrow fly. There was a soft thrumming sound as the arrow left the bow and cut through the air, taking the stag in the throat unawares as it perked its head up from grazing for some unknown reason. The sudden pain caused it to loose a sharp cry, but it soon fell, blood pooling around its lifeless body. Royce waited for a few moments before moving out to the body.

Drawing a knife from his belt, he set to work quickly and began to skin the animal with practiced ease. He had to work quickly here, or the scent would bring in unwelcome creatures. Wolves and beknamys would be the first to appear, as they were carnivorous. There would be more, though. Royce had seen pretty much all of them: flans, lamias, werewolves, whatever. If you could name it, chances were he had seen it and killed it. They were all the same, really: creatures born from normal animals reacting to the Mist. The properties of Mist mutated them, changed them into the things that now stalked people and sometimes terrorized travelers or towns. Royce had even heard stories of dead bodies reanimated by the Mist, and accompanied by ghosts, appearing in Galerria and the Fens. He had never seen them himself, of course, but he also didn't doubt they were real, considering what had become of the normal animals in Ivalice. Stags and other deer such as these were almost rare nowadays, what with monsters eating them and other sentient beings hunting them. It was probably only a matter of time before those nutjobs in Graszton adopted a "Save-the-Deer" campaign similar to the "Save-the-Monsters" campaign they had when the things had first started appearing. Royce chuckled softly. They sure weren't campaigning to save monsters now.

The hunter's gloves were soon soaked through with blood, and his arms and legs were burning from the effort of skinning. In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea to hunt this stag alone, considering it would be easier and much safer to skin and clean the thing in town rather than here. _Why didn't Shiva come again?_ he mused, trying to reflect back on what his Gria partner-in-crime had given as her reason for not accompanying him.

_"I have to take care of a personal matter. Sorry, Royce."_

_"Ah, whatever. I work better alone."_

Perhaps next time he invited her on a hunt, he would drop the tough guy act.

The skin was halfway off, but Royce had to stop. The burning in his legs had only intensified and his arms and shoulders had also tired. Straightening up, he stretched a bit, taking in the sight of the forest around him coming to life in vivid color. The verdant green of the grass and leaves stretched out all around him, accompanied by the rich earthy tones of the ground and the tree trunks. Here and there colorful flowers dotted the forest floor, and occasionally a small animal could be seen scurrying across the floor. Sunlight drifted down through the gaps in the leaves overhead, still trying to fully illuminate the forest. It was still fairly early in the morning, but Royce wanted to get back to the pub and enjoy a good meal. He could even give the cook some of the stag's meat for stew. First, he would finish removing the skin, though. Then, perhaps, he could drag the body close enough to the town to find someone to help him carry it. More than likely, though, he would have to carve off a few slices of meat and leave the rest for the monsters. He was deep into the wilderness, far from the town by foot, and even farther when dragging a dead deer. Grumbling at his oversight, Royce crouched down and set back to work.

A slight rustling of the bushes behind him made his ears perk up, but he dismissed it as a slight breeze through the trees. Only when he heard the sound of twigs snapping did Royce turn around sharply to see the source of the noise: a man, about a head taller than Royce, with greyish skin and white wisps of hair on his head. Clothes hung from him in tatters, decaying and falling apart, and his eyes were a glowing green. He moved with a swaying lurch, almost staggering through the undergrowth. Royce knew what he was looking at almost instantly. Immediately, he was on his feet, springing away as the corpse swiped at him. Its nails raked across his arm as he fled, but he paid the shallow wound no mind, focusing instead on putting as much distance between himself and the thing as possible. Back across the hill he flew, stumbling a bit over the ground as he ran. The lay of the land was forgotten in his haste. Where once steps had been steady and sure, they were now panicked and quick, catching roots and divots in the ground as Royce hastened to be away from the creature.

The hunter did not make it very far before a strange something drifted out of the trees directly in front of him. It was a pale, whispery thing, but it moved through trees and over the ground as if they weren't there. It had no feet, and a mockery of a face: three eyes arranged in a vertical line, each burning blood red as they stared at him. Something like a brown robe billowed out where its torso should have been, suggesting it might have once been a hume or some other living creature, but no longer. The sky seemed to darken and a sudden chill crept over Royce as it approached, growing stronger as the wraith moved closer and closer. He tried to change directions, but tripped over a root, going down before the specter. Backpedaling on hands and feet, he tried to escape, but the wraith was behind him immediately, reaching out with clawed, cold hands. The hunter's blood ran ice cold. His thoughts flashed back to the harsh chill of the Rupie Mountains involuntarily as the thing's hand slid past his vest and into his body as if they were made of air.

_Even they weren't this cold… _was Royce's last thought before the world went black.


	3. Prelude to Conflict

**Chapter 2: The Bangaa Brotherhood- Banthar**

**Graszton- City of Graszton**

**20****th**** Goldsun**

"Banthar. You are needed."

The aforementioned bangaa stirred beneath his covers, turning into the harsh glare of the sunlight. A scaly arm instinctively rose to shield sensitive eyes from the sun. Next to him, the nude Gria stirred slightly, but merely rolled over and continued to slumber. Banthar squinted up at the armor-clad figure standing over his bed. Uttering a low growl, he rolled over to place his feet on the floor and reached for a pitcher on a side table. The cool water was refreshing, especially in the heat of Goldsun. Even for the summer, though, the recent heat wave had been unprecedented, and had restricted the large majority of the Graszton citizenry to their homes. Even though it was before noon, Banthar could already feel the temperature in the room rising, warming the reddish-orange scales on his body. Finally pushing himself away from the bed, he moved to a nearby chest and drew out a flowing, white robe. Pulling the robe over his head, he questioned the messenger.

"Why has Drex sssent you, Hursssst? Are you a messenger boy now, inssstead of bodyguard?"

It pleased him to see the Defender bristle slightly, but Hurst managed to maintain his cool.

"He thought you might need ssssssome…. persuasssion to leave your room." Hurst looked pointedly at the sleeping Gria. "It ssseems he was correct."

Banthar tied a belt around his robe and pulled a shirt of chainmail over it. Next he brought forth a simple iron helm along with a greatsword and shield. All three items were scarred, nicked, and dented from numerous battles. Each one had a story that accompanied, but for the life of him, Banthar could not remember all of them. There were far too many, stretching back to the days when the laws were still in place and judges still ruled over the clans. The sword had been passed down from his father, and his father before him. Many years of use had diminished the aesthetic pleasure of gazing upon the blade, but it was still sharp enough and shone as brightly as the first day he had drawn it. The shield and helm were Banthar's own items, bought from the great-grandson of Chita, Charls, who now worked in Graszton instead of his family's workshop. Although Charls's specialty was weaponry, not armor, the pieces had served him well enough. Many a blade and speartip had been turned aside by the shield and countless blows had glanced off the helm. The bangaa slung the sword over his shoulder and strapped the shield over it. The helm he cradled in one arm. It was far too hot to wear it if he wasn't going into battle, and it was only there for appearance at the moment. It would not do show weakness at the council.

"And how exactly were you sssssupposed to persssuade me?" he queried Hurst as he moved across the room to face the Defender.

"Wordsss." he answered casually. "Force, if necesssssary."

"You cannot best me in combat." growled Banthar

"Are you sssso sssure?" Hurst hissed back, his hand flying to the hilt of his own sword. "I'll beat you bloody and drag you to thisss council if need be."

"Convince me later. Drex will be angered if we are late."

"You are late. I arrived on time."

"And now you are here to collect me. And while we wasssste breath, you grow later arriving back."

That shut him up. Banthar turned towards the door and left, with Hurst close behind him. The door to the small house behind him shut with a solid thump. Whoever the Gria was, she could let herself out. Rumors of thieves in the major cities were abundant, no doubt out to target the larger clans, but if the Gria was indeed a pickpocket, she would find herself sorely disappointed. Bangaa had no need for precious metals and pieces of jewelry when there was battle to be had. The only metals a Bangaa needed were the steel in sword and armor. When the Brotherhood had first taken the city of Graszton, the first thing they had done was to sell of anything of value in order to raise gil. The money was needed for raw materials, weapons, potions, and everything else necessary to outfit a clan and fight a war. Fancy baubles would do him no good.

Around the two Bangaa, the port city bustled. Numerous humes and bangaa labored in the ports, bringing in the supplies that had come in from the sea. Around them it was a swirl of different colors and races as the Graszton citizenry began to go about their daily routine. Rabbit-eared Viera prowled by silkily, moogles hurried around underfoot, and of course there were humes everywhere as well. That was not all, of course. Nu Mous, Gria, and even a few Seeqs were present in Graszton. As a port town, and a major hub of transport and trade for Jylland, such diversity was to be expected, but the Bangaa ruled here now. Numerous guards watched the ports, there were more at the inns and pubs where the bulk of the Brotherhood's fighting forces were stationed, and some, like Drex, had their own personal guards. Banthar saw no need for such a luxury. He could crush any of the other people in this city like so many bugs with one arm. And probably one leg as well. _Wouldn't want to make it too easy for myself_. If they wished to challenge him, they could, but then again why would they? The Brotherhood kept the city safe from the other clans that would invade or even destroy it.

Holding the port gave them a tremendous amount of power over the area. With their new influence, they had already made a few alliances based on mutual trade. When the first judges had fallen, Drex had made sure to direct the Brotherhood to Graszton with minimal delay and minimal engagements. Its strategic importance was not lost on the leader of the Bangaa Brotherhood. Banthar would have sooner carved a bloody path across Jylland to the port city or Moorabella, as would have most of his other brothers. Had they chosen that route, the entire Brotherhood could very well be dead at this moment, but at least they would have found deaths in combat. Honorable death. A privilege ripped from the proud bangaa by the judges and the palace in the name of keeping the peace and preventing needless bloodshed. They were reduced to waiting for the inevitable decay of old age instead of the adrenaline rush that came from fighting for survival, entering every engagement wondering whether you would make it through intact. The thought of it made Banthar sick in the pit of his stomach. _How did my grandfather live like that? _Without death, combat lost its meaning. Not being able to eradicate your enemy, no matter how times you bested him on the field of battle was a cruel mockery of what it meant to truly fight. Almost as cruel as not being able die in combat.

Still padding along beside Hurst, Banthar looked up to see their destination coming into view: Graszton Pub. It was the largest pub in the city, and the designated place for important Brotherhood meetings on war, money, problems in the city, and everything in between. Banthar disliked coming to talk about anything but war, but more often than not other issues sprang up in war councils anyway. Banthar disliked that about the meetings, but then again he disliked sitting around on his ass in general. Instead of talking about war, they should be making war. Let the nu mous and the humes and the moogles talk while the bangaas' swords cleaved their heads from their shoulders.

Banthar pushed past the two guards outside the pub door brusquely, opening the door to the dim and blessedly cool interior of the pub. A few windows let in harsh sunlight, but after walking in the oppressive heat outside, it was still a very welcome change. Around a long, rectangular table in the midst of the pub's main room sat the war council of the Bangaa Brotherhood. There was no one else in the pub, save for the barman and a couple of barmaids who were there to serve drinks for the Brotherhood. This was how it was for the meetings of the Brotherhood: no one else was allowed in, and all customers were diverted to other pubs until the meeting adjourned. Banthar and Hurst's arrival was greeted without much fanfare, though a few pairs of eyes followed him to his chair indifferently. As Banthar sat, Hurst moved to stand near Drex, folding his arms as he assumed a position slightly behind his leader.

"How nice of you to join ussss, Banthar."

Clan Leader Drex stood at the head of the table, with two more guards looming near him. Dressed for war in steel armor emblazoned with the Brotherhood's symbol, he looked every bit the leader he was as he stood before the council, his red greatsword Predator slung over his back and his red plumed helm resting beside his hand. Even for a Bangaa, Drex was large. He stood a good head taller than the next tallest bangaa in the room, and his muscular bulk was noticeable even beneath the layers of armor and mail. From Banthar's position, he could just barely make out a map of Ivalice behind the leader that matched the one spread out over the table before the council. Whereas the map behind Drex was blank, the one on the table was covered with marks and arrows to show plans, possible attacks, supply routes, and any number of other things. It looked a mess to Banthar as he swept his eyes over it, and brought them up to meet Drex's own, which were staring right at him.

"I'm sure Banthar has hisss reasonssss for coming to council late, Bardle." Drex hissed.

"He did indeed. Verysssss was hisssss reason." Came Hurst's reponse.

That revelation was met with a gale of laughter.

"That damned Gria'ssssss already ssssssstolen half the valuablessssss left in town."

"And apparently poor Banthar'sssss heart asssss well."

Banthar fumed silently. _I am going to kill Hurst._ He vowed, looking murderously at the Defender, as if his gaze alone would strike him down.

"Enough." Drex commanded, putting an abrupt end to the laughter. "We are here to discussssss war, not Banthar'ssssss poor tasssste in matessssss."

Muffled snickering could be heard as Drex unsheathed Predator, using the point of the sword to gesture to the area marked as Graszton on the map.

"Now then. We hold Graszton and most of the surrounding area. Our campaignsssss near Baptissssste Hill progressssss favorably, with help from our alliesssss at Camoa. Sssssoon we will hold the entire ssssssoutheast. And from Baptiste we will move into Aldanna and the Zedlei Forest. "

Drex moved the sword as he spoke, showing the mentioned areas in turn. Anyone was welcome to speak up at any time, but out of respect, there was to be no interrupting others. Especially Drex.

Gorse spoke out first. Much like Banthar, he was a warrior who had seen much battle, but unlike other Bangaaa, he was a more cautious creature. _Soft_. That was what Banthar called it. Gorse was growing fat on the riches of Graszton and the surrounding area. He hadn't gone to battle in quite some time, and it showed: he hadn't even bothered to wear a weapon to the council: only a robe and an immaculately polished, gleaming greathelm that had not seen battle. How any of his brothers could respect such a creature was beyond Banthar, but Gorse did have seniority and the trust of Drex, so he would be heard.

"Piratessss sssstrike at our sssshipssss every day. We lossssse more and more ssssuppliesss every month, Drex. We ssshould direct the Brotherhood'ssss forces out to ssssea to deal with this nuisssance. Otherwisssse, they may bleed usss dry."

"Or perhapsssss you ssssshould ssstop eating all the ssssuppliesss that make it here." Suggested Bardle, the one who had remarked on Banthar's arrival earlier. This time, there was a good deal of outright laughter mixed into the snickering.

Bardle was known to the Brotherhood's enemies as the "Bloody Bishop". He wore a flowing, blood-red robe over a shirt of chainmail and across his back was strapped a thick staff of Danbukwood. It was said throughout Ivalice that Bardle preferred to smash and bloody his enemies with the staff rather than use magic against them. Banthar knew from experience that Bardle could wield magic quite well, and for that reason, he feared the bishop the most of all the others in the room. Bangaa were not a magically inclined race, preferring sword and spear to staffs and rods. Most bangaa feared magic, and steered well clear of it where softer races like nu mous, humes, and even moogles were known to dabble in the magical arts. Banthar had no such desire, and his sentiment was shared with the great majority of his brethren. Yet the Ivalice Brotherhood of Bishops was composed exclusively of bangaa, and only those who became bishops could become part of the Templar Order, the most renowned of all the bangaa organizations in Ivalice. They were feared equally for their prowess with weaponry and ability to weave both magic and anti-magic, but as for Banthar, simply the thought of magic unnerved him.

More laughter greeted Bardle's suggestion, as Gorse fumed openly, bringing a hand down on the table forcefully as he sprang to his feet.

"I will tolerate no more of your cheek, Bisssshop!"

Bardle eyed him coolly.

"Then you had bessst leave. For it will only continue."

"You will ssssettle this after council." Drex said authoritatively, his voice cutting across the arguing voices more sharply than any knife. "We are sssuppossed to be fighting war againssst the other clansss, not ourssselves."

"It is asss you ssssay, Drex." Bardle acquiesced.

Still incensed, Gorse sat back down, giving Bardle a hard glare.

"My point remainsss." He insisted. "We mussst deal with thessse piratesss. They are mossstly Seeqsssss and Humesssss. Both Ssssoft racesss. No match for bangaa warriorssss."

"We have no forcesss to ssspare for fighting piratesss while we campaign on land. Find fassster ssshipsss or put better fightersss on each." Drex said, ready to be done with this.

"Drex, it won't be enough-"

"Then take care of it yoursssself, Gorssse!" the leader thundered. "You laze about town getting fat. What better way to regain fighting sssshape than ridding usss of thessse piratesss? Take your guardsss and go. If you fail, you will at least have an honorable death, rather than one caused by a heart attack."

Gorse was taken aback, his face quickly falling under the weight of his leader's harsh words. "I-I ssssshall do… as you sssssay." he said meekly, before sweeping from the room with his cloak billowing around him. A contingent of four guards followed him.

Banthar was not sad to see him go, and neither were the other councilors, it seemed. None watched him leave, but they remained silent until he had left the pub.

"Now then…" Drex growled. "Let usss move on to more important issuesss."

He turned back to the map, gesturing widely at the area near the Bisga Greenlands.

"Our most…. Troublesssome problem liesss here. The chocobo rancher Topocho hasss gone vigilante along with his ranchhandssss and his entire stable of creaturessss. They have aligned themselves with what remainsssss of the Jadeland Band. They use his ranch as a basssse of operationsss, and terrorize the Caravan Path and Highroads equally, raiding supply transports and any of the wealthy ssstupid enough or dessssperate enough to passss through. Any willing vagabondssss or clan desertersss that crosssss their path are brought into the fold, trained to fight asssss one of them: ssssstrike quickly, and retreat into the wild. They are far from the only brigandssss in the Greenlandsssss, but they are the mosssst….. troublessssome."

"Sssssuch cowards these furballsssss are!" thundered an as-yet-unheard-from voice. "Sssssend me to the Jadewood, and I will return with enough moogle peltssss to make winter coat!"

Several roars of approval sounded from around the table, a few weapons were even raised into the air to show support for the speaker: Artus, the typically enhelmed Gladiator, who apparently had seen fit to remove his helmet for this particular meeting. Or at least, this announcement.

Drex looked to the voice with hard eyes. Clearly, he was not swayed by Artus's proclamation.

"Do not underesssstimate these furballsssss, Artussss. They have all but a chokehold on the trade routesss from here to Camoa. It isss a wonder we receive even what little we are getting from them now. If the piratesss that Gorssse was sssso preoccupied with were a bit more persissstent, we would perhapsss be in real danger of sssstarving."

"Then let ussss be rid of the furballssssss." Now Bardle stood as well. "I will accompany Artussss on thissss asssssignment." He said almost lazily, giving a slight nod in the Gladiator's direction. "From what I know of Chocobos, they don't take kindly to certain typessss of magic." A sinister grin spread across the bishop's face as he said this, one of his scaled hands running up to caress the tip of his wooden staff in a gesture that was certainly not friendly. Involuntarily, Banthar shuddered.

Drex nodded firmly. "Good. I am told you will have aid from Clan Hellfist, who currently hold Camoa. If any of the other clanssss here wisssh to fight, ussse them assss well."

Artus snorted. "Bangaa need no help from ssssquishy humesss or soft-skinned viera. We will eradicate thisssss foe ourssssself!" More roared approval greeted the gladiator's words.

"Regardlesssss, you will have their help, whether you choose to ussse it or not. Go and prepare for battle now. Both of you and whatever ssssoldiersss you take mussssst be ready by firsssst light tomorrow." Drex's tone brooked no further arguments.

Banthar watched as the two bangaa bowed swiftly, then retreated towards the exit. On the inside, he wished to be departing with them.

"Asss for the ressst of you, inventory of all the supplies available in the city mussssst be made. We are consssuming what we have far more rapidly than we are receiving it, and rations may ssssooon be needed. Already, the barman tells me of complaintsssss he hearsssss about the lack of cheesssse. Take Felix and any otherssss with you to do accounting. Nu moussss are more inclined to ssssums and numbersss than bangaaa. Go. Now."

With the sound of moving chairs and after-meeting pleasantries, the council was adjourned. Banthar quickly gathered himself to his feet, and made haste towards the bar, intent on grabbing a cold drink before he returned to the sweet solitude of his apartment, where he planned to lay about and bathe in the sun's rays for the rest of the day. Perhaps he would find Verys again to lay about with him.

"Banthar. Wait."

Reluctantly, Banthar came to a halt as he rounded the edge of the table on his way to the exit.

"Yesss, clan leader?"

"I have a ssssspecial tassssk for you, Banthar. Walk with me."


	4. Chasing Rumors

Alright, fourth chapter. May or may not have a battle scene in the next few chapters because I'm tired of all this talking, so get excited for that. Not sure if drawing in elements from the first game technically makes this story a crossover? Meh. Either way, there will probably be a few more tie-ins from Final Fantasy Tactics Advance (not to be confused with the Playstation version), but I'll explain them a lot, so don't feel intimidated if you haven't played it.

Anyways, let me know how I'm doing. My first review has heartened me, but I look forward to hearing more from readers. Chapter 5 should be on its way in the next week or two.

As always, all characters, settings, elements, etc. are the properties of their respective owners.

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**Chasing Rumors- The Brightmoon Blade: Tobias**

**Aldanna Range- Lezaford's Cottage**

**22****nd**** Goldsun**

"It has been a long time since I last saw you here, Tobias….", the ancient Runemaster remarked, as he stirred the steaming pot over the kettle. "If memory serves, you were a part of Clan Daybringer: a very small organization, newly formed and still struggling to find a way in this world."

The wizened, old creature paused to remove the now-boiling kettle from above the flames, protecting his hand from getting burned with an already damp cloth. Into two cups, he poured hot water, up to the brims of each. His hands were surprisingly steady for one so old, but still they shook slightly. Already the water was browning from the color of the tea leaves in the bottom of the cups. He handed one to his guest.

The dark-haired hume accepted gently, cradling the cup gently with both of his pale, white hands. "Thank you, my friend. Your memory continues to serve you well, I see. I am surprised to hear you recall the name 'Daybringer'. Sometimes even I have trouble remembering my former clan's name."

Tobias brought the cup to his lips slowly, and took a sip of the freshly brewed liquid. Much as he expected, it was burning hot, and so he took only a small drink before setting the cup on the small table in front of him. The Mirror Mail he wore tinkled softly beneath Tobias's flowing white robe, the one that marked him as a member of his order: the Holy Order of Paladins. Tobias swallowed politely, appreciating the small warmth that had begun to spread in the pit of his belly. Even in the warm months of Goldsun, the Aldanna Range was windy, and in some places bitterly cold. At the moment, he was thankful to not have come here by way of the Whitesnow Pass, a place in which it was always snowing.

Lezaford smiled a kindly smile at the paladin from across the table. "My mind, unlike my body, has not deteriorated with time. Some even tell me it has grown stronger." He winked cheekily. "I trust the monsters didn't give you much trouble on your way here?"

"No. And I pray they do not trouble me when I depart as well. The Mist has grown much thicker since last I was here. No doubt that means there are many more monsters now."

Lezaford merely nodded in agreement.

"Indeed it does. Thankfully, they don't bother an old hermit who keeps to his cabin much. I'm sure the enchantments also help."

Tobias nodded solemnly as he swallowed another gulp of tea. "No doubt they do. But I have not sought you out again to speak of monsters and days past."

The air in the cabin suddenly went still. Both men knew that they were now treading in dangerous territory now. Tact was suddenly of the utmost importance. Briefly, they regarded each other: Tobias was deathly serious, his eyes set on the tiny figure seated across from him. Lezaford, in contrast, seemed unaffected by the change in mood. He still wore his kindly look, and though his smile had wilted into more of a half-smile, his eyes glittered with a playful light. Even the tone of his voice had not changed, Tobias noted, as the archmage began to speak.

"Well then, what have you come to speak of, Tobias? I'm always in the mood for a good chat. You've heard about the turmoil in Ordalia, I assume? They've actually shut down the airship service between Moorabella and Fluorgis….."

"What has happened to the judges, Lezaford?"

The archmage did not answer, but the grip on his staff tightened ever so slightly.

Tobias's harsh voice cut across the runemaster's hesitation.

"You expect me to believe that you know of the conflicts in Ordalia, but nothing of the judges' disappearance?"

"I expect you to believe what I tell you. And I have yet to tell you anything."

All traces of Lezaford's earlier merriment were gone. The twinkle in his eyes had turned into something hard and steely. The kindly, wrinkled face was suddenly grimly serious.

The cabin grew still, the atmosphere around the two men almost humming with silence. For a long moment, there were no words exchanged. In fact, there was no movement at all, simply staring. And waiting. And as Tobias waited, he grew more and more anxious, until finally he spoke.

"And what would you tell me of this?"

"Nothing, should you continue to hold your hand on your sword hilt. And perhaps nothing even if you should remove it."

As he was bid, the paladin slowly removed his right palm from the hilt of his blade. How the ancient archmage had seen him silently shift his hand over to his left hip under the table was beyond him, but at the very least it assured Tobias that the old mage hadn't lied about his mind still being sharp. That did not mean, however, that he would continue to tell the truth. Still, Tobias was incensed, not only over being found out, but at the archmage's sudden hostility. His words held barely suppressed venom.

"Pray tell, how will I go about finding out what I wish to know?"

"You will answer my question truthfully, or die." Lezaford answered, as is eyes made a sudden, violent transformation from their normal coloring to an unnatural, glowing shade of blue. The air around him suddenly grew hot, as the archmage's staff began to crackle with magical energy. "For what purpose do you seek knowledge of the judges?"

For perhaps only the second time in his life, Tobias felt a cold stab of fear in the pit of his stomach. Despite his prowess with a blade, his armor, and what he had learned of protective magic, he knew that this shrunken old creature could kill him with but a thought. The paladin felt like an insect facing a storm. Icy tendrils of dread coiled around his stomach, as he felt the magic power rising along with the temperature. Tobias swallowed his rising fear, and stumbled over his tongue to find his voice.

"T-t-the Thirteen have need…" the paladin finally managed, sweeping his cloak away from his armor to reveal a small, circular insignia near the right breast: the number 13, transposed over the letter 'K', and situated on a field of grass. The gold of the insignia glowed in the light of Lezaford's magic, in stark contrast to the steel of Tobias's mail.

Almost immediately, Lezaford's magic dissolved and the runemaster collapsed back into his chair: there was no mistaking the mark of Ivalice's oldest and most-storied clan. After such an exertion, the mage seemed to have aged even more in just a short time. Looking at the rev now, he seemed all of his thousand plus years of age, and even more than that. Had the old wizard not just threatened to kill him, Tobias imagined he would feel some sort of pity for this shrunken doll of a man.

"I am sorry, Tobias." the archmage said quietly, his eyes still downcast. "The knowledge I hold could cause Ivalice to fall into utter ruin. I cannot allow it to fall into the wrong hands….. although it would seem that, somehow, it already has."

"You think my hands wrong?! I have kept your existence in this place secret for decades!" Tobias protested.

"I am much less interested in what you have done than what you will do, Tobias." Lezaford responded. "Though I must admit I did not anticipate the Thirteen taking action in this situation."

"The Thirteen are sworn to protect the kingdom."

"They were once." Lezaford snorted. "Now they serve only to showcase their own abilities and exclusivity. I no longer trust the Thirteen, Tobias, but I do have semblance of trust in you. So I will tell you what little I know. Where should we begin?"

Silence followed the archmage's words, as he sipped his tea gently. Tobias sat across, his mind a blur of thoughts. On top of the questions he had come ready to ask, he was still reeling from the threat to his life, that he had been found out slipping his hand to Lionheart's hilt, and from the indescribable fear he had felt this now-subdued, frail old man. He could not think of where to start, at the moment he could barely remember why he had come here. Tobias's heart thumped noisily in his ears. He was suddenly very aware of the cold sweat on his neck. From the recesses of his mind, a single thought managed to compose him: _You are a knight of the Thirteen._ Tobias swallowed slowly, and after some thought, finally managed to construct a question.

"How long have you known about this, Lezaford?" Thankfully, his voice was much steadier than Tobias felt.

"I knew immediately. From the moment this began, I knew about it. I knew when the first judge died, and I knew when the slaughter was complete. It was a terrible thing, to know that it was happening, but to not know why or how to stop it."

Tobias's stomach clenched hard at the archmage's words. To know that even one of the archmages who had created the laws that governed Jylland did not know what had happened to the judges was stunning, a hard blow to what he thought he knew of the situation.

"I take from your silence that was not the answer you wished to hear, but it is the only one I have, I am afraid."

"How is it that even you cannot tell me what happened to the judges?"

"To eliminate the judges entirely is beyond even the scope of my power, Tobias. Yes, I shaped the magic and the laws that govern this world, but I was one of many and my powers have waned from the days of my youth. For someone to have killed all the judges, the very laws themselves must be dissolved, robbing the judges of their protection from harm and death. Whoever did this has done exactly that, not only to the judges, but to all the inhabitants of Ivalice."

The paladin's eyes widened in shock. If this was beyond even the most powerful mage in Ivalice's ability to perform, then what hope did anyone have of righting this? Or worse yet, what chance did they stand against the creature who had caused this thing to happen? Tobias's mind was awhirl once again. He looked to the floor, trying hard to digest what the archmage had just told him. It was almost too hard to believe. Tobias looked back up at the runemaster.

"Who could have done this, if not you?"

Lezaford shrugged tiredly. "I do not know. All the other archmages who helped me to establish Jylland's laws are dead. I have taught no students, written no books, and kept to myself since those days. To allow any others to have information on the ancient magic that governs this land would be too dangerous. Yet even if someone were to have obtained that information somehow, without the proper magical training, they could not put it into use. I have exhausted myself trying to find out if such a person could exist, and with utmost certainty, I can say that they do not. And yet…"

"….they do." Tobias muttered darkly. The paladin had hoped to come here for answers, not more questions, but Lezaford's words brought only more uncertainties. Tobias put a hand to his head, rubbing his temples as if that would help him gain the knowledge he needed. If only for his own sanity, he had to find at least some answers.

"You are certain that no one could dissolve such magic? No one at all?"

For the first time in their conversation, Lezaford hesitated for a moment, looked towards the bookcase on the far side of the room, to Tobias, and back again, as if trying to decide something. Suddenly, he slid from the chair, and began to make his way towards the piece of furniture with slow, shuffling steps. The thunk of his staff accompanied his movements.

"It is far-fetched, but… there is. Or, rather, there WAS one person capable of such a thing. He lived long ago, but if someone was following his example, using his theories, something like this might be in their power…."

Lezaford perused the bookcase for a moment before he found what he was looking for. Drawing the book from among its companions, he made his way slowly back to where Tobias sat. For his part, the paladin sat quite patiently waiting for the rev, though he offered no assistance. What Lezaford had said, at least, sounded promising. Perhaps here was something he could bring to the rest of the Thirteen, something that would actually prove useful. Tobias leaned towards the old rev.

"And what was the name of this person?" he asked as he watched the runemaster flip through pages of the book, clearly intent on finding something recorded in the pages. There were several more flips before he found what he wanted, and slapped a pointing finger down on the page.

"Right there. Ezel Berbier."


End file.
