Final Fantasy Tactics [Fan Fiction]

NOT MY BEST PIECE I'VE EVER WRITTEN... COULD USE SOME HELP... HOPE YOU ENJOY.

Final Fantasy Tactics

By Meshalidar

A warrior takes sword in hand,

clasping a gem to his heart.

Engraving vanishing memories

into the sword,

He places finely honed skills

into the stone.

Spoken from the sword,

handed down from the stone...

Now that story can be told...

Introduction

A man withered in wrinkles set his body upon a chair, the room sparsely lit with only two lanterns. It was seemingly chaos in this what-used-to-be study. Parchment and manuscript lined the floors, the tables and desks. Books sat upon shelves, set on chairs and in the corner, stacked high with various sizes, blues and reds and browns they were bathed in. Dust blanketed the room, the ceiling low with long slats of wood long past bent with more than age. There was a window, yet now letters and document were pasted against the glass. The door was the only thing clean, though surprising. The entrance of dark oak was embossed with magnificent patterns, of animals and plants. It was the only beautiful thing found in this room.

The floor creaked slightly as the elderly man shifted in his seat, his eyes squinted or peering about in a permanently narrow gaze, deep lines of age crossing his forehead, his cheeks – there was no place where you could not find lines. Reaching as hand toward the desk he sat at, scripts and other means of writing utensils sitting about messily, his gnarled fingers clasped an inkbottle. It was quite dirty, not just the accumulation of dust, but the black liquid spilled more than once upon it had never been cleaned, nor had it never really dried.

Absently moving it toward the side of his spot, he began clearing the space. Once finished, the man finally observed the ink upon his hands and wiped it upon the blue cloak he wore. Taking a one last rub at his nose before continuing, leaving a dark blotch on that crooked lump, he reached for a scrap of parchment, blowing the dust off of the particular piece. Satisfied after brushing it with his hands quite a few times, he drew the black bottle close, retrieving a pen, and dipping that dip into the murky fluid, he began upon his page.

And this he wrote in fluent, trained letters, though his fingers led you astray...

‘I am Alazlam, a scholar of ancient Ivalice history...’

Pausing for a moment to think, looking around seemingly to search for something, he abruptly turned back to the paper, now with dark, neat handwriting on its surface, he dipped that tip in the bottle once more and placed in on the parchment to continue.

‘Have you ever heard of the “Lion War”?

It divided Ivalice in two over who

would be the successor to the throne.

It ended with the appearance of a

young hero named Delita.

Everybody living here knows

this hero’s tale...

But we also know that what

we see with our eyes alone...

isn’t necessarily the truth.

Here’s a young man.’

At this, he stopped and turned from the page, dropping the pen that he had dipped seven times before now. Looking around, a frown curving his lips, he searched through the piles and piles of dust and clutter of the many documents. Filing through drawers, climbing under the desks and tables, looking above and below the shelves along those tall bookcases, he finally drew back with a relieved sigh.

“Here it is...” The man, Alazlam, took to the chair once more, settling down once again and rearranging himself for the last time before he withdrew a rusted knife hidden beneath blankets of dust and parchment. He began to whittle at what he had found. It was, yet another piece of parchment. Yet he had taken the knife and trimmed the excess of blank paper, depositing that to leave a picture of a man in armor.

Taking it and a minute vial of some substance, he placed the picture, drawn from chalks and some ink, withdrawing the cover of the small pot and pouring the thick substance on the backside of the sheet. He promptly closed the bottle, replaced its previous spot, and carefully arranged the picture below his writings.

Once again, he took up his pen, now that the picture was secure at was not going anywhere for sometime, he carried on...

‘He is the youngert son of the noble

Beoulve... pillars of knighthood.

There’s no record of his playing an

active part in history but...

According to the “Durai Report” released

last year (concealed for many years by

church), this unknown man is the true hero...

The church claims he was a blasphemer

And anarchist – the root of all evil...

But is this the “truth”?

Won’t you join me on a

journey for the “truth”?'

With that, he wrote four words after; ‘The “Zodiac Brave Story”’. He was now settled, and he quickly dabbed the pen into the jar before continuing. Nothing could cease this now, for he knew.

Once he began, it would be difficult to stop.