Kefka weighs the book in his hand, turning it over every now and then. It’s as light as a book of it’s size should be, well-bound, the leather…
Well, he thinks he should have noticed the faint buzz of magic on the book’s leather sooner. It’s very faint, smells like ozone when he brings it to his face, makes his fingers tingle. When he’d first found the book in his tent, he’d been too pleased that his old journal had been replaced to really focus on his surroundings, nor to notice that the book translated his coded shorthand to a normal longhand.
Stupid stupid stupid—
But right now, he needs to focus on the book. A monster book, most likely, a book that wrote back and talked back and occasionally flashed images on it’s pages and spoke of worlds beyond his own, and demons who lived in books were known liars who lied and ate whoever was stupid enough to try and keep their book around. It was the only logical explanation.
But. But but but. Monsters who live in books came for the art; they lust after beauty, just like the monsters in paintings or the monsters in music records. And this book is blank. Was blank. Is mostly blank save for his handwriting and the monster handwriting and the arcane symbols decorating in decadent silver.
In the pursuit of magic, Kefka has seen plenty of impossible things. He’s done them. He is the first magi in a thousand years, after whom all others in the Empire are modeled; he has found magical artifacts called impossible by historians and the Empire has made more and even wears some now, a ring that keeps the endless apathy and the boundless rage from eating him and a cloak that turns his movements swifter; he will find the gods, knows where they are and how to summon them, knows the secrets of their lands, knows he is one of them and will join them once he finds them and they shall become the Warring Triad Plus Kefka and he will not be that crazy clownface or that expendable general or stupid sucking scapegoat—
And he can risk believing in another impossible thing. If nothing else, if the book really is a lying monster demon in a book, he can give it to Dr. del Norte and they can figure out how it’s done and start a demon monster book science program and kill enemies of the empire with literature. Glorious beautiful perfect!
“So,” Kefka says, humming as he opens the book, speaking directly to it, “you claim that this Drama Drama Duck is real? And that all the worlds with it exist?”
He laughs, a jittery smug thing, like a smirking spider on roller skates.
Kefka Palazzo, 7/???
Kefka weighs the book in his hand, turning it over every now and then. It’s as light as a book of it’s size should be, well-bound, the leather…
Well, he thinks he should have noticed the faint buzz of magic on the book’s leather sooner. It’s very faint, smells like ozone when he brings it to his face, makes his fingers tingle. When he’d first found the book in his tent, he’d been too pleased that his old journal had been replaced to really focus on his surroundings, nor to notice that the book translated his coded shorthand to a normal longhand.
Stupid stupid stupid—
But right now, he needs to focus on the book. A monster book, most likely, a book that wrote back and talked back and occasionally flashed images on it’s pages and spoke of worlds beyond his own, and demons who lived in books were known liars who lied and ate whoever was stupid enough to try and keep their book around. It was the only logical explanation.
But. But but but. Monsters who live in books came for the art; they lust after beauty, just like the monsters in paintings or the monsters in music records. And this book is blank. Was blank. Is mostly blank save for his handwriting and the monster handwriting and the arcane symbols decorating in decadent silver.
In the pursuit of magic, Kefka has seen plenty of impossible things. He’s done them. He is the first magi in a thousand years, after whom all others in the Empire are modeled; he has found magical artifacts called impossible by historians and the Empire has made more and even wears some now, a ring that keeps the endless apathy and the boundless rage from eating him and a cloak that turns his movements swifter; he will find the gods, knows where they are and how to summon them, knows the secrets of their lands, knows he is one of them and will join them once he finds them and they shall become the Warring Triad Plus Kefka and he will not be that crazy clownface or that expendable general or stupid sucking scapegoat—
And he can risk believing in another impossible thing. If nothing else, if the book really is a lying monster demon in a book, he can give it to Dr. del Norte and they can figure out how it’s done and start a demon monster book science program and kill enemies of the empire with literature. Glorious beautiful perfect!
“So,” Kefka says, humming as he opens the book, speaking directly to it, “you claim that this Drama Drama Duck is real? And that all the worlds with it exist?”
He laughs, a jittery smug thing, like a smirking spider on roller skates.
“Prove it!”