Chapter VI: Flight From Bastok

Children on the streets of Port Bastok clapped with delight as the enormous Galka brought the two torches up to his mouth, taking a deep breath before exhaling into the fire, shooting a stream of flame several feet up into the air. Another Galka demonstrated with a mysterious air the nature of ninja tools, conjuring up mysterious powders and grinding them in his fist, throwing them forward to make the audience “ooh” and “aah” as they became crackles of electricity of streams of water from nowhere. People laughed and pointed at the antics of an Elvaan mime, and tapped their feet in time to a minstrel troupe which played in the background. The entire city delighted whenever the famous traveling performers, renowned throughout all of Mindartia and Quon, passed through. They had added this year a tinkerer claiming to be from the Far East, and just today a man who claimed to dance folk jigs of various regions had appeared, moving with surprising grace and style as the music played behind him.

The mime, the fire-breather, the minstrels, a trick-archer and a shadowy ninja, there was something for everyone in the traveling circus. The tinkerer demonstrated fantastic inventions geared towards the children, who had the most control over the purse-strings of their parents. Wonderful toys such as a wooden spinner which shot up into the air and flew when you pulled a string out of it, dolls with clockwork gears inside which let them move of their own accord, and a series of other mechanical wonders all grabbed the attention of Bastok’s youth, be they Hume or Galka. The most popular attraction from the tinkerer, without a doubt, was the two-wheeled ride he was advertising, a contraption of wood and iron which the children had a delight riding – for a fee- trying to keep their balance and move the pedals as fast as they could in the small space set aside for it.

The circus performers held the city youth in their grasp with amazement, and profits were tremendous as they collected the gil dropped into collection baskets or tossed at their feet. The jig-dancer, in particular, attracted a great deal of attention, most notably due to the fact that he incorporated knives into his act. As he stylishly moved to the music, so did his twin blades spin and dance along with him, dazzling the audience with his dexterity. Occasionally, he would toss a knife in the air, scoop up a handful of coins from the ground, and then catch the knife upon its’ return, never once looking to see where the short blade was. People clapped and applauded, and it may well have gone on for the rest of the day if the shouting had not started.

“That’s him!” The dancer heard, and grimaced at the voice. He knew what was coming next. “That’s the man, officers, he’s stolen my precious jewels!”

“Dammit,” thought the dancer, “I was sure a pompous jerk like that guy would never come to the circus.”

The fat jewel merchant, Wahid, pushed his way through the crowd, waving his finger angrily as the jig-dancer slowed to a halt, the music dying down. “This is him!” raged Wahid. “He burgled my gems! Take him away!”

“Now, now sir,” said the dancer, holding his palms up to show that they were empty, “I’m afraid you can’t just go accusing people of theft with no proof. That simply isn’t good business.”

“Shut up!” Wahid fumed. “Officers, officers! Take this man away!”

A duo of Bastokan guards appeared through the crowd, which had fallen silent in the face of these unwarranted antics. “This is him?” one of them asked, thrusting his spear forward towards the jig-dancer, who took a step back in the face of it.

“Yes, yes!” Wahid screamed. “Search him immediately! Take back my jewels and throw this man in irons!”

“Alright you,” said the other, stepping forward towards where the dancer stood, “turn around and turn out your pockets. Let’s have the truth of this.”

Sighing, the thief Ayn turned his back on the officers, lowered his arms, and then immediately sprung forward, leaping past the band and dashing over the line which encircled the area set aside for the tinkerer’s toys. “Truth isn’t easy enough to come by that I can just hand it to you!” said Ayn as he shoved a child off of the tinkerer’s two-wheeled vehicle and hopped onto the seat. “Find me something as valuable as these gems, and maybe we can trade for it!” Smirking evilly, the thief pushed the pedals forward and took off as the angered guards and the red-faced Wahid shouted after him, now joined by the voice of the tinkerer.

“Hey!” He screamed. “Jigger stole my bike!”

Ayn laughed as they fell out of sight, pushing the Eastern device as fast as it would go, spinning around a corner and skidding to a halt as he came to the massive stone steps leading up towards Bastok Markets. Leaping off of the bicycle, he tossed it aside and bounded up the stairs three at a time, his nimble legs taking him further and faster than the city guards could follow. He still heard them screaming after him, but soon he’d be out of sight.

That was still what he was thinking up until the Galka appeared in his path, two Hume members of the Iron Musketeers flanking him. They were blocking the entrance to Bastok Markets in front of him, and behind him the guards from before were beginning to catch up. Boxed in, Ayn spun his daggers out into his hands and leaped forward, thinking on the fly. The Musketeers made for him, drawing their swords and dashing at the thief, but as soon as they got close Ayn dropped down into a slide, thanking Altana for the smooth cobblestone streets of Bastok. He easily slid through the first guard’s legs, and immediately after coming through leaped in the air, pushing his feet into the man’s back and hurtling him to the ground even as Ayn himself sprung into the air, clearing the other two Musketeers and landing on the bridge. Then it was time to get fancy.

“Stop him!” He heard them shout as they rounded on him, weapons drawn and closing in fast. Ayn but smiled; this chase was about to end.

The guards cried out as a burst of wind and dust suddenly flew up around Ayn’s feet, and like a shot he took off, running like a coeurl through the streets. He blew by people and up stairs, went like an arrow freshly loosed from the bowstring by the shops and hawking merchants in the street, not slowing down until he was on the other side of the enormous stone fountain in the center of Bastok Markets. The city was an ideal place for a thief such as him. Bastok was a city of industry and commerce, built upon trade and labor. The entire city was littered with construction sites, busy streets, narrow alleyways, and a populace that couldn’t care less about a thief taking merchandise from a fat jeweler. Ayn stopped to catch his breath, the magnificent fountain, one of the few areas in Bastok not made for a purely practical reason, providing him some cover as it was a popular gathering spot.

With an appraising eye, Ayn drew out from the pouch hidden inside his sleeve the Siren’s Tear and the Dangruf Stone; the two stones would draw thousands in Windurst or Rabao. Once he found a place to lay low for the evening, he could make his escape during under cover of nightfall, and then –

“There! There, by the fountain!”

“Crap,” Ayn said sourly, slipping the two jewels back into safety. He looked left and right, and saw more of Bastok’s city guard coming in on his position. Being a thief these days was getting to be hard work.

The pursuit continued, and it seemed half the city guard was after him. Wahid, it would appear, had a sizable sphere of influence. Everywhere he turned, Ayn was greeted by an angry face and a Musketeer’s badge, and no matter which way he ducked or dodged, there was no way to escape. He rounded a corner, checking behind him, and then stopped cold. There was nothing in front of him except the side wall of a house, no alley to escape down or place in which he could hide. Quickly, he turned to escape the dead end, but too late, as the sound of a sword being drawn told him.

“Far enough, Thief.” Spoke one of the guards angrily, and at a glance Ayn saw there must have been at least nine or ten of them before him, blocking every way out. “Put your hands up and drop your weapons. You’re coming with us.”

“Alright officer, alright,” said Ayn dejectedly. With a heavy sigh, he loosened his grip on his knives, showing that he had no intention of using them, and then slowly raised his arms. He got about as far as midway before he flung them completely upwards, sending his knives shooting into the air, where a pair of invisible hands snatched them from nowhere.

“What’s this?!” exclaimed one of the guardsmen as suddenly, the sound of two feet touching the ground came from behind them, and then cried out as a foot caught him solidly in the side. The illusion technique was broken, and a Mithra in black chainmail appeared in a puff of smoke, already in motion. The guards quickly tried to recover from the attack, but the ninja was too fast, and Ayn was no slouch himself, leapfrogging over one baffled guardsman and coming down on his feet behind the line they had drawn.

“Tiki, let’s go!” he shouted, and the ninja nodded in response.

“You’re lucky you’re cute enough to make me go through all this trouble,” said the ninja Tikinas as they ran, shouts of anger brewing behind them. Ayn shot her a smile in return, and the two rounded the steps past the protests of Bastokans they left in their dust, headed down towards the Mines, where they could vanish until they felt like leaving town. Ayn and Tikinas, the most daring duo to ever pilfer a prize, would live to elude capture another day.

By the time the wind which hit them subsided, they would have to wonder if that was a good thing or not.


For his entire life, Zealot Zachus wanted only one thing; to become the greatest warrior ever to walk Vana’diel. For years he had traveled across the land from one end to another, battling strange creatures, obtaining rare weapons and armor which had been enhanced with the power of the crystals, seeking out everything he could to improve his ability to do one thing; hit whatever he was aiming at, and hit it so hard that it died. There was nary a weapon which had escaped his notice, training with new techniques and fighting styles a way of life for him. For the time being, he had been camped outside of Bastok, planning to venture through the Korroloka Tunnel and see what he could find in the vast caves and ruins scattered throughout Altepa.

Now, as he stood up in front of the gates to the Bastok Mines, having been knocked down by the intense wind which had suddenly come strong and hot through the entire region, his plans evaporated in the face of the monstrous swirl of lightning-spewing clouds surrounding the dark tear which had appeared in the sky over Bastok. The tall, white-haired Elvaan looked on in shock as what appeared to be Quadav, only bigger, and somehow stonier, dropped from the hole to the ground, accompanied by an impossibly large flight of demons which came down upon the populace of Bastok in force. Zealot stood rooted in place, unsure of what to do, almost too terrified to move. He might have remained there until a demon took him had he not suddenly been run down by a black-haired Hume, who gave a shout as he collided with the armored Elvaan. Less than a second later, a Mithra skidded to a halt in front of them, leaping with one foot upon their two piled bodies and cartwheeling over, landing on her feet in front of them.

“Hey!” Coughed Zealot as he came to his feet, spitting out dirt, the smaller Hume rolling backwards and nipping up, a knife drawn.

“Watch where I’m going!” the Hume said angrily, and then cast a fearful eye up towards the sky. “Do yourself a favor,” he said, already turning, “and get the hell out of here.”

No sooner had he spoken the words than the ground crunched under the feet of a demon as it dropped out of the sky, a wicked blade drawn and glowing yellow eyes fixed on the trio. The Mithra gave a shriek, hand-vaulting backwards and coming up with a shuriken in her hand, letting it fly ineffectually into the skin of the demon. It brought its’ sword down with a crash, slicing the Mithra through, but as its’ blade touched the ground, the stricken body vanished in a cloud of smoke, naught but a shadow.

The real Mithra was already a few yards away, twin blades drawn as the demon came forward. It roared its’ dreadful shriek, and the ninja staggered as she felt the baleful waves of energy sweep across her. Whipping its’ sword back, the demon prepared to strike again, and then suddenly staggered, as if its’ knees had given out on it.

“Too late,” the Hume said with a bitter twinge in his voice, pulling the knife he had stuck in its’ back out, and then dropping it with a cry as he realized the demons’ blood was eating through the metal. The demon slowly rounded on him, still having the strength to raise its’ arm, and the Hume looked up with dread as the demon’s terrible fangs dripped in front of him.

With a crash, it flew to the side, colliding with the nearby rocks and dropping down, shattered. Zealot, the Great Axe which had just smashed the demons’ insides into shreds in his hands, spun the weapon around and up into a defensive position. The demons were concentrating on the city, but if this one deviated into the open fields, it would not be long before all of Gustaberg was crawling with them.

“Are you alright?” Zealot asked of the Hume, turning his attention between him and the Mithra who had already appeared at his side.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, looking at the Mithra beside him, “but there’s no time for talk, we have to move.”

“Right,” said Zealot, “we’re too exposed out here in the open. I know a place we can hide for the time being.”

The two stared at him as if he were speaking gibberish. “I’m sorry, what?” said the Mithra, her tone a mixture of shock and revulsion. “You can’t be suggesting we travel together.”

“Fine,” Zealot replied, lowering his enormous weapon and taking off at a brisk walk past them. “I’ll just go to where it’s safe; you two can stay out here without the guy holding the gigantic axe.”

“We don’t have time to argue,” snapped the Hume. “We’ve got to move, that’s all that’s important. You say you know somewhere, take me to it, I’ll decide for myself if it’s safe or not afterwards.”

“Fair enough,” Zealot decided, and quickly accelerated his pace, heading north. It might not be the safest place in Vana’diel, but as the trio fled the demons ahead of the hordes of people running from the city, everything about the screams coming from Bastok told him that Movalpolas was the preferable place to be.