Dorter Slums
The life of a squire is not easy. We suffer loads and often face death. Most times I would just laugh in the face of death, but this time I shall regale you with the tale of my first near death experience.
We were finally out of the woods and made our way to the Dorter Slums. Myself, as a black mage, Navarre as an archer and good old Greg doing what he did best. For some reason, I don’t understand why, Ramza had offered Carmen leave. He had mumbled something about melee combat being pointless in slums where archers could hide on the rooftops. A knight was the last thing we needed, he had argued. And a knight would draw attention, which was not what we wanted if we were to locate a spy of the Order.
To this day, I cannot understand why he had made that decision.
As we walked through the streets of Dorter, suddenly, we happened upon an altercation. Wiegraf, Delita knew, the commander of the Dead men and now leader of the Corpse Brigade. But he had beat a swift retreat after threatening one of his own, and the latter now decided to take his frustration out on us, the glaringly obvious “swords of the Order”.
I was only still getting used to being a black mage, after being a squire for so long. I hadn’t had the opportunity to practice my new abilities, but once I unleashed my first ever Blizzard, seeing those footpads freeze to the brink of death felt more satisfying than I had imagined. I was happily throwing ice picks and fireballs at whoever was near enough for me to reach.
At least, I was for a while. While Delita and Argath crawled onto the rooftop of a rundown building to take out an archer, Greg received a beating from the other Corpses. Arrows flew all around him, fire engulfed him, and there was nothing we could do when he fell because I had already forgotten the last time he explained to me how to use a Phoenix down, and none of the others had yet learned to do it.
There he was, sprawled out in a puddle, groaning and calling for help. I could only throw potions at him or throw fireballs at the Corpses, but I had underestimated my own lack of defense. I was weak without protection, and I was out in the open. Before I could even cast my final fireball, Symond, the Corpse brigade knight who had narrowly escaped Wiegraf’s wrath, struck me down.
I fell beside Greg, feeling the life flow out of me while all went black before my eyes and I cursed the gods for not being able to heal…
23 Aries
I woke up again in a white, sun-drenched room in Dorter city proper. The others had already gone back and forth through the woods and all the way to Eagrose to stock up on supplies and grab some equipment while Greg and I were recovering. We had just barely made it, we were told. If the others hadn’t grouped together to slay all the Brigade’s men and black mages, I would no longer have been here.
Greg had decided it was time for a change. He wanted to do damage rather than fall flat on his face at the first hit while running around scattering potions all over. After seeing my fireworks, he wanted to try being a black mage. It would suit him, he had decided.
And I? I was tired of seeing everyone die around me. My near death
experience had opened my eyes. I didn’t know the first thing about potions and Phoenix downs, despite having been friends with Greg since we were children. But my high faith made me well-versed to do magic jobs. There and then, in that sun-drenched infirmary, I decided. I would become a white mage.
I am Bathsua, the hand that heals all it touches, and these are my memoirs.
Memoirs of a squire 