Wherein an overworked, chain-smoking Rosa Farrell-Harvey gives her king regent a piece of her mind
Oh! Oh! Okay! STOP THE MAGITEK ASSEMBLY LINE FOR A HOT SECOND! You’re worried about your white mage wife smoking three packs of Gysahl Lights a day? How thoughtful! Do you know how much I do for this group? If KluYa forbid I need to self medicate my non-Lunarian pleb human PTSD a bit to keep the only team capable of saving the world from imploding then maybe shut the fuck up and begrudge me a cancer stick or 27, and either help me saddle up the chocobo or keep swinging that Sword of Legend at the squishy monsters.
And if you think for a second you are going drunk airship flying with Cid, Edge, and Kain every night when we have three mini-Lunarians running around Castle Baron because “running a country is hard work”, think again, buster.
Don’t think I didn’t see that little VIP pass to Troia’s members-only “dance” club in your wallet. Rydia dropped Edge like a hot potato when he couldn’t keep it in his ceremonial gi, and he got off light. I told her to go full course Ultima and hold the traditional Phoenix Down palate cleanser.
Oh, diplomatic formalities, royal obligations! That’s cool, that’s cool. You do remember my best friend has the most powerful eidolons on this world, the underworld, and the freaking moon on speed dial, yes? Do you want to see the true meaning of catching holy hellfire?
So let’s drop the performative concern for my health and not pretend this isn’t because you don’t want a queen with a catcher’s mitt for a face in ten years. Well this hot piece of platinum blonde trophy cleric ass has international councils to oversee, half-supernatural diapers to change, healing magic to perform in the infirmary, and my royal consort postpartum anime waifu leather push up nursing bra TIDDIES have to be expressed four times a day before they develop mastitis – Esuna doesn’t work on that, you know – so don’t you dare whine about how your morally complex balls are bluer than Cagnazzo after Shiva attacked him with diamond dust and gave him a fake number.
So help me Bahamut, I will Holy your “Crystal sword” into oblivion and then I will have Rydia X-Zone your extremely confused eunuch ass straight to Midgar to deal with alien nightmares, villains with better hair than you but still worse than mine on a bad day, morally bankrupt corporate pseudo-government and spiky-haired emo party leaders with actual leadership qualities, while I get back to torching my lungs, raising a family and running a country with a fucking air force from behind the scenes while smelling like the hottest ashtray you wish would grace your juvenile wet dreams.
Actually you know what, go get that Troian lap dance from that troupe of stretch mark free 7-out-of-10s from an overly horned convent, bring me the loyalty spa coupon, and go bunk with Golbez on the moon tonight and do not come back until I say you can, and when I do you’d better bring me some flowers, a foot rub and a heart shaped box of Having Your Shit Together, because I am SO DONE with this Someone Once Wrote A Poem About Me On A Sword And That Matters, “men can cast Cura too,” Moon Unit Zappa nepo baby energy.
Worried about the mother of his kids.
Not in my castle. Not tonight.
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