It was poor judgment that had lead them to this bloody, desolate place. Stench of death and the anger of the lost wafting low in the thick, guilt ridden and sorrow-felt atmosphere. It was his fault that the enemy had been given the upper hand. He should have halted the masses. He should have delayed their invasion, foreseen the ambush; protected his brethren.
That was why he could not allow his wounds to be healed, despite the many that pressed for it. Loss of blood already clouding his vision and lightening his step, he swayed with the premonition of losing conscious.
“Just let me heal you! Quit being so damn stubborn, Squall! We care, I care, you have to care, too.” She pressed, she always pressed, calling forth names he’d long since grown familiar with. Fortunately for him, he’d learned to perfect the ability of numbing his mind, body, and soul to such things, which was most unfortunately for her.
(You wouldn’t understand…Rinoa.)
Flexing his fingers around the hilt of his gun blade, he brings the weapon around so that he might use it as a crutch. With the sharp tip of the blade firmly lodged into the earth, his weight comes forth, “These cuts are as vital to me as my pulse. They remind me of what it is to be human. Men are made with skin so that they never forget their transgressions and failures.” It truly is a bother that he has to explain, but how can he expect anyone to understand him?
But Rinoa has always been determined. When her gaze has lifted, and the tears are made evident, balled fists shake at her sides. “So, you torment yourself because it’s a reminder that you’re human?” Bitterness, he knew that was coming.
Silence was his only response. A predictable action on his part, but this is something that she does understand.
As his heart falls, and with it, his body - it isn’t the gun blade that keeps him upright. The warmth of another is there, body molding to his, strong and supportive.
OF COURSE SWAN PRINCESS IS WORTH IT. PFT. HOW CAN YOU EVEN QUESTION THAT?? 10 BUCKS FOR BOTH OF THEM, YOU AINT GOT SHIT TO REGRET THERE. ALSO, GET YOUR PEN READY THEN BECAUSE UR GONNA NEED TO WRITE A LETTER. ALL IM GONNA SAY.
BUT BUT BUT IM THE EPITOME OF LAZY AND IDK IF ITS WORTH IT IDK IM JUST INDECISIVE AS ANYTHING
omg no no no no my baby odette nO NO I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS COURSE OF ACTION I ASSUME THEY TOOK
i mean its a kid’s movie so all ends up fine and dandy in the end…
Nathan, I think it’s safe t’say we’re question buddies!
3: What kind of sandwich best describes your personality?
Kawaii on the outside, super cold and broken up on the inside ~.
7: What is your spirit animal?
Probably Natsume, if I’m completely honest. She wasn’t into dudes a whole lot, the one she really dug was too old for her; her entire life was on the internet, and she wasn’t very good at outside-of-the-internet life; she didn’t like to be approached as being *~attractive~*. Idk, we’re kind of the same in a lot of ways.
9: What was the last movie you chose not to watch?
Ted, I think it’s called? It’s that one with the teddy bear that comes to life or something ?? Idk, it looked pretty lame. Or was it The Hangover III ?? Idr. One of those two. We went to the drive-in to watch The Hangover III or w/e and I wasn’t diggin’ it.
17: What is your favorite type of pie?
I’m more of a cake person, in all honesty ^u^. I guess Pumpkin ??
There’s nothing personal invested in these fights. No sound rhyme nor reason, or thought that sways his judgment. These are clients orders, and he is bound by contract to see these wishes fulfilled. Even if it means bloodshed. Even if the risk of perishing is great.
In the fury of battle their blades move like serpents. Deliberate and graceful, the phantoms of their momentum shimmer in the light of the glaring sun, their blades making whispers of their swings. The steel sings as they clash blade to blade, their song loud and fast. When the men lose their swords the battle carries on with fists and blood and bruises.
In the blur of violent movement and loose limbs, Squall finds the blade of his weapon once more and plunges it through the soldier’s abdomen. The violence of their movement ceases, and the stillness of tragedy infects their spirits as the soldier bleeds over Squall’s hands. Silence is deafening, death approaches swiftly. It’s inevitable, the one thing that could claim to be eternal, and its shadow has already begun to creep upon the bloody field.
Gloved fingers loosen their tight grip, and slowly Squall begins to retract his gunblade. The light in the soldier’s eyes is extinguished, his body still and limp and it falls, backwards.
There is no feeling of triumph, no victory mirth to gain. This was the fulfillment of his contract, the completion of his duty. His enemy destroyed, he is relinquished from the injustice that plagues his profession; but never without price.
Left without the adrenaline, the gunblader feels his own humanity. Mortality is a reminder that his flesh is not duty, and he ceases to breathe for a moment, torn skin flexing and creating a burning gnaw that steals the rest of his breath away. The anguish numbs his mind, his spirit. In the darkness of surrounding death, Squall loses consciousness.
said: whoa whoa you get to eat the extras. how the hell do i get this job?
BA of FIne Arts with an emphasis on photography? Hahaha. Im actually their Graphic artist, and take care of their label ordering, but photo happened to be my major and food happened to be my focus. So it was just a good fit. You might know the company/see our stuff around - it’s Archer Farms at Target.
It felt a lot like falling. As if he had taken a step and somehow, his foot had missed the connection with the ground, or perhaps he hadn’t stepped far enough, and the weight pushing forward had caused him to meet the pavement. That wasn’t it, though. He could take steps - was met with a solid surface to balance his body mass, but the action caused his head to spin, and the strange bleeding darkness to tilt into awkward figures around him. It could only be accurately described as falling. His heart plummeted, his lungs slow to expand creating a starvation for oxygen; without air, he could not breathe. Without a breath, he couldn’t think, and his already jumbled mind frantically latched for the edge of a thought. This was familiar, the visage that spread out before him. Sight and sound, the smell of ocean water and a wafting pleasantry of flowers brought with it a peace he’d only recently come to remember. Standing in place, gun blade still clenched between leather clad fingers, always a hand at the ready in case this was another paradox, another place in time where Ultimecia would wish to do battle. What proof did they truly have of her demise? Enemies had deceived them before.
Squall’s brow narrowed, stormy blue oculars wincing at the introduction of the sun. He lifted his arm to block the intrusive rays, only just noticing the stone pillars forming in place of the nothingness that had plagued him prior. A brief interval of confusion clouded his senses. (…What’s going on?…) A footfall forward and his approach fell short. Within the inky blackness beyond the door emerged a figure in a yellow shirt and blue denim jeans. A name that Squall remembered to be repetitive at this time left the young boy’s lips. That young boy was every inch the grown man standing parallel within the space time continuum, nothing more than a translucent bystander unable to interact with this ghostly past of a plane. The visual reminded him of youth’s naivety, and how large the world seemed in comparison. Absentmindedly, the SeeD Commander touched his gloved index finger to the start of the diagonal scar that marred his features. Slowly, he slid the digit down the imperfection, unable to truly feel the texture beneath the padding serving as a barrier, but able to trace the jagged lines.
Several months ago, it was nothing more than a flaw and a reminder to him that he was human, and pain was inevitable. Thus his personal code was to remain neutral in all situations, acting on the duty that would befall his shoulders, and living within his own head. (Life had been easier that way. Disappointment wasn’t a factor, so your hopes were never up or down, they were nonexistent…) Now, this scar was a blatant message that life was too short and fragile for him to waste away. It was given to him, something that was his to control and to shape, and he had been doing the exact opposite of what he had always thought he was doing - playing his own role. He was a SeeD on strings, a puppet to be manipulated in the plot of a scheme he had nearly fallen victim to. This scar was a separation of the past, a definition of change. He was evolving, in a sense, into a new man with new and altered perspectives. He was aware of the people surrounding him, ironically the few who were not with him now. Come to think of it, (…Everyone was with me. But where…?)
The orphanage reminiscent of his childhood faded, replaced with the infinite dark, and yet somehow, his vision was not obscured in the sense that he could see nothing. Holding out a hand, it looked to be bathed in light. Every contour and crease of his leather visible to the human eye. Beyond, was nothing. A black hole he fell continuously through, an elevator between worlds, outside of any tense and state of being. Like the three surface areas of a triangle, one past, one present, and one future; he stood in the center, a variable yet to be configured. Where would he turn up? Who would he turn up with? Would anyone find him? Would he be able to find them? These questions, and more, invaded his mind. They went unanswered of course, lost because they were what he, too, lacked. Time had become both his enemy and his greatest ally in a world where nothing existed. The urge to give in to this bleakness, to wallow in the dark alcove that promised eternal peace and solitude was devastatingly hard to ignore. However, for as strong as the pull was to this void, there was a presence even stronger within.
A light. It tore to the surface, flowing around him in a storm of white and black feathers. They mingled as if tornadic, twisting and turning and rotating together, distorting the darkness. Like a paintbrush, land and sky painted around him. The disheveled atmosphere rippled, his eyes burned, everything rushed in like thunder without sound. The obvious, booming presence startled him. Confusion furrowed his brow, his head whipping from side to side, finding only dry, deserted land with cracks in the ground. A hue of gray mountains were obscured by an unnatural fog. Skies filled with gloomy gray clouds, no creases to suggest sunlight of any kind. (Now where am I…?) He wondered, cursing his astounding lack of luck. In the back of his mind, his new and improved subconscious chided him for the already fading will power to survive. He had to keep searching. He had to have hope. (Hope… That’s what you’d say, isn’t it…?) Briefly, the chestnut eyed young woman flashed in the forefront of his mind, and that image alone gave him strength.
Determined to find his comrades… his friends, Squall took the first step, testing his weight on the hard earth. The dirt crunched beneath his boot as he walked on, looking from side to side, searching for any sign of life. The terrain was unchanging the further he went, but the distorted air shimmered and taunted him with different scenery; a puzzling attribute. Until now, they had all been at a distance to his right and to his left; the one he stood face to face with no more than a foot in the path in front of him. The image reminded him of a projectile, but that was impossible as he was the only one here, in this plain. Squall inhaled a breath, sidestepping what could have been a portal, to continue towards the northern direction. If he kept going, he would eventually run into an actual landscape. These were the plains to which he and his friends had often trained upon, were they not? (What if they aren’t… What if I really am… alone?) The corners of his lips turned down at that thought. Wobbly legs barely held his weight now, but the tenuous balance he had was sustained by the constant movement, although his body swayed with the pending crash.
He would’ve fallen had he not heard her voice. (Rinoa…?) Chestnut trim jostling with the sudden turn of his head, energy restored by the on set of adrenaline, Squall dove into the misty fog, following the familiar. “Rinoa… Rinoa!?” Calling out to her in turn, he ran at full speed, dodging enticing ripples of worlds he didn’t know, skidding to a complete halt. Rocks tumbled over the edge of a ravine. Had he not caught himself, he would’ve tumbled over with the rubble. Pivoting back around, he walked along the edge of the cavernous hole in the ground, trying to see through the density of the fog. Cupping his gloved fingers around his mouth, Squall inhaled deeply a lung full of bitter oxygen, letting it out in a deep bellow of his voice; it echoed far beyond. “RINOA!” Perhaps his voice would lead her. Perhaps, he was not alone after all.