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@immanisetinanis
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Good evening, residents!
Due to recent events on Tumblr, the mod team have begun considering moving Aldebaran Sea off the site. We have prepared a test site on a Jcink to give a more concrete example of what ADB would look like if it were forum-based. You can find the test site here.
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The candle celebration...it reminded him of home.
knollknelling:
Knoll has discovered he likes handicrafts. Or, well, he likes the idea of them, anyway. Back before– before, he had hardly the patience for them, and always his uncle’s words echoed in the back of his mind, scolding him for wasting time that could be spent on more productive measures.
But here there is nothing more productive to do, and keeping his hands occupied with helpful things is– useful. It is still a struggle to see a project to its completion, but there is a certain quiet joy in being able to make things that Knoll has come to covet. That he can create as well as destroy has value to him.
Which has brought him to the handicrafts market in Tranquillity once again. This time it seems there is a booth– series of booths, really– dedicated to making candles. Knoll steps in line, gets his wicks, and moves toward the wax. It might be nice, to have candles he’s made. He has no use for candles, not with the strange artificial lights throughout the seas, but it would be something useful he’s made with his own two hands.
Jerky movement from behind him has Knoll whirling around, heart thudding in his chest, reaching for where he would keep his dagger– the dagger that isn’t there, of course, oh god, what kind of threat is he going to have to face, armed with nothing but a handful of candle wicks–
–It’s just a man. Well, a very tall man, with very long hair, who has a candle wick folded in half between his teeth. A man with a piercing gaze, whose look makes Knoll feel as if there as a knife held to his throat–
“U, um,” Knoll stammers. “S– Sorry. For,” For what, Knoll? “Looking,” and then he turns back around and hunches his shoulders and tries to disappear into the ground.
The wick was relatively thin, made of something akin to cotton, and was easily severed by the persistent worrying of his teeth. It would be trivial to trim the rest of his wicks this way, if somewhat of an unfortunately-textured inconvenience. Not that that was what Sephiroth was currently focusing on.
No, his current focus was on the nervous prey animal of a man ahead of him. His smirk split into a devious grin. It had been a while since he’d been able to tease, and he did so enjoy being able to indulge with such an expressive type.
“Oh, you’re hardly the first I’ve caught staring,” he purrs, voice mock-soothing. Let him know that he was caught, that he was just one of many — hardly noteworthy besides having committed such a slight. Sephiroth lifts another of his wicks between his teeth, the point of the precise fold held tight between incisors, and saunters closer to the man. He comes to a stop just a hair closer than would be considered polite in such a circumstance.
There’s a brief scissoring motion of a powerful jaw and then the gentle snap of a wick breaking. One of his hands drops to the table, sliding just past the robed figure to brush his fingertips over a flattened sheet of wax, one of the many piles ahead of them. It was just slightly too far for Sephiroth to grab without either leaning into the other man’s space, or stepping ahead of him.
Sephiroth was far too polite to cut ahead of someone in line.
“Excuse my reach.”
The candle celebration...it reminded him of home.
@knollknelling
Not home, as in Midgar, but home as in...the smell of hot oil and onions and fried potatoes. Genesis, Angeal, and he, standing huddled around his little barracks window, singing blessings as they passed around the shamash candle. The way Genesis’ nose would wrinkle and his brow would furrow when he lost in their game of dreidel, the way Angeal’s would relax biting into one of the jelly donuts they pulled from the oven. The way the candles, burning low, would reflect off their eyes and their teeth and their skin when they looked at him and smiled.
He remembered feeling nothing when he looked upon Nibelheim, set ablaze, seeing reflections of flames off his blade, off shattered windows and bodies and blood and—
He ground his teeth and pulled Jenova close to him, digging his fingers into her helmet. (Was it worth it?) He swallowed down his shaky breaths, running fingers through her hair to gently loosen tangles, before tying it back in a loose braid. When he’d calmed, he placed the head back on his desk, and reached down below it to retrieve the bag he’d specifically purchased for carrying her. It wasn’t safe to leave her here; it wasn’t safe to let people see her, either.
Something nagged at Sephiroth — the feeling that he was beginning to become complacent in this place. Adjusting too smoothly. Accepting that this was what was happening to him, now.
It made him miserable.
It made him more than miserable.
He felt possessed when he stepped out of his apartment and began the long trek down the Lampadias stairs. The sunlight outside was hazy, filtered through a gentle rain. The few drops that clung to him were warm. He noticed, mildly, that there was a light sprinkling of snow on the streets, melting and running down, slicking the roads.
Eventually, he found himself along one of the many paths that wound their ways through the forest. He’d learned already not to stray too far from them, as doing so would end only in confusion, frustration, and many hours unaccounted for.
The thin slush crunched quietly under his boots as he approached the booth near the end of the path. People were filtering slowly through, speaking in friendly tones and laughing along with one another; nothing like the hubbub of the entranced crowds he’d encountered earlier in Crises.
A little bear handed him a handful of lengthy wicks and he nodded thankfully, without looking at her. He stared at the wicks, then along the row of tables. Ah, so this was the candle-making event. He supposed he needed some candles.
He separated one of the wicks from the rest and folded it in half, carefully aligning the ends. Yes, these would work well enough at half length. He glanced down the tables again, not seeing any scissors or knives. How annoying.
He identified the table for candle-rolling and lined up, taking note of the young man just ahead of him who appeared to be actively trying to disappear into his layers of robes. With an amused smirk, Sephiroth began to tear into his wicks with his teeth.
cremation rites.
@immanisetinanis
There was the lantern parade, dancing in the distance. There was the cold, clean bite of the air, heralding winter. There was the restless thrill in the crowd of rats and cats. There was Lily Vaswani, bundled in a coat and sweater, striking matches.
She stood before one of the plainer effigies, a rather generic gentleman, stately and well-dressed. She had chosen this one for its monocle, but had not quite been able to resist borrowing some paint and drawing the Scope eye across its chest. The cats had been rather displeased at that—some had hissed and yowled at her when they had seen that she was essentially desecrating her handiwork—but she had merely smiled at them and carried on. There was her new knife, sewn into the inner lining of her coat, the familiar chill of a blade at her side. She was not planning on harming anyone, but it was good to be a threat nonetheless.
This was her third match; she kept lighting them then getting distracted, and then the little flame would start to touch her gloved fingers. Her father was dead; this was only her own pettiness; this meant nothing. (What if the ark brought him back?) It wasn’t as if by burning his effigy she was keeping him in his wretched grave. (Wasn’t it?)
She brought the match up. The flame was bright and brilliant, a tiny stroke of gold in the dark. She almost let this one get away from her too, watching it flicker—but she remembered herself, and touched the match to the effigy, right in the center of the eye.
There was a movement to her left, then: she made herself turn so she would not become transfixed by the spreading fire. The man next to her was very tall, and his hair was almost as long as he was. She thought, If I talk to him I won’t slip away. And besides—
“You should probably tie up your hair, if you’re thinking of burning something,” she said. Luckily there was a length of black of ribbon in her coat pocket, a leftover from some package or other. This she presented to him now. “They provide matches, if you need them.”
Sephiroth really hadn’t intended to come for the celebration.
But he was restless, and he had heard the whispers of effigy and flame, and the prospect of some sort of release drew him back to this wretched place once again.
On the train, he remained silent and still, eyes fixed on a point between two empty seats across from him. In his lap, he cradled the black leather bag holding Jenova’s head. His thoughts were a maelstrom he dared not brave.
When the trained reached his destination, he barely heard the soft ding and tranquil, automated voice of the announcement. Barely felt himself sling his bag over his shoulder and move to the door, stepping from the platform down to the damp pavement. Raindrops landed on his cheeks, caught on his eyelashes, soaked into his hair as he stood motionless in the landing, staring placidly at the scrawled map posted on the brick of the terminal. There were some crude drawings made at various locations which, he assumed, were meant to represent the locations of the local events.
He pulled the collar of his sweater higher up to his throat and started towards the location of the effigy burning. He kept his gaze low and his mind focused on his goal — he wouldn’t get lost in memories in these streets again. Not after last time.
Sephiroth wound his way through the streets, cutting through the shopping district, through the humming parade of lantern light. Finally, he found what he was looking for, inhaling sharply as the smell of smoke and burning hit him. He idled near the edge of the small crowd for a moment, casting several quick glances about the area — searching for threats, verifying a method of exit. When he found himself to be the most immediate threat to the event, he was satisfied, and pushed into the crowd, towards the table being manned by denizens. Upon the table were dozens of effigies, all different shapes and sizes and features, and one in particular caught his eye: a figure in a long white coat, dark hair pulled back, with glasses drawn on in marker. He pulled it from the table, casting a pointed look at the widely-grinning cat who sat across the table, before he turned to vanish back into the crowd.
He didn’t look around him this time, too distracted by the doll he held in his hand. His jaw clenched as he slipped his hand in his coat pocket, fondling the lighter he’d brought along with him. The voice of a woman next to him rose up above the din, seemingly addressing him. Too surprised to remember to wear his scowl, he turned to look at her. The woman held an effigy in one hand, freshly lit — in the other, a black ribbon, held up to him.
A smirk crept to his lips at the offering. “I'm not too concerned about it catching fire.” But he took the ribbon anyway, pulling his hand from his coat pocket and reaching back over his shoulders to tie his hair into a loose ponytail. “Thank you.”
Sephiroth considered the woman for a moment. He could feel the whirlwind of emotions radiating from her nearly as strongly as his own. He saw the way her eyes drank in the sight of her effigy aflame. He reached back into his pocket and retrieved the lighter, holding it to the feet of his own effigy. He’d start at the bottom — he imagined Hojo seeing himself catch fire, unable to do anything as it crawled up the length of his body. Helpless to do anything but succumb to the flame. Aware up until his very last breath. Sephiroth placidly wondered if the professor would be the type to scream.
He flicked the wheel of the lighter and watched the effigy ignite. He looked back to the woman next to him, tilting his head towards the doll curling and blackening into ash in her hands. He didn’t really care, but...
“Who is he?”
The old menorah was the last thing Sephiroth expected to find in the sterile Lampadias room he’d been occupying. At first he didn’t believe it, frowning as he ran bare fingers over the soft, polished wood. It smelled of old wax and...yes, the scratch at the base was there. This was definitely his, from his old SOLDIER barracks.
Was this a duplication, or the original? Where had it come from? How? Why?
It sent a chill up his spine.
Sephiroth set the menorah back down on the desk where he had found it, eyeing it suspiciously. “Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess, hm?” His voice was hollow as he said it. He spared a glance at Jenova’s head on his bedside table. It would be his first Hanukkah with his mother. Somehow, he felt very little joy in the thought. Why?
Sephiroth collapsed into his desk chair, burying his face in shaking hands. Images of celebrating with his old friends in past years surfaced in his mind.
His first Hanukkah...he had been seventeen years old. Genesis had playfully asked Sephiroth what he planned to do for their time off for the holidays and was appalled when Sephiroth had told him that he planned to do nothing, that he didn’t celebrate holidays, that he was frustrated about not being allowed to get back to work. The mage, emboldened by their burgeoning friendship, had pestered him relentlessly about it, even soliciting the assistance (however reluctant) of the other First Class, Angeal Hewley.
“Not even as a child?” The expression Angeal had been wearing was one Sephiroth had come to be quite familiar with at this point. He always wore this expression when Sephiroth spoke about his personal life. “But...then what did you do with your family? The holidays are supposed to be for spending time with loved ones!”
Sephiroth hadn’t missed the glances exchanged between Genesis and Angeal when he’d laughed too forcefully at that. It was then that he explained to them he had no loved ones, that his mother had died during his birth, that he didn’t have a father. That when he spoke of labs during his childhood, he was speaking of his home life. The scientist in charge of his growth and development was a man who was very clear about his disdain for all things religious and spiritual. Hojo had known that Sephiroth’s birth mother was Jewish, but had elected to never share that information or to make it part of his life.
Genesis had called it cruel. Inhumane, even. Sephiroth hadn’t ever considered that. It was merely another sacrifice which he had made to get where he was now. Even if it was a sacrifice that had been made for him. Against his knowledge and will.
It was from then on that Sephiroth had made a point of learning what he could. Practicing what he could. Genesis and Angeal had been behind him every step of the way, and it made him feel a way he hadn’t felt before.
He never could identify that feeling.
And now... Angeal was dead. Genesis was missing, and their last interaction had been a slew of insults among horrifying revelations.
That feeling was gone, replaced by something aching and hollow.
Attached to this message is a written request for procurement of the advertised "holiday" item.
Thank you, Sephiroth! ♡
Your gift has been delivered to your room. Inside, you will find a…
♡ COMMEMORATIVE ENFORCEMENT PROTOCOL PHONE CASE ♡You hold in your hands a metallic pink phone case, lovingly adorned with a hot pink owl with gold details.
Be sure to come back soon!
holiday starter call
(( hey, i’m interested in doing some starters with seph...please like this or lmk if you want to thread!!!!
he’s probably going to be very grumpy and unwilling to do holiday stuff unless nagged or otherwise forcefully encouraged....he’s never really celebrated holidays before...................................................
i’m not capping for now!! i don’t have a lot of threads going on, i’d love to have more ))
I scarcely dared to look / to see what it was I was.
Elizabeth Bishop, from “In the Waiting Room,” The Complete Poems 1927-1979 (via lifeinpoetry)
Tell me my body is freedom, the most stubborn resilience. | Tell me i have survived too many earthquakes & fracturing handprints to surrender like this—
— George Abraham, from “the Olive Tree speaks of deforestation to my body,” al youm: for yesterday & her inherited traumas
@belovedmairon
belovedmairon:
Wound-up, tense, uncomfortable. The man was an explosion waiting to happen and Sauron couldn’t help but want to try and start that fire. Besides, he could tell that a subtle hand wouldn’t get him the answers he desired today and he was already feeling impatient, sick of playing the long game. Time to wield a hammer instead of a chisel and have a little fun.
“Oh, just an interesting mineral. In exchange for a sample, I want a closer look at your friend over there,” he said, pointing at the cradled head. His fingers rapped a rhythmic pattern on the pickaxe handle as he spoke, eyes fixed on the man’s face. It wasn’t likely that they were in search of the same thing, and if they were, well. Sauron wasn’t in the mood to share for free. Plus, there was an almost radioactive energy emanating from the head and he was determined to find out why the man was so fiercely possessive of a pile of decaying flesh. He smiled and stepped forward, angling his body to block the cave entrance while beginning to enter the man’s personal space.
If Sephiroth weren’t in control of himself, he would have flexed his free hand, drawing from the power within the materia he carried to ignite a flame in its palm and hurl it towards the man. Even if that man had found what Sephiroth was looking for — how dare he even suggest the value of the precious cargo they each carried were anywhere near equivalent.
Of, course, Sephiroth didn’t have his materia. And he was in control of himself. When the other man smiled, though, anxiety coiled through him, threatening to spark.
“I’m afraid I must decline,” he hissed through clenched teeth, feeling his own nails bite into the flesh of his shaking palm through the leather of his glove.
The electricity within him arced when the man pushed past an invisible boundary, uncomfortably close. His face twisted in a snarl, feral, as his free hand came up from his side to backhand the other man. Long gone was the composure of SOLDIER’s prized First Class. Now, he was pure violence and fury; a monster in human skin.
“How dare you —”
What more can I tell you? Oh, everything — like how they would walk home in the evenings when the light was soft, anything bad sliding off them, and they would feel owned, completely owned, in a good way, by the air, which would touch them constantly, sometimes urgently, sometimes lightly, just to let them know it was there, and they would think maybe this is what being alive is
— Emily Berry, from “No Name,” published in Poetry
(If only the word madness would come and root back and grip on my breath. If only I could tell you, how death is but a sadness and sadness is a death.)
— Melissa Lee-Houghton, from “(True Blue Baby),” Bite Your Tongue When you Give me My Name
This, then, is love. This is the experience from which you’ve felt exiled for so long. This rage mixed up with empathy; this simultaneous desire for admiration and victory.
Michael Cunningham, from A Wild Swann: And Other Tales; “Little Man,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
2, 9, 15
2. a song that describes them?
“Wisdom of the old and truePossessed by the chosen fewShining to reveal the waysOf a darkness that pervadesAll that is and ever was Inferno of witches blood
Worship is not on bended kneeNature knows not of mercyTo pray is to accept defeat”
9.best thing in their life?
In his eyes? It had been the war in Wutai. (In the beginning.)
15. what is their vice? (wrath, greed, pride, lust, gluttony, sloth, envy)
Pride.
ct-5439:
Doc was reluctant to head out and explore the opportunities Nectar awarded him, instead opting to flip through the dating app– not out of any desire to “find someone special” (he’d had enough of that backfiring on him to not approach it again), but because it worked as a convenient means of learning more about the residents of this place. Easy method of threat detection, evaluation, and of finding prime targets to bother, if he needed to keep himself entertained. So far, the search hadn’t been giving him many satisfactory results in that respect– however, he’d just found a profile that struck his interest. The man’s information led him to believe that they had similar viewpoints, similar values. He may prove to be worth talking to. Connecting with another person who had a disregard for the rest of the population sounded enriching, and above that, it would be sure to keep Doc’s own attitude sharp. An appealing prospect. He could be fun to converse with, though if the picture was anything to go by, the hair seemed impractical. But who was he to deny someone their vice of vanity if it was deserved, the way this one seemed to be?
He tapped out a brief message to this “Sephiroth”, something indicating the parallels of their attitudes and the possibility that he could be beneficial company, then tucked the phone in his pocket alongside his train pass. He also grabbed the small pack of medical supplies he never left the apartment without; he may not have his blasters or his full kit, but he wasn’t going to be caught completely unawares if he could help it. He’d gotten fed up with the constant pleasant view in this beach city, and the place called “Crises” seemed like a good bet for that homey Kamino gloom– not to mention the opportunity for new clothing choices, the utility of the libraries, and the potential that his medical skills may be called upon in a crime-ridden city. He could only hope.
During the train ride, he grew increasingly irritated. He’d sent that message several hours ago, and still hadn’t received a reply back. The nerve of him, refusing to acknowledge his gracious offer of some sorely needed like-minded company. (Hmph. Just proves he wasn’t worth his time after all.) Aside from his bad attitude, the train arrives in Crises without incident, and Doc immediately makes a beeline for the cramped streets. He’s not sure where he’s heading first– the area he’s cutting through seems like a residential section, but if he continues on long enough he’s sure to find a storefront or library at some point. He’s in no rush, either way.
As he walked through the strange, dark city that resided within Crises, Sephiroth couldn’t help but glance through the windows of several local stores. It reminded him of the past, of his old life spent with old comrades. Genesis would drag him along Midgar’s streets, sometimes yanking him by the hand, sometimes playfully tangling an arm in his. Angeal would chuckle, of course, following close behind the other two with hands in pockets. Sephiroth never understood what the other two enjoyed in these ventures out on the city, but he could appreciate it his own way — he considered it to be building camaraderie among the First Classes, gaining a familiarity with the kinds of lives and lifestyles he was protecting as a SOLDIER, seeing glimpses of the world beyond. Sephiroth always indulged Genesis’ desires to dress him and Angeal in various clothes and accessories that the mage thought might improve their looks, but aside from the occasional loop of ribbon or kitschy household good, he did not buy anything on those trips.
This place was nothing like the Midgar he knew, but still, there was something about it...
Sephiroth stooped low to step into a dimly-lit store tucked away near the end of the street. The little shop was surprisingly warm. Its muddied walls were bathed in the gentle dancing light of a flame kindled near the entrance, probably meant to entice customers off the cold road. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, Sephiroth spotted something nestled between several display racks of coats and hats. A dark, blood-red bag: leather, with a dark satin lining. He stroked the leather with his gloved hands, feeling the firmness of it, considering whether Jenova would mind being carried in such a material.
What was it Genesis had said about determining the quality of a leather...? Sephiroth furrowed his brows in thought as he sniffed the bag. (It smelled a little like standing water.) He remembered only something about the quality of a leather being what stood between an item that would outlive you and an item that would degrade.
Degradation....
Sephiroth snapped out of his reverie at the unpleasant memory, and he dropped the bag like it had burned him. He swept out of the shop, his cape billowing behind him. In his haste, he nearly collided past another man who was walking past the store nearly as briskly as he had been exiting it. Without conscious thought or moderation, Sephiroth’s left arm came up to place a palm in the center of the (only slightly) shorter man’s chest, and shoved.
maybe distance damages us maybe Jupiter
will suddenly surprise us with a notion of holiness
but instead an old planet takes over all the space
and we are reminded of the traces of fire
in our gaze defining our infidelities
— Nathalie Handal, from “Holy Cosmos,” published in Poem-a-Day
The river of life that circles our planet, giving life to the world and everything in it
