{ P A R I A H S . S H I E L D

Tell me are you free while the gallows stand and bullets lance the bravest lungs. Will I fold my hands or hold my tongue, or let the flames lick at my feet, Or breathe in fire and know I’m free? Flames will rise and devour me, Oh, to breathe in fire and know I’m free.Affiliated with Feymarches

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

[pariahshield]

monument-to-nonexistence:

          He can smell her discomfort.

          It lingers on people, settles in their skin, rings true in their eyes.  It is good.  It tells him they feel the import of him, know his presence for what it is — that he has hit the mark he has aimed for, the cycle of shock and disgust and constant-reminder-of-the-strange.  It is method in the pointless madness of the universe.  But he, perhaps, enjoys it in a more primal fashion, on the surface of his thinking — like a shark, knowing a wounded swimmer by its blood.  He enjoys tearing into the wounded.  He enjoys nothing more, in fact.  It is his only source of happiness.

          And she is the embodiment of discomfort, discomfort wrapped in a neat, cold shell of military efficiency.  There are layers of discomfort in this one, some that he remembers, some that he doesn’t:  The layer of unfamiliarity is foremost, the careful stripping of social skill by long lack of exposure.  Isolation.  It’s awfully lonely at the top.  And then there’s the twinge of a quiet child, who never was much good with people.

          (He never tortured her for it before, so why—)

          And then there’s her discomfort with him, which is his chief enjoyment.

          He allows himself to puzzle at that for a moment, looking her over sharply.  She’s almost characterized by her isolation and discomfort, even more so than the calculating, terrifying danger that hangs about her shoulders, dissonant and awful when one thinks of her age.  She’s broken — as broken as he is, if not more.  He doesn’t want to acknowledge how broken he is.  And yet — he reels at this, eyebrow shooting even higher, teetering on the edge of comical — she’s staring him down.  Staring him down as if she has everything under control, as if she, Gestahl’s adolescent killing machine, has ever been in control of anything.  As if she full well has the ability to put her foot down and tell him, her senior!, no.

          Her iron stare surprises him at first, but he realizes it for what it is — another defense mechanism.  She’s taller than me.  It makes him angry on principle.  

          ”But that’s booooooriiiiing,” he snarls, letting out another shriek of a laugh; he takes her by the shoulder with one bony hand, sharp and insistent, leans in close.  ”Why give them an ultimatum they won’t accept?  It’s much easier to bring them to their knees first, and then make them kiss your boots.  And so what if they would’ve accepted?  I say, to hell with their acceptance!  To the deep, dark depths of Gestahl’s beard with it!  If nothing gets incinerated or dies creatively, they obviously don’t know we mean business!

          ”Really, Celes.  I had my hopes up.  Judging by your treatment of Maranda, I’d have thought you knew something about politics.  And fun.”

Perhaps she's always reeked of it, discomfort and the very distinct scent of someone who was far too out of place that she nearly fit in perfectly, but this was a different feeling entirely.

This wasn't the shift of nerves or anxiety bred beneath the light of pressure. This wasn't try harder, do better, be stronger, quicker, faster, this wasn't the need to overachieve or topple everyone and everything in her path, this was something drastically different. This was a knot that caught in the expanse of her throat and blocked her breathing, this was a foul stench that lingered in the curves of her mouth, this was a little voice that whispered warnings into the shell of her ear.

This was something like the rebirth of morals in her chest, a phoenix of ideals long since burned to the ground, some painful itch that unfurled an expression of concern and damnation across the hard-etched stoicism of her features.

This isn't right -- and it never would be, ever again. It likely hadn't been for a long time.

He's right about one thing -- she has no control, but she possesses the illusion and staccato confidence of someone who believes she does, who stands on a pseudo moral high-ground that, while faltering, while composed of nothing but shifting sands, has held her upright for as long as she can remember and she knows not how to be anything but prideful and steeled. 

"It's our mission, it shouldn't have to be entertaining to quell you." Her voice flows out as something icy and sharp, a dagger of ice from her lips that matches her narrowed expression to a tee. For some reason, she feels as though she's addressing a child, a toddler, someone who needs constant stimulation in the form of gore and glory to be amused. How unnerving.

"Maranda was given a choice, it wasn't by will alone that I went through with the more dire option presented to them. We staked out that entire country for a week before finally setting everything into motion. It was..." What, fair?

Hardly. It was a massacre, a genocide, nearly. How was that fair?

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

[pariahshield]

monument-to-nonexistence:

"What?  What?  There’s always time for joviality!  Always!”  He stamps his foot feebly, the heel of his boot squelching into the brush.  His voice has risen above the clack of the tent poles and the rustle of cloth, the clank-shuffle dismounting of men from Magitek Armors, the bubble of rough, quiet conversation; at the final always, a bird breaks from a nearby tree, wheeling off.  He taps his chin, eyebrow shooting up.  “Especially the grim, important things.  How are they any fun otherwise?

"What happened to you?  When did you become so…”

He flutters a hand.  It is a stilted, inarticulate gesture.

"…frown-y?"

A few moments pass, chillingly awkward.  The men finish with his tent and he surveys it from afar; catching up his colorful trail, he bounces to a more conversational distance.  She’s gotten tall, he realizes.  He beams up at at least a two inch difference, accented by the icy solidity of her.  The weight of an imperial general, all dour and dutiful, on the ramrod shoulders of a woman barely out of adolescence.  No wonder she’s so grim!  Not everyone comes to enjoy the bloodshed and the power.  (Or does she?  Does she enjoy it?  That’s a button he’ll be sure to push later; he files it away.  He’s irritated enough that a thirteen year old girl surpasses him in stature, whether they once had some insubstantial connection or not.  He’ll hardly go easy on her.)

"Besides, my fellow subjugator, my dear general, you have your bland, broad orders, but you don’t have my creative input.  We have plans to discuss.”

Death is flat and point blank, a need-not-want-not sort of deal, drab and simple without the bells and whistles of anything terribly important though the way he speaks makes it something else. Something different. Murder, perhaps, though several shades darker, a hundred flavors grimmer. It curls her lip up slightly, furrows her browline into a mess of confusion and narrowed eyes. Joviality and death encircle one another, spin around and around and never meet but here he stands between the two, the hand that unites heaven and hell, two exclusively parallel lines forced to intersect.

He breathes a question and juts a flutter of limbs and fabric towards her -- she cares only for the implication that, once upon a time, she was the same as he is now. She wasn't. Was she? She'd always been quiet -- she simply hardened that silence into coercion. Determination. Precision. A sharp blade that served as a limb, that had no end, no point, no edge, only several mangled bodies split straight down the middle, piked atop the peak of a wounded conscience.

Below her, he stands, and she takes notice of it finally -- the height difference, the change in his face from age, the change of her own in the glass of his eyes. And in his eyes she finds nothing else but fire and a spark of amusement, something giddy, almost childlike. 

Terrifying.

Memories happen in flashes, always, something small that flickers like lightning and fades just as quickly. She's no different there, really; a weapon, maybe, but still a human regardless and therein she finds herself trapped in the past filled with sword fights and training, magic and training, do better, fight harder, show no mercy ever, ever, ever, but it was never like this.

There was never enjoyment in this.

There is now, for him, at least. She'd have to be blind to miss it. The shrill chip of his voice upwards at the mention, the sharp quirk of his lips. It was unfamiliar and terrible and terrifying, even if she hardly recognized the last two sentiments. Even if she'd never felt them before.

"I wasn't aware furthering our plans was necessary." Confidence and the height difference makes it easier to stare him down. A misunderstanding of fear and how it feels helps as well. Had she been less rigid, less professional, her arms would have probably crossed as well, but this was business, her profession, her mission. "We were to simply seek out neutrals, present them with an ultimatum, and go from there. I see no reason to elaborate further without giving them a chance."

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

What do you see?  What do you feel?

Does this divide between them — hurt her? he wonders, wondering at the feeling in turn.  He wonders if the sight of him is an offense to her as it is to the rest of his contemporaries, subordinates, masters.  Perhaps more of one, soiled with the bitterness of their previous connection, with the aloneness that visibly clings to her.  He is disturbed enough to be intrigued, to whet a childish — but still malicious — curiosity.

His face-splitting smile slackens, twists down.  He lets out a puff of air.  Exaggeratedly bored.  Ceeeleeees —

But he has the innate feeling that not even an obnoxious whine, not even a demand will draw her out of herself.  It probably won’t even hurt her, which kills even the smallest of his pleasures.

And so most of the day passes in silence, with the occasional glance, comment, huff, whine; lunge, parry, recoil, retaliate… it is all pointless, much like everything else.  Verbal training.  Testing waters and finding ice instead, but lacking the impulse-control to stop prodding it.  The soldiers talk, but they are too professional and uncomfortable to say anything of import.

They continue through the first sprinkles of nighttime stars, until the black mountains blend with the navy dark sky.  Then they stop, dismount, and begin to set up camp under the sparse canopy of the little woods.

He taps his foot in the soggy undergrowth as they prepare his tent for him, grumbling.  He watches with flinty eyes for the other official among the crooked shadows of the armors.

"I am offended," he eventually announces, leering ridiculously, "at the in tents aloofness with which you treat an old friend, Chere.”

One grunt, struggling with a tent pole and a swath of canvas, groans.  Another mutters something foul.

[pariahshield]

Nothing -- nothing. She feels and sees nothing, the ultimate crime. From that, her hands are constellations of blood unseen, hot stars of shame and the undeniable scratch of a feeling she was never taught the meaning of. 

A monster isn't born but created from circumstances. No amount of guilt can reverse that.

Within silence, she finds, rests both solitude and the inner workings of her own mind, a jumbled garden of weeds and unease, guilt and regret and the lingering idea of wrong despite knowing very little of what is and isn't. But very little comfort can be found in the voice of her subordinates, nor in the laughter that drones from the other -- even his face seems monstrous now beneath the blanket of night, highlighted only by the moons outstretched arms.

There is an almost grateful lull that resides in her chest upon their arrival for the night for she assumes to find peace and quiet within the shade of the trees. Instead he presents an observation peppered with a thousand meanings and she catches everyone, eyes slanted down against the grain of sand and soot at her feet.

His humor is noted notably because it is different, unusual, and therefore terrifying -- in a world where nothing changes, any shift is horror birthed from the mouth's of silenced babes. Her teeth grit a thousand unsaid words between their sharp white edges.

"I apologize --" but she doesn't, the words resound empty and dull, a hollow whisper of wind meshed against the metallic noise of her own tent's stake dug deep into the ground. "Though I assume you're aware of the importance of this all. We've little time for a jovial reunion."

Though a reunion of such caliber requires knowledge of the other prior -- and she's afraid, now, that she knows nothing of the man before her, not an inch, not a mile. This is not her mentor but someone else, someone wearing his clothes with more garish, twisting the seldom smile worn prior into the jaws of a beast seconds before it devours its prey.

Had she a word for discomfort, she'd feel it.

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

"A success!"

Another hideous laugh.  He offers no further commentary, seeming merely to revel in her discomfort; the machine rolls into motion with surprising grace (his earlier ineptitude deceptive?), obliging her curt reply.  Slaughterous, stinking, sordid success!  Simply splendid!  Five years — too great a gulf for compassion, for care.  The dismantling of the woman — no, the girl; the terrible irony and wrongness of her age makes it even richer — represents nothing more than a mirror, a misery to take solace in.

But this horrid, uncomfortable feeling is not solace at all.  It is at once a hollow, aching sensation — something clawing after a place that no longer exists — and a violent, frightened urge to prove futility itself.  All of them fortune’s fools, bumbling, staggering on a path that inevitably declines.

And at thirteen?  From the womb, he realizes with delight, she was meant to be a symbol of that mortal decay.

He flings an arm up, sneers back at the men.  The small convoy kicks their Magitek armor into motion.  A puddle of black-spiked things begins its long drift across the plain, arcing southeast, toward the great dark shapes of the mountains.  Small beasts scuttle before the mechanical-and-organic wreckage of their steeds.

He sits back, content to let the thing continue its natural movements, and offers the general of ice a shit-eating grin.  “And forward we press, to domination or destruction!  We’ll find out which in two days, provided we’re not late to the Emperor’s little date.  What do you think, General Cher?  Will they put up a fight?”

Did Maranda?  Oohoohoohoo!

He almost feels bad for teasing her.  He recognizes, for once in a long time, how utterly mean it is; this recognition is a frighteningly alien sensation, but so is the malice.  Grit your teeth and weather it, just like you did the pain, their jeers, the solitude — the weakness —

[pariahshield]

His laughter is the sound of fire against wood and the terrible groans that follow. It's the snap of boards beneath the flicker of a flame's tongue, unbearable heat that sears even the porcelain of her own skin. It catches in her throat, threads the smell of smoke through her hair, paints the white of her hands blood red for days, months, forever. Heat is a pain for her forever unbearable, agony unlike any other that bubbles in her throat and twists bile in the pit of her stomach that threatens to spill at any given moment.

The motions of her own machine shuddering to life helps very little; a great deal of effort is expended in order to conceal her discomfort and swallow back her pride. Even more is needed to keep her shoulders upright, prevent them from sagging beneath the weight of guilt and the screams that inhabit the shell of her ears.

She bears a confidence unlike anything founded in girl's her age, something that shifts her walk into a stride, forces her head upwards and forever at eye level despite any height differences offered and now is no different. Beneath the weight of his gaze, most would falter, shatter, though she is a mirror of his life exactly that bears no crack; instead she offers a reflection slightly different, an image with minor discrepancies neither of them realize.

"Perhaps." Her answers locks a slew of doubts in the depths of her throat -- she finds herself focusing on him far too long following, noting not only the increase in his garish appearance but the twitching difference of his eyes, the horridly sharp turn his lips have taken. Five years have blurred her memory considerably, clouded it with hell and a swirling tapestry of blood though she's certain now, more than ever, that something's changed - 

something's different.

Interpersonal relationships fell short of attainable for her even throughout her younger years though save for Cid and Leo, Kefka had came closest. Now a divide feels to be a more appropriate term, a gaping chasm.

Her gaze finds solace in the crook of her machinery, peace in hazardous pieces, a walking death-trap that provides more comfort than facing this head on which she supposes she would find ironic had she the inkling to care.

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

What a hideous group of ragtag monsters they were, playing at immortal soldiers carved in stone — what a clash of Gestahl’s favorite freaks!  He laughs when he sees her, a laugh that drags seconds and seconds and seconds too long, that starts out off-tune (perhaps betraying something of the nervous hatred he feels when he sees her?) but cascades into a knee-jerk inferno of twisted cheer.  When he’s finished, one of his eyes flutters, twitches.  It continues to flutter.  It does not seem to be within his power to keep it from doing so, even as he commands the rest of himself as best as he can.

"Does it look like we’re not?  Lady?"  A thrust of the chin.  A widening of painted eyes, glittering cold and sharp.  He gestures about himself with a flourish.  His smile is cutting — it can hardly be called a smile, and less so with every moment that passes. "We were waiting for you!  Not that you were late — I have nothing better to do than show up early.

"…Yes, yes!  We’re ready.  Get in your armor.”

He settles in, fumbles a moment or two; the thing gives a jolt and he lets out a little sound, an almost comical oof.  The Magitek contraption shuffles its feet, back and then forward.  He studies her out of the corner of his eye as he adjusts it with an uncomfortable squirm.

She’s changed.  No more than he has.  He can hardly remember what she was like before — the past five years have been a swirl of bloodshed, carnage, boiling pride, such that he can hardly remember what he was like before.  He knows they had — gotten on well?  I wonder — why is she so cold?  She’d better warm up.  This icy demeanor of hers might interfere with torching the next town that refuses us to the ground.

"Ooh, ooh!  I heard you’ve been busy in Maranda.”  As if he was talking about studying abroad, or meeting an overseas lover.  And utterly unprofessional.  The other soldiers have suited up; their helmets hide their embarrassed, quizzical faces.  He continues to make morbid conversation:  “Have all the things I’m sure I must have taught you come in handy?”

[pariahshield]

Time is a terrible mistress if his sanity and her frigidity are anything to judge by, a piteous thing that rusts even the strongest steel, incorrigible and forever impossible to escape though of the two changes in question, his is the one that disturbs her the most. Ever growing is a grin unseen before on his features, something that hinges his jaw back and metaphorically swallows her whole, a terrible sight that unsettles her obviously for a second or so before she's frozen again, shoulders pinned backwards into wings of pride and prestige. 

Very little can be said to the taunts offered by her inquiry though many things can be deduced including a soft sense of bubbling discomfort, a frigid edge of something stuck caddy corner in her throat she finds near impossible to swallow. A relationship based previously on similarities unfounded in anyone else seems wordlessly hostile, a sharp one-eighty from the way things were five years prior and his serenade of laughter dispels the idea that perhaps it is her fault.

Her trek begins regardless, a foot up and over before she settles into the armor herself, her start-up a significantly smoother ride than his though the sputter and shudder of a machine barely honed to perfection screeches tears into the befallen silence, a needed distraction from the momentary lull in their hellish reunion.

A lull a second too short, a lull that nary shatters the words sharpened as an unintentional dagger pointed straight at her chest that cracks a lifetime of ice and creates a chain reaction, a domino effect of thoughts ever present in her nightmares for months ongoing. Proud as she may be, Maranda was not a medal of honor she wore with her head held high. 

"The mission was a success,' her words bubble as confident if not a shade too detached, emotional disconnect a gift and a curse threaded through her very being. Many things could be said about the general of ice, the child soldier, the weapon of war, but little was remembered about the graceful child beneath it all with the uncanny ability to disengage before things became too personal, hurt too much.

Perhaps therein lied her strength, the mercilessness that guided the hand of loyalty wrapped callous-tight around the hilt of a blade specifically crafted for her sake. 

What is a monster if not a child with the capacity for compassion and the lacking foresight to know how to use it?

"We need to press forward. Idling will do us no good."

[lionsreprieve]

Judgement can be felt; it is cast upon him with that icy gaze. A actual tundra sits before him, as Squall soon shall realize this is not a woman, but a living blizzard. A storm that turns his path before him into ice, and threatens to freeze him dead in his tracks. Her very expression is frozen over, which brings a reminiscence to the frozen planes of his home. Ice does not crack under his mere weight; it melts away when poured upon by the harsh rains of a squall, only to be refrozen again.

This facade she wears is much like that of his own; she is frozen over, and he is the eye of the storm. It is under a calm surface that danger lurks, and that is apparent to him now. His stormy gaze is taken off of her, with the signaling of the bartender. The selection here is small, but it would seem even in the distant past, alcohol was still just that. A thought that he finds the smallest amount of solace in.

The ugly, ruined world that Ultimecia hurled him into is very different than his own, yet so similar.

“Jack on the rocks.”

The calm of this storm reclaims his facial features, as the drink is poured, then slid across the counter before him. The slightest of nods is given to the bartender, as gloved extremities reach into the pockets of his coat. An equivalent exchange of gil is given up, as the same gloved fingertips now coil around the glass. Lifting it, he then moves back to the seat to which she has perched herself.

"I hear you," the problem was, that she wasn’t hearing him. Or perhaps, she didn’t want to hear him. In the future this world is to become, he is apart of the task force that specializes in taking down possible threats to humanity. Sorceresses are the primary objective, although they are not the only menacing threat that lurks in the dark.

(..I’m a SeeD. I can handle anything that’s thrown my way.)

He lifts his drink to his lips, as the burning of whiskey washes over his throat, only to warm his stomach. It’s rougher than what he’s used to, but there is no change made to his expression. The cup makes a delicate clinking sound as it is placed onto the table once more. Thoughts of his early days in the academy cannot help but cross his mind. Although, they are hard to recall now; perhaps the guardian force cannot withstand the flow of time in this world, as it zaps more and more of his precious memories from his mind.

(It’s my duty to take sorceresses.. and like the like out.. no matter what the cost is..)

(Don’t interfere.. this is something I must do alone.)

A sigh passes with the rising and falling of shoulders. She insists that he is nothing to be taken lightly, yet Squall knows this already. Sorceresses are fearsome plagues to the human race; bringing about destruction and chaos no matter where they go. It is clear by the shape this world is currently in, that this primitive sorcerer is nothing to be reckoned with. An eerie feeling falls about him; it is as if Hyne himself is watching his every move.

Hair stands on end upon his arms, neck and legs, with the uneasiness in his stomach. A hand lifts to be placed against his forehead, as skin takes a sickly, pale tone. Feelings of uncertainty and loneliness wash over him, as if these feelings plan to tether, render, and break him in half.

(…What’s happening to me?)

[pariahshield]

Understanding is a road paved with hell and expression, emotion squandered beneath death's heavy hand, a two way street she toes the line of before retreating fully -- nary a thing sparks the fire of fear in her chest though compassion is a monster wholly untamed running rampant in her mind. Compassion is a beast untamed, new found flowers springing forth just barely beneath a thick layer of the blackest ice. For she is brimming with the potential of concern and care, a blank slate capable of empathy unbounded though potential and the ability to express as much run parallel, forever distanced to to be just out of arm's reach.

His settling culled the thunder of her upset just slightly, unruffled feathers preened at her neck though forever did he remain unrelenting beneath the ice of her gaze, piercing blue situated just above the rim of her mug, nearly drained empty from the idling stress confined solely to this situation. 

"Look, I am more than willing to help you address your problem and draw up a solution. I'm certain there are other ways for you to return home without endangering yourself. With the magic of this world askew and the world itself asunder, strange things have been happening more often than not. It would cull my nerves just as much as your own, I'm certain, to rid yourself of this place as soon as possible. Do not believe it necessary to paint yourself a hero for our cause -- enough causalities have already been had. We cannot shoulder another burden for our rights."

Though it was undeniable that the help would possibly be a grand hand in the long run towards securing their freedom and way of life, it was unacceptable to ask another for their assistance, especially given how little she knew of the man. Could he defend himself against the combination of hell and ice that Kefka had at his disposal? The storm of lightning and wind? Each and every element dripping like molten stars from the tips of his clawed fingertips? For every color he bore, garish and gaudy, he possessed a power to match, some ungodly weapon unleashed with only the twist of his lips, a snarl in exchange for pain and destruction.

"You look terrible, highly unfit to indulge in combat with even a normal mortal, let alone a god. Perhaps the atmosphere itself is having adverse effects on you? Rest would be optimal, I believe, before you make any rash decisions, and certainly before you opt to ignore my warnings yet again."

The sigh that presses passed her lips breathes as light as the flutter of wings, distant concerned laced within each particle expelled, eyes trained against the ever-paling canvas of his skin, a striking change now to how it'd looked upon his arrival. With each meeting, he seemed to wilt, wither though whether it was beneath the veil of stress of the situation or something else was yet a factor left unseen.

[monument-to-nonexistence-deacti]

Ambassadors (tag: pariahshield)

In the light of early morning, the city had all the charm of a burnt-out husk, left to rot centuries after some particularly vicious attack from an unknown predator; it had all the charm of the end of a world, or the encroaching end of a world, bludgeoned to death by the slow creep of industry.  The manner in which the amber light of sunup, usually a pleasing thing, trickled down through the smog and assaulted the residents reminded one of rust.  The blood and sweat of an empire.  It was a carcass, but a useful carcass:  It certainly had no aesthetic value.

The convoy was to convene outside the gates roundabout this time, a stamping, shuffling dance of footsteps pointed at a dock full of magitek armor.  They would cover the most ground and be the safest in them, admittedly — there was no point in using the ‘copters, and the iconic presence of the great, infernal, bipedal machines would assert the empire’s presence much better — but one couldn’t help hooting at the thought of clunking softly across miles and hours of shrubland and open field.  So much for inconspicuousness!  You might as well wave a banner over your head declaring yourself the scary imperial convoy nobody wants to entertain — but then, that was the point, wasn’t it?

To Gestahl, the word “diplomacy” was synonymous with “threatening”.

By extension, “resting” was also synonymous with “laying your head on a rock and attempting to sleep through the sounds of mu pickpocketing your men”.

That was the price of being hated.  Naturally, Kefka Palazzo already knew something about being hated — quite a bit, in fact — and it was all at once an annoyance and an amusement.  There was something pathetic about it, too:  Something shameful, something lonely.  He’d caught the sneers of “his” men (read: his human meat shields, after he’d overheard their snipping) on his first expedition, and there was something both saddening and uniquely empowering about being called a freak.  As time went on, he’d supposed, it would grow less saddening and more empowering.  It had.  And this was precisely the mindset the empire functioned on, as a terrifying and freakish collective, and he rather approved.

What he didn’t approve of — and this on a much smaller scale; there were too many things he disapproved of on a large and political scale to count on both hands — was sharing this newest foray into diplomacy and military leadership with a thirteen-year-old girl.  No, he knew who she was; he’d survived her before (been quite fond of her, actually, but that was… quite awhile ago, and caused a most discomfiting past-present dysphoria in his mind to think about) and he could survive her again; but it bothered him, because he was perfectly capable of handling this alone, and because there was ever a nagging envy in him when he thought of her (which was not much, admittedly) that he could not place.

He thought idly of these things, perched haphazardly instead of settled firmly into his magitek armor.  (One of the men had offered to give him a boost up into the seat; a glob of spittle in the face had culled his sniggering lips.)  A hot wind rolled in from the South, away from the city, through the open doors of the bay.

He watched the city intently for the rest of the convoy — and the empire’s new favorite battlemage.

[pariahshield]

There is something terrifying about a child bred as a murderer.

No, there were many things terrifying about it, though that was the the charm the empire ran on, the very fuel that churned the gears like a well oiled machine. Terror and power, hatred and hedonism, it was all orchestrated like a symphony of war, a thousand voices screaming in union constructed into a choir even hell would fall away from in fear. 

And therein blossomed the pride that pinned itself as strings to the shoulder's of ruthless soldiers, merciless ideals their capes -- of this, Celes Chere was no different. Power possessed a certain sway in people, persuasion and pressure as well, three P's that each held certain standards of which one was required to act --

stand upright, never smile, never falter. Kill. Never question, never regret, never feel. Destroy. Live, fight, die for the empire and above all, never, ever take no for an answer. To Gestahl, no existed only in his rights, on his time, of his will. To the rest of the world, it was a passing wish, a dream centuries ago that lost meaning several years back. Like magic, it existed, but was solely the property of the empire, only to be allowed in lessons, in whispers, in hushed voices behind cupped hands.

And slowly, the world was learning as much one country at a time. No meant fire, no meant a complete and total takeover, no meant death and your sons swept away beneath the guise of the greater good. Yes held a meaning only slightly different in comparison and neutrality, perhaps, was worst of all.

For Gestahl was nothing if not a fair man in his punishments -- everyone was endangered, was threatened, was imprisoned, no exceptions. His soldiers stood faltering on a foundation of sand within a castle of glass -- Celes had seen several beheaded herself for rebuttal or disappointment, though trust settled rightly in her own chest from years of dulled reassurance, praise whispered in the ear of a babe and recognition poured overhead pulled the wool over her eyes. Take an orphaned girl, give her a sense of importance and the feeling of comfort a family should provide, add in a tinge of fear and the pressure of overcoming standards and you have a weapon.

Add in an infusion with waning beasts and you have death personified, and this was a fact made well known by the youth herself. 

Her arrival is preceded by an air of ice and the cold chill of a heart frozen over, eyes only alight by the flames of another time. 

"Are we ready?" Not a shudder befalls her countenance, not a flinch, not a single flutter of anything but professionalism, years of the military honed into a single child, a sculptured soldier carved from winter manifested. 

[thelastknightofbalder-blog]

Send me "Don't chase the rabbit" and your muse will be shown a random memory from my muse's past.

[winterpoppy-blog]

Tina & Celes

[lirillith]

Doujinshi cover by Nozomi.

[blisteringwaltz]

"Not much of a people person, then? Well, how about some one-on-one conversation for while, as a bit of a reprieve from the crowd?"

[pariahshield]

"Not in the slightest, though I will take you up on your offer. Anything to escape this crowd."

[triple-7s]

"Is it normally this quiet?"

[triple-7s]

A bit of an overanalyzation on her part, but his wording wasn’t exactly the clearest. Setzer didn’t really expect all that much in terms of excitement from Celes. He knew her better than that. Somewhere inside that frigid exterior though she was happy to see him. Right? "Ah.. Sorry." Stepping back, he rested his right hand on her shoulder. "Life hasn’t exactly been a party since I last saw you.”

[pariahshield]

General Chere was two parts overanalyzation, three parts frigid logic, and one very small piece of social graces dented severely by military life, a part of her skewed so badly it was hardly recognizable, barely functioning. A joke she'd made, and a joke she'd failed at -- note taken. She'd remember it for later. "Shocking. When is life for the Setzer Gabianni not a party? I'd say I'm disappointed if I weren't further concerned with other things."

[mercyofcallouses-deactivated202]

Sketch - Empress Celes

Concept: In the years following Kefka’s defeat, Celes returned to the Southern Continent in the hope of making amends for deeds she committed while a general of the Empire.  To her surprise, she was welcomed, and local elites pressed for Celes to ascend to the vacant imperial throne.  She was reluctant, but came to see that such a position would allow her to foster strong relationships with other lands and redeem the reputation of her people.  Locke eventually became her consort, although it must be said that, despite his unwavering devotion to Celes, he was probably one of the more reluctant princes in history…

[marionnette-noir]

"What is going on out there? This better not be another argument that Wakka started with some children." She left the comfort of her home and went outside to see what the commotion was about.

[pariahshield]

Idiocy was the source of commotion mentioned, some ridiculous squabble between elders and youth alike though for the most part, Celes was absent from the problem, perfectly content with idle staring situated right outside of the fight in question.

"A confrontation." Her answers pools out devoid of interest, tainted with the slightest tinge of judging apathy. "I've no idea what started it, I'm afraid."

[jellywolfess-deactivated2018120]

Art by: 鳥越タクミ

[lionsreprieve]

There it was; that look. That icy cold gaze, that could freeze a person right in their tracks. All too familiar of a chill came from her; it was soothing, as he already had been frosted over. She was an ice storm; a frozen blizzard. A storm all of her own, yet he felt no qualms, as he was a storm all on his own. An actual squall, lifted right off the sea, and swiftly moving inland. Perhaps she felt it too; perhaps she felt as at ease by the storm he brought her, as he did by her coldness, although it would seem quite the opposite, with his desperation to see that sorcerer— that Kefka, she had told him about.

Warm furr from his jacked would tickle his skin, as his head turned from her. Her answer is the absolute opposite of the one he wished to hear. With fingers that were once spread flat across the table, soon recoil inward toward his palm, forming a fist.

(…Dammit… I knew she wouldn’t tell me anything useful…)

He inwardly reprimands himself, as the bottom row of teeth grit against the top row. Weeks have passed since they last spoke, and she has barely changed a bit in that time. She speaks in a tone that demands respect, and exhorts authority, yet she wastes her time exercising it on this lion. Why was it that nothing this woman said, or did, made sense? Logic and rational thought is Squall’s strong suit, and it is a trait he has been commemorated for, in the SeeD academy. 

(Can’t you see I just want to get home?)

His storm-borne eyes meets hers once more. A glare is settled behind the narrowing of his eyes. His body straightening posture, as hands finally leave the space they claimed on the table. “I’m not ignorant,’ he seethes beneath the calmness of his voice. ‘You followed me here for a reason,’ his hands find their way back into his pockets, as he now moves past her.

(….If there’s a will, there’s a way… I’ve faced foes more fearsome than some.. second rate sorcerer.)

A quick glance over his shoulder meets her once again. “Why.” 

[pariahshield]

Storms present a danger unlike any other, hell and high water, lightning and fire and fear but terror does not situate itself in her dictionary, has no place in her blood and ice can withstand any squall, of this is she certain. Blank features pull a snarl, a dragon's curl of lips and barreling smoke that pours aggravation passed her lips -- he stands before her as a oncoming tempest but frigid nature itself unfurls like cells in the thrum of her blood.

No, he may be a storm but she is a blizzard, hell frozen over; persistence is the very foundation of which her rank was claimed, a spread of sand beneath her feet that felled a countryside and further, crashed castles underneath the burden of guilt and the haze of fire. 

"Mm. Deaf as well?" Lips purse, part and press out a hum of irritation; a sneer laces through the ice of her eyes, sharp and deadly, the point of a blade manifested and she runs right through him, tears his adamancy to shreds. "I believe I've told you several times prior everything you've just asked. Does it bear repeating? Perhaps repetition would finally drill the urgency of this situation into your skull."

Rustic edges of the mug at her front are twisted within the calloused grasp of war-tired fingers, a show of bubbling provocation otherwise dulled beneath the surface of a blank expression, presented idly with no spark of anger, no flicker of anything but a judgmental stare.

Everything she does is sound with logic, threaded with reasoning -- his question elicits the bat of heavy lashes thick with soot. "To stop you. Again. I tire of repetition, I only ask you to listen. You assume Kefka is a mage the likes of something you've seen prior but I assure you he's much more, and much worse. You know very little of what you'll encounter if you insist on persisting with this inane idea of yours."

Blood bears the weight of a thousand cries in unison, a voice tethering fishhooks in the edges of her fingertips and this would be another stain, an addition she prefers to avoid.

Please.

[pariahshield]

setzer&celes....

Give me a ship and I’ll reply with a six word story about them.

i'm not the wings you seek