Dried blood staining rose-red lips; crinkled eyes full of pain; a pretty dress with a matching ribbon; an old ring holding a broken promise; waxy, inhumanly soft, pale skin; century-old white gown, covered in blood; sharp fangs and pointed ears; a broken soul; otherworldly desires; love letters of another time, forgotten in an old, wooden chest; the gravestone she never got to sleep under; a calm façade; a wild spirit; and a sinful need.
I'll never forget when I first beat Leon B and that famous line "Its up to us to beat Umbrella" transitioned to that "badass" metal song. I remember being "oh, thats so cool!" and didn't give it a second thought.
Then playing the RE2 Remake decades later, and listening to the soundtrack, the rock song Saudade is trying to capture the feeling of the music from the early 90s. Then I thought "Oh, thats the kind of music we know Leon listens to."
Since that realization I've scoured through playlists and my own memories trying to find the music that would encompass the era our young heroes grew up in. It's really helped me write their character development and I hope give them an authentic American vibe.
So here is a growing playlist of music I feel our survivors would listen to. Can you guess which songs belong to which character?
But she had been tired for a long time, hadn’t she?
It was at the writing desk before a window whose view she’d grown so fond of that she was seated, then, in the dim glow of her borrowed room. In her left hand, a quill was poised and unmoving save for the quiet tap tap tap of its nib against the page, leaving little flecks of ink in the wake of every contact, like ashes scattered on the snow. Her right hand held to her lips an unremarkable pale brown button -- unremarkable, at least, to all but her -- as she thoughtfully gazed out toward the sight of an Ishgard all painted rose and gold in the fading light of dusk.
Half a dozen missives lay unfinished to her side; receipts to be filed and letters to be sealed. A note from the tailor on a new gown for the season was cast away-- it was pointless -- to be replaced by an order for dozens upon dozens of flowers to decorate the very same ball for which such a garment was intended -- an illusory spring. She regarded, at that thought, the modest blossoms that colored the space of her desk: trumpeting stars, gilded at their edges like everything else touched by the sun before its sleeping.
Her gaze wandered toward a closed door; her thoughts went with it.
When she looked back, amid the mess she’d made of all those things demanding her attention -- that she told herself demanded her attention -- she saw the dog-eared corners of a file on which she’d penned note after note in the course of her last weeks. Arismont’s documents. A dossier. The names of those men and women whose faces took shape in the darkest outlines of her dreams.
She thought of them...and she thought of that demon who once held her to the fire -- of the heretic, of the madman, of the monster -- and she thought of what lives they’d rent in their wake, and of the fear that welled up anew in her heart when she thought of what fresh hell those she loved could plunge into with only a single misstep, and she prayed -- prayed -- for the power that they might end it swiftly for their sakes.
For their sakes.
And she thought of what chaos still tore through the streets of Ishgard like a cruel and unpredictable wind. She thought, too, of what conflict boiled on the horizon -- of its inevitability as Eorzean forces prepared to march for a war they long-knew was coming; of those who would be called away in defense of their people, yet crippled and wearied themselves. Of those who may not march home.
She wondered in a selfish, childish part of her soul what it might be like to think only of the sun that reached down through the boughs of those trees she loved so well, in a place far removed from trouble and from fear, or to spend her days in careless poetry -- the lines of a book once carried by an errant knight, into which she’d escaped so often these days. How she’d rather think of eyes so blue they shame the midday sky, or to dream of her dear sister’s wedding day.
Or of…
Well.
Her head was pounding, then, her quill and its tapping forgotten, and the brilliant gold of retreating day only caused her eyes to burn. She pressed her hands to her temples that she might keep her skull held together by strength of Will alone, but around her, she swore that the shadows grew longer and deeper. She shuddered as they enclosed; gasped out when they came to swallow her. Some sound escaped her throat that she could not hear through her pounding ears and then--
She was left, in the dim light of her borrowed room, with her arms folded as a makeshift pillow atop the mess of those papers that demanded her attention -- that she told herself demanded her attention -- falling still and quiet as an Ishgard that turned toward sleep in the world outside of that window whose view she’d grown so fond of.
She was tired.
She had been tired for a long time, she knew, but couldn’t rest.
She slept,
But was afraid to dream.
With references to: @arismont-juliembert, @heavens-light-and-hells-ice, @tea-and-conspiracy, and @elezenaccountant for giving a book-nerd a book.
I'm gonna make a mistake
I'm gonna do it on purpose
I'm gonna waste my time
'Cause I'm full as a tick
And I'm scratching at the surface
And what I find is mine
And when the day is done, and I look back
And the fact is, I had fun fumbling around
All the advice I shunned, and I ran
Where they told me not to run
But I sure had fun, so
I'm gonna fuck it up again
I'm gonna do another detour
Unpave my path
And if you wanna make sense
What you looking at me for?
I'm no good at math
And when I find my way back
The fact is, I just may stay
Or I may not
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake
I wanna make a mistake
Why can't I make a mistake?
I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why?
Do I wanna do right? Of course, but
Do I really wanna feel
I'm forced to answer you? Hell, no
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake
I wanna make a mistake
Why can't I make a mistake?
I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why? Why?
Inspired by a line of conversation with @tea-and-conspiracy.
Rosaire Ledigne belongs to @eggplant-squire.
Gwenneth Gilrouis is my own.
The images were tragically warped by my having to use the Snipping Tool to post them, thanks to an error with resizing my screentones on export. I’ll salvage them another day, but until then: These Two.
