#character narrative

[clementine-and-pomegranates]

i love it when characters haunt me with their narrative

[izzyizumi]

{D I G I M O N} Adventure - Episode 21 + Adventure {t r i.} ~ Saikai T A I C H I Yagami (+Koushiro[u] Izumi relevancy) ~ Important Dialogues ~ Character Narrative{s}

(Immediately after Koushiro’s attempt at contacting Taichi cuts off)

“WHICH is real?”

(Increasingly distressed, raising voice as if to yell):

“Who cares if it’s a ‘HOLY’ device or whatever!!”

{Episode 10} (in original version’s references)...

“This thing can jUST!!” - Taichi, Increasingly P a n i c k e d

Cap’d by @izzyizumi​ / @koushirouizumi / @hikari-m​ {Do Not Re-p o s t} {Do Not C o p y} {Do Not Remove Caption} {Do Not Re-produce My Work [*Including for @.I. Usages] Under Any Circumstances Without My Permission Whatsoever!]

(Usage rule{s} + Extra{s} {Tri; Saikai only} under cut!)

edits by @izzyizumi, {DO NOT REPOST} {DO NOT REMOVE CAPTION}

[willowishstudios]

Narrative: All Good Things...

The beat of parading drums thrums through the streets of Huatzintepec, the ground seeming to shake in time with the dancing feet of its inhabitants.

Ueman finds a tired smile clinging to her lips despite the ache in her bare feet, as if her hours of dancing hadn’t pressed stones and grated sand and pavement into her skin, as if the rhythmic tossing of her head hadn’t shaken her hair free of its intricate braids, one of her earrings lost long before.

Oh well. They were pretty, but not expensive. Maybe someone would stumble upon them once celebrations ended and have their day made.

She exhales a laugh through her nose, lips curling. She surely wouldn’t be the only one short of a few accessories by the end of the night, given the exuberance of the dancers who show no sign of tiring.

Her feet swing lazily from the balcony, barely meeting the time of the still-beating drums, as her eyes scan across the crowd.

A good number of familiar faces had dulled her shyness in the face of countless foreigners only hours before, but only now, elevated above the raging celebration, did she allow herself to truly observe those who had come together.

Ueman’s eyes never lingered for more than a few seconds per face, the impish features of a fae individual slipping their way through the crowd with unbelievable grace, the curtain of shimmering orange hair that shielded the face of a Marakihau woman as she pecked her laughing companion on the cheek-

The deep, deep red eyes framed by feathery-white lashes that peered back up at her from under heavy brows.

For a moment she’s frozen, the sweat on her body chills, her breath caught in her throat, her heart beating wildly in closer tandem with the drum beats than her legs could ever manage.

Their hair, long and white, twisted up awkwardly into a purely utilitarian updo, baring strong shoulders and tawny skin to the world. She’s never seen someone like them, not in this cosmopolitan city of the Empire, and certainly not in the small streets that surround her home.  

She feels almost stricken to her core.

But does she dare to leave the safety of her perch, the anonymity that accompanies these celebrations? Whatever she decides, it must be now before the stranger gets lost in the crowd. The seconds bear down on her, slowing to a near stop as a barely-there smile tugs at the stranger’s lips.

They raise something in their right hand, shining jewel and polished metal glinting ruby red in the setting sunlight, and Ueman barks a startled laugh. Their smile widens in return.

She had hoped someone would find her earring, but like this? She presses her lips together, fighting a grin as they beckon to her, beginning to sway along to the music themselves.

She stands, heart beating, hands trembling with excitement-

And the music stops.

The beat of the drums, the whooping and hollering of the crowd, the earth-shaking reverberations of dancing feet against the earth, all fall silent. Suddenly so eerily quiet that she’s aware of the sound of her own heartbeat, hummingbird-quick in her chest.

Thousands of faces are looking to the horizon, those beautiful red eyes-- just like her earrings, wide and rounded by some unnamed emotion-- and she is almost scared to turn and see. But she must.

Craning her head, she finds herself frozen once more.

Shimmering, glittering colors are creeping over the horizon, filtering the sun with thousand shades of every color imaginable, and some that aren’t. The beautiful view, once as familiar as the back of her own hand, is gone.

Her ears are ringing, and the silence is shattered as suddenly it came.

Merrymakers scrambling, screaming their fears and fleeing the streets, pushing past guards that march as one towards the horizon.

She can’t rip her eyes from it. That beautiful, awful thing. Her mind is clouded, her knees are weak and she swears that the ground is beginning to shift beneath her.

What is happening?

A wordless exclamation tears her eyes from the shimmering mass, back to the thinning, panicked crowd. The warmth of those ruby red eyes holds her firmly in the now, their expression having melted from open shock into grim determination.

Their open beckoning hand promising now not a dance to end them all, or the fleeting fascinations of summer romance, but the safety of companionship. Any port can offer safe harbor in a storm, no matter how unfamiliar.

The weight of their hand in hers is warm and grounding, and for now, in the face of this uncertainty, it’s more than enough.

[twilight-sparx]

If you think ship wars or character-narrative-wars end with the a series finale, then you will be thoroughly surprised especially if the end is ambiguous.

The narrative/ship that becomes canon will obviously be smug as hell, especially if it was a dark horse. Honestly a dark horse narrative/ship deserves to be smug because they saw what no one else saw or even considered.

Now the other narratives/ships that don’t become canon, they won’t be too happy. Some of their fans would obviously know that their narrative/ship was a stretch so they’ll be sad and bitter but they would most definitely stay away from ship wars or arguments.

The others however, whose narrative/ship seemed obvious or had major development, will not be just sad or bitter, they would be angry and mad. Their anger is totally valid especially if the creators did a lot of development but didn’t give a good closure.

This is what causes difference of opinion even after a series ends. Because some of the viewers aren’t satisfied and find reasons to justify the ending the creators chose.

This however doesn’t result in ship wars and narrative arguments. Those happen because a few members of one or both sides refuse to stay in their lane and try to make the other agree with their narrative.

If you want to stay away from ship wars or narrative arguments, then respect other’s opinions, learn to Agree to Disagree and just Block the idiots who are too insistent or redundant.

Life is too short and precious to let others take away from it.

[willowishstudios]

Character Narrative: Seneca

There is a certain elation and loneliness in being shown the light and darkness of true Omnipotence.  After being granted a single glance of Their Glory, the whole temple is in celebration of the occasion, Their grace, bestowed upon him. Rumors had started already,  foretelling that he was chosen to succeed the current Leader. The only other occurrence of a vision dates back to the founder of their religion.

He was blessed, yet there was only one person in the world he really wanted to tell this joyous news. Aurora helps to ward off the new petitioners, the constant attention and pompous cheers. With almost magical ease, she clears an evening, free of his daily duties and upcoming new studies. Aurora kisses his cheek, telling him to send her love too and gives him a bouquet of white Lilies.

It has been years since he took this path. As he started to concentrate more in his studies and take on more responsibilities within the group, he had less time to visit her as much. It shames him to admit it, and wondering when he started to become a bad son. The neglected downtown streets are familiar, and so are the weary faces of people, misery and struggle go hand in hand in this part of the city.

Turning into a hidden alleyway, he follows down a path of stairs, ignoring a few beggars now and then. The cemetery is small, its growth choked by the houses around it. The poor still need a place to bury their people and a few crude mausoleums are starting the line the walls that define the burial grounds. 

He searches for his mother’s tomb and then becomes speechless.

This is not the grave he remembers. The bare and trobbe tombstone that barely reached his calf, with his Mother’s name inscribed roughy on its surface, is no more. This tomb is a pure slab of white marble, chiseled blooming flowers at its base as the symbol of the Moon goddess radiates. Underneath in delicate and beautiful scripture has his mother's name and dedication.

“Callista, 

A beautiful soul,

A dedicated mother.”

It burns him a little. Someone did this, treaded upon painful memories and glorify them. Good intentions? Or a cruel reminder?

An old man walked towards the new tombstone, his step slow but steady, there’s a certain dignity to him as he leans down to place a bouquet of flowers on the base. Seneca asks lowly, insides churning with uncertain emotions.

“May I ask why you are leaving flowers at her grave?”

The old man has left a bouquet of purple hyacinths and twigs of rue, his fine clothes can’t hide the slow movement, the stiffness of age. “In another life, Son, I wronged this woman terribly. I hope one day to be forgiven.”

Asking for penance from the dead? It would make him laugh if it didn’t make him bitter. People knew of his mother’s hardships, and yet he barely remembers anyone but kind neighbors helping them. He tried to keep his emotions conceal, but they bleed out in his tone, as he speaks once more softly, disdainful. “ You are years too late to learn regret.”

His mother Callista, soft and quiet. Gentle and loving. Missing her is an ache that never went away, it lingers deep into his chest, lodged deep between his soul and heart. What does this stranger know about her? Who is he to try and ask forgiveness?

There wistfulness in the Old man's eyes, as he says in a clear voice, “ You are like your father.”

He instinctively takes a step back, feeling like he been struck. He hardens his expression once more, running his fingers over the arch of the marble tomb. “I am my mother's son. No one else has a right to disrespect her memory by claiming otherwise.”

The Old man grimaces, hands crossed behind his back, his head high as he speaks, “You were not curious at all? About your father? Your bloodline?”

“Once, In my childhood.” He can confess, without doubt, nostalgic childhood grudges resurfacing once more. “But as I grew up, I realized I have no use for a father that left my mother to raise me alone and let her wither before her time.”

Regret seems to show in the Old man face, deepening his wrinkles and a new heaviness on his shoulders start to settle. “He, -your Father-, didn't have a choice. His family opposed this union, I willingly hid the fact Callista was pregnant with his child. I was ordered to... When your Father found out about you, he broke the family apart, vowed to never marry or produce an heir. Unless he could reclaim Callista as his wife and you as his son. The whole family lived at odds with one another, stubborn to a bitter end. But when the Lord finally consented... Callista had…”

Memories come back. Coldness when all he knew was warmth. His mother was as beautiful as the moon she worshipped, but she was never as pale. Not until that day. Too young, yet grief came. His hand balled into a fist as silent wrath filled his heart. “Died. In my arms. Her life wasted by a curable disease.”

There’s no silence, life goes on around them but it feels all too suffocating. The Old Man bows his face, no longer proud, but with one last request. “Please, meet your Father at least once. He failed your Mother but he's your family too. He wants to make it right.”

Light and Darkness. Joy and sorrow. Their wisdom is great. He pleads for forgiveness for his human error, as forgiveness eludes him at the moment. He smiles, something like recognitions flashes in the Old Man’s eyes but he ignores it. You can hide a lot of things in a smile, Aurora’s words echo, sadness in curvature on the lips, anger in the seams, longing at the edge. “What use do I have for him? A man so weak that he let the woman he loved slip through his fingers?”

He kneels in front of his Mother’s grave, leaving the bouquet of lilies on her grave and prays.

[willowishstudios]

Character Narrative: Dior

Beneath a read more for the sake of a trigger warning for hand injury/nail damage.

The soothing murmurs of their parents are reduced to little more than white noise in Dior’s ears. Their mother’s hand tight at Dior’s wrist, prying it from where they cradle it to their chest, their Maman’s thumb rubbing comforting circles into their tensed shoulders.

‘It’s going to be alright mon trésor, please don’t fret…’

‘Sit still so I can see. Do you want this to take even longer?’

They wince, inhaling a sharp breath as their fingers uncurl, fresh tears springing to already burning eyes. Their maman’s arm winds around their waist, the noise that leaves them sounding as pained as Dior feels.

‘Oh, mon chou…’

‘They will be fine, dear.’

A violent red of scraped skin, bruises already beginning to bloom, fingers twitching in pain as their mother turns their hand over in hers, checking for more significant damage.  

Oh, their nails.

It makes sense that they would have been ruined, some far-off, rational part of them muses. These things happen when people are jealous, is what Maman would say. Those who are ugly inside will attempt to destroy the beauty around them.

‘Do you remember their faces, darling? Who did this?”

Mother would have told them to fight back. And looking back, they wish they had.

‘I’ll have words with the parents tomorrow, before the council.’

The pearlescent swirls that flowed over their nails, opulent and beautiful- ‘Just like you’, Maman had said as they painted together-  fractured beyond reasonable recognition. Split painfully, deeply, nearly to the bed-

A shriek flies from their throat aborted by their own hand over their mouth as their mother prods at their fingers, her touch rough and clinical.

‘Stop being dramatic. Now sit still.‘

‘Axelle! Be gentle with them!’

The memory of the feeling of cobblestone digging into their knees and palms, tearing their skin, the burning pain of a heel digging into their hand, the sound of bone creaking and snapping-

They turn their head into their maman’s shoulder, their sobs shaking their small frame, ringlets of hair falling in a curtain over a blotchy red face. Their maman pulls them closer, curling around them, a scowl twisting their lips as their mother continues her inspection. Murmurs of 'splinting' and 'dislocation' have their head spinning with fear.

‘Stop being helpless, child. You must be fierce.’

And they would. This would not happen again. They wouldn't let it.

[cylawsonwrites]

Character Narrative #1, Blake Gautier: The Fly in the Ointment

I do not have a moodboard made for this yet, but I hope the narrative itself is interesting enough to pique your interest!!

==========

Blake frowns as he watches the dusky sky, bats flittering through the air as their time of feasting begins. His frown steadily becomes a grimace as the stitches in his side pull with each breath.

"You need to stop getting into so many fights, mi bebito," Sienna scolds as she deftly sews up the burning stab wound in his side. When he lets out a whiny hiss with a particularly stubborn stitch, the wizened woman snorts daintily. "Dios mío, you're such a baby. If you no can take the pain, you no need to get into fights that cause it."

"It wasn't that simple," he grumbles irritatedly. "The jackass was harrassin' some girl down from the uni. She was 'fraid of him, and I-"

"Couldn't stand to see a hijo de puta do such a thing," she finishes with a wry tone. "Well, I suppose I can let such a move pass for that. But I know your maman taught you to fight, so how did you manage this?"

"Guy's friend."

"Ahh, of course. Trouble's company."

Blake shakes away the flashed memory, but makes a note to buy the old crone some old scotch if he can find it.

Or take it. Whichever works.

His attention is drawn from the gravel under his boots to a high-dollar, customized blazing red Hybusa bike spitting up to him. It slides to a stop only a mere foot from him, the rider's body and head covered in biker leathers and a visored, flamed helmet. Based on the bike, ungodly height and cursing coming from them, he knows exactly who it is, and it makes a smirk slant his lips. He watches as they turn the bike off and remove the helmet, letting loose a mop of unruly, greying shit brown curls.

"Someone still hasn't put you in the ground yet, you old bastard?" Blakes jeers cheerily, making sure to flash his teeth as he speaks. The rider lets out a great snort, before giving a sarcastic, mocking smile.

"Oh, not for lack of trying, old boy," comes the man's strongly Irish accent, along with a flare in his blue-green eyes. "Seems they still haven't figured out a way to put me down like the dog they think me to be."

"Ah, there's always room for hope," Blake sighs with an air of disappointment, but it's ruined by the stupid grin trying to work its way onto his lips. The man scoffs and swings his leg from around the bike, dusts off his jacket, and approaches with a slightly limping gait, one Blake's hazel eyes don't miss. "Your leg still ain't fixed?"

"Nay," the man hisses bitterly, "damn ferjin venom. Stoppin' the muscle graft from takin' properly still."

"Damn," Blake whistles sympathetically; his arm still hasn't felt the same since that fight too, to be fair. "And the eggheads still haven't found a cure or som'mat?"

"Nay, there's been mo' trouble with'at group of rogues movin' through Liverpool at the moment. With ferjinos still bein' all newfound and whatnot, the techies still haven't had time t' look them all over with so much chaos."

"Ah, well, shit." The conversation drops for a spill as the older man leans against the wall next to Blake, both looking right in place at The Devil's Falls bar, it being a popular spot in the supernatural city located just outside of Treeport, Louisiana. The brick wall tugs at Blake's hair and neck uncomfortably, but the inside was too crowded.

And, well, with the viila dancers coming out on stage soon, it was only going to get rowdy enough to bust some ear drums.

"Owens is still interested in you joining us, y'know," the man says breezily, but the squashed look of his lips betrays his feelings on the matter.

"Is he?" Blake responds lamely; decisions, decisions. Blake was always shit when it came to making the most important fucking decisions. The ones that have the longest and most impact.

"You know good'n well he is. With your abilities and willingness to work hard to get shit done? Of course he is." He sighs, then pulls out a flask and unscrews the top. Blake's nose crinkles in distaste as purple smoke issues from it, and he nearly gags as an acrid, rotten eggs smell hits his nose.

"What in the hell is that nasty bullshit?!" he yells in offense, stumbling away with his fingers clenched around his nose. The man throws him a real nasty look before taking a drink with a face of revulsion, and he shivers violently as he swallows it.

"I, smartarse, unlike you do not have super special healin' abilities, so I get to drink this shite for the next couple of days still to take care of whate'er venom is left over." He re-lids the flask and tucks it away, then gives Blake a withering look. "You's a damn big baby, y'know that?"

"Shuddit," Blake snarls, his face still a little green. The man laughs, his teeth clenching a bit in thought.

"Have you decided yet?" His face immediately shifts into something more somber, serious. Blake shifts under the piercing gaze, trying to not look like he's guilty of something.

"No. No I haven't."

"Y'need to, aye," the man sighs quietly, looking skyward. "You need to take care of the other little issue, and high-tail it to us. I doubt your… brothers would take kindly to you joining us."

"No," Blake agrees almost silently, almost like he's talking to himself, "no, they won't."

"Don't let them dictate what you do any longer than necessary," the man warns. "The pack's going downhill, fast. You don't want to be caught up in it when they finally hit the bottom."

"I know. I know." Blake kicks the brick wall in frustration, rubbing the back of his neck near harshly. He jumps when his watch begins beeping with his alarm, then curses. "I have to head back, Seamus. I'll see you soon."

"Let's hope, old boy, let's hope so." The older man claps him on his back once, before both turn to get on their bikes.

An anxious, clawlike snare wraps around Blake's stomach. If he leaves, things won't be pretty. Not for him, not for his maman, not for his sister. But… but they'll have protection, or so Owens promised. It'll be much worse if I'm still around when they finally toe the line too far and become rogues, he reminds himself. There won't be any escaping them. Or anyone else.

It looks like he may have his answer, after all. But, as he rides home to talk to his remaining family, his usually keen eyes miss the glittering, predatory yellow ones peering out from the woods next to the bar.

He misses the fly in the ointment, the spy that'll help cement his decision in more ways than he could have ever thought imaginable.