|| MUSE REACTION || - not accepting
@pyrebirthed - ▄ = telling them a joke // i had to akjdlkdj
|| || "Ahahahahaha ha
ha ha...
...haOhh why am I bothering~.”
Genuine laughter was unquestionably the most difficult human reaction to mimic. No matter the amount of practice he put in, whether on stage in a crowded gaggle of nobles or in his sanctum with only a mirror for an audience, Kuja could never manage to get it quite right. It invariably came out as either pretentious or sinister, or an awful mix of the two. Even if his life depended upon it ( as it may well have here; that was not a sword to be trusted ), it remained one of few skills forever out of reach.
“You’ve the sense of humor of a stick. No, even that is an unfair comparison, for I’ve seen sticks bent into more amusing shapes than that joke.”
“Just-- Don’t. Don’t attempt to be personable. It does not work for you.”
BETWEEN YOU AND THESE BONES starters ! ✿ accepting.
@pyrebirthed has asked: ‘ this life is an altar. ’
Before the world began its slow descent into ruination, many were the lost and hungry souls that would bend the knee in front of marble altars, ‘pon which silken petals & warm ichor were offered and sacrificed in equal measure ─── TEMPLES OF ALMOST LOVERS dedicated to an ancient vulpine spirit whose tenous benevolence was desperately sought after, for her savage and acerb ire was feared just as much ( perhaps even more ) . Many decades have passed since those days wrought in pleasure and sin, when a GILDED CROWN OF THORNS & BLOSSOMS would still adorn her peach-colored curls and her name would be continuously whispered ( a PRAYER, a profane hymn for blessed savagery and raw sensitivity ) by amorous lovers underneath the blankets and by melancholic widows in front of barren graves.
Memories flow outside of her aching heart, pouring down the entirety of her petite silhouette in obsidian waves of loss and agony / Oh, how easy it would be, to simply drown in them ! No longer, can she stand proud in front of lowered heads and naked hearts: the temples have been destroyed, her sacred land has fallen and no one remembers her name.
Violent is the movement of her tails. A floret of silken fur that waves back-&-forth, emitting own peaches-&-cream luminescence as if the lonely stars of the cerulean above had been stolen by greedy hands in pursuance of further embellishing a creature that should have begun to rot a long time ago. ❝ Bend your knees for me and, only then, will I assign weight to your words. Until then, you’re all bark and no bite ─── Until then, you’re naught but an imperfect vicissitude down my righteous path. ❞
THIS TIMBRE ROTS / TRANSMOGRIFIED & MIGRATING ‘TILL IT’S MORE THAN MERE VOICE , ‘till it is the very air that talks . weapon hums aglow with lilac lueur , a disturbance of hush / a riot of soul ! seek how its holder fumes ; his gut boils with both ire & determination , he debellates into a warraying stance . there’s no humor . no mirth . no AMUSE .
toils within him ; wrath ( * for his ichor is god - given & that is their nature . ) brontide submerged in such hollows , the wolf’s growl rumbles & echoes / digging chin to chest / unlatching maw in the fashion serpent has taught him . ❛ i do . ❜ ol’ tongue acceptance . 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 , 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞 . gyring maelstrom only churning wider & wider ‘pon the contains of feral gaze . ❛ it won’t stop me . ❜
my will is mine. i shall not make it soft for you.
meme.
SENTENCE STARTERS: MYTH.TXT
@pyrebirthed • still accepting !
Reconnaissance is a bitch.
The hand he keeps at the ready upon the gun in his holster is a precaution— an inutile protocol measure, when the man he shadows is capable of near omnipotence. His blade glints wicked where it catches shards of moonlight through the decimated walls of the building’s skeletal shambles.
Reception’s shit in this quadrant, which is to be expected when everything lays in decimation from the airborne fusillade ShinRa had dispatched only four days ago. From the rubble still grew bilious, billowous plumes of smoke, where metal still smoked and smoldered from the immolation that had followed. There is nothing left living here. But it’s still their job to make sure.
In his ear, the dispatcher’s voice is obscured by the static that surges in sharp bursts. Tseng can hear the exigency, the urgency, but the nature of her concern is unclear, and he can only assume that danger is not only near, but imminent.
“Careful,” is all Tseng warns, and there’s no indication that Sephiroth hears or cares. And just as he delivers his admonition, he hears a rustle in the distance where a metal sheet falls noisily away. Instinctively, Sephiroth and Tseng both look sharply to the disturbance, only to witness a child, covered in a fine, pale pellicle of ash. The boy looks at them with terror, upon which his flight response ignites, spurring the acceleration of the coltish run he breaks into.
Tseng is prepared to let him go, but Sephiroth follows, and he gives chase to the general rather than the child, but only after with a soft swear under his breath. He’s breathless when he finally gains his side, and only because he’s stopped: blade in one hand, head bent to regard the subject of his pursuit: huddled in his mother’s arms, tucked behind who is ostensibly his father knelt before them as intercessor. His chin is raised but there is no defiance in the tilt of it, no hardness in the steel of his eyes but the distinct slant of pleading, and Tseng feels his heart in his throat at the sight of it.
“Insurgent Lin Biao,” the general names him, and his voice is as sure and sacred as a death knell.
Tseng frowns. How audacious of them to call patriots insurgents in their own lands. But that is the codification they’ve adopted for this war. This invasion.
The man’s eyes flutter shut. There’s no redemption to be had here, no mercy to hope for with the pronunciation of his name like censure. “You don’t have to do this,” he begs falteringly through a tremulous sigh. And by the general’s side, Tseng whispers the same, in desperate measure that echoes the father’s.
Tseng knows as well as he what fate this man is meant to meet. It’s just a question of when: which heartbeat will host the moment of his demise, and will the Turk be fast enough to obtrude himself in the only way he knows to ameliorate a fucked up beyond all reason situation?
He hears the quiet voice of the general intone, ‘My will is mine. i shall not make it soft for you,’ as he moves past to gather his shrieking wife and crying child away behind a broken partition, just fast enough to obscure the sharp, slick slide of metal piercing flesh—the fruition to a mission that leaves an unpleasant astringency in the back of this throat.
Later, he’ll remember those words as they wait in silence at their rendezvous, through the tumult of the black hawk’s drift, during late night hours that never seem to be as quiet in his head as they ought to be—he wonders if he heard regret.
☆ ━━━ Today, Cloud begins to end the Reunion. Once and for all.
He couldn’t sleep ever since he defeated Sephiroth six months ago within the skeletal remains of Midgar, watched his demon flutter off in a rain of black feathers. But Sephiroth had said... goddamit hadn’t that madman said:
“I will never... be a memory.”
And Cloud, he knows--after waking, panting and sweating, hands flinging out into the cold night air, trying to fend off a monster that should be sleeping too--he believes what Sephiroth said.
He won’t rest again until every last remnant of Jenova is gone from this Planet, erased as it should have been the moment it touched this place. The parasite should have never been used to grow super-soldiers or in a mad attempt to create an angel to guide them all to heaven. He will destroy Jenova.
He has to.
That’s why he is walking among the broken remains of Midgar now, right in the heart where the battle with Sephiroth took place only six months ago. Some of his wounds have not quite healed, such as where the Masamune had impaled his chest and he was lifted, sickeningly, into the air to hang--just like the hanged man he really was.
Cloud has to pick his way through the rubble. Large swaths of the Plate stick up in jags along the horizon, a setting sun orange and fat sinking low already there. He’s been out here for hours--moving pipes, and broken pottery, dolls and carts alike. Sometimes... there is a body... despite all the efforts to recover as many as they could after the Lifestream wiped everything away. He doesn’t move those, he leaves them where they lay, all shattered and rotting like the rest of this place.
He knows finding the small black box that supposedly contained “Jenova’s head” (which Cloud suspects is actually just a small collection of Jenova’s cells, not truly that horrible face) is a near impossible task. He doesn’t know if Sephiroth might have destroyed it already or that it was simply consumed when Kadaj was swept away and Sephiroth emerged instead, like some kind of terrible butterfly.
Then--he spots it, gleaming atop a heap of stone and rocks, litter sticking up among the crags. A small, glistening black box, ripped open with yellow tape crinkled along the edges.
Cloud runs, he’s running faster than he can stand, his ribs already popping with stitches at the sudden pace--it’s time to end this.
He unsheathes the First Tsurugi, his fusion sword, from his back. His hand begins to hover over the Materia inlaid near the bottom of the blades. A red, gleaming orb is just under his fingers, ready to ignite a horrific, rippling flame--
