Turpium

Retired doesn't means less of a threat. It just means less of a purpose.

[turpium]

i will be grabbing data off this blog and closing it down. thanks for the thirteen years! you know where to find me if you need me!

[turpium]

sins in your garden by stepping on the flowers.

[turpium]

i can still get into this account and i can see you sinning

 - beans

[khrohyten]

waiting for the remake of ff7…

to celebrate, I plan to draw one by one all ff7 characters.

  fifth, Hojo.

  swayback, doctor’s gown, evil eyes…

18 years ago, I hated him.

but…now, this man even adorable.

I love all ff7 characters.

                                          the original model pictures ↓

[exoriistos-blog]

disparity by design.

Seasalt made his insides burn something fierce as he rapidly approached the shores of Costa Del Sol, wounds leaving thin trails of red behind him like ribbons. While his pride was just barely intact, the demon had fled. He might’ve lost the fight and the prey he spent time trying to catch in the beginning, but it was better than losing his life thanks to that redheaded asshole.

Still… He’d get him back somehow. Right now his main priority was to get fixed up. It wouldn’t have been a problem if the injuries were only skin deep - but  what with Reno’s raptor-like claws having shredded and pierced through the gills on the side of his neck like a heated knife through butter, and the fact he found himself choking on the water and his own blood, made him wonder just how badly he’d been damaged.

It took just under five minutes for TG to drag himself from the wet shore and up the sandy dune to his destination.

If the disgustingly wet flop on the wooden deck wasn’t enough to announce his arrival, the sound of the exile retching seawater, fish guts and blood by the retired professor’s feet would’ve done the trick just fine.

          “You. You need to help me.”

[turpium]

There was a reason he had taken his leave. 

Work within that questionable organisation had become too much. For, he was mostly stable for the moment, but there would be days where his body was wracked with rigors-- they were not seizures, for he had carefully observed the stress that his body was under, it was something more dark in nature, something festering below the skin that wanted out-- but did not yet have a place to go off to. 

That would be soon, not now-- for now, he would soak in the gentle rays of the sun, he would take his coffee on the porch, and his morning would be quiet-- simply to fend off his impending doom for as long as possible. However, it seemed that fate had a different plan for the aging professor. His decking had been stained a bright crimson, splaying brightly against the white boarding--

He could not be completely shocked that this creature had found it’s way to his home, for he was it’s maker, and all of them were hardwired to return to their creator. Of course, this child of the night was a defector, someone who had left the organisation ( much like he had ) and he held no real loyalty to the childish beast who was dying before him, choking on it’s own bile and blood. 

While he doesn’t mind that his deck is ruined and his shoes his have been soiled beyond repair, he simply steps aside and out of the potential clutches of the dying beast-- coffee is piping and ready to pour onto the young thing, the wound is deep and the contact of the hot beverage would most likely be enough to send the demon to his grave. 

Alas-- he does not pour the cup just yet. 

“Why should I-- boy.” 

[aceraleigh]

There’s always that one fictional character that you have such a complicated relationship with because you love them but you also know that if they were real you’d punch them in the face at least once a day

[turpium]

@sanguinesaint:

Years or d e c a d e s ? – I think, in the end, it just boils down to the point of origin when that counting presumably started.

Was it when we first met in Nibelheim? Or sometime later in life when we were reunited beneath the Sister Ray?

Or, when his mental uplink had consumed what dignity there was left from men and women whose life were already ruined by project Deepground?

                Where do we start?  

Under Nibelheim manor, surrounded by various medical equipments, a cigarette was once shared. It had started with a single bullet then. Who would have thought that, saving from the fact that someone did get killed this time round, it should have ended so spectacularly similar?  

Maybe this was why the cigarette was saved, even when the company once producing it no longer exists. And oh, how careless was the carton of rolled-up poison tossed toward him then. One would have believed this man possess naught a care.

But that would have been a presumption too swiftly and wrongly assumed.

After all, we were both here, sharing the same package of Malboro as we once had before; and bless Gaia, no one has yet bled. A shift of both ocular skyward conveyed precisely the thought therein toward the lack of greeting. Nonetheless, a lifeless and dull silver lighter was still caught swiftly enough by gauntlet grip. Decades now since the man had first decided to hide his monstrous self beneath the piece of armoury that using it has became something skin to a second nature.

Following his earlier move, suave chin shifted down. A soft snap saw vermilion bled along the tip of my own nefarious tube, and the fume fully indulged in…

– once.

Slowly, I breath out the putrid smoke. Not yet meeting his gaze, claret irises shifted instead skyward where their owner may quietly observed the dance of those grey tendrils – higher and higher, they languidly moved. It seemed nearly as if time had came to a stop.

“To give yourself in… or some unfinished business?”    

          “…We would need a vehicle.”

Perhaps it had been year since he had physically laid eyes on the man before him-- or had it been months? Time was a blur at this point-- his time was normally spent between his garden or medical journals trying to keep a decaying mind sharp. For this body had not seen Vincent Valentine in close to seven years, but remnants of his fractured mind that had been scattered across the planet had been with him all of these years-- there was the confrontation at Deepground  ( which he now admitted freely was a very foolish mistake ploy for immortality ).   

They are a dichotomy. 

Stark contrast between the two, for one is a sinner with repentance and the other is a man who believes sin to be an illusion, one is drenched in a crimson mantle and the other used to sport the vermillion between calloused digits with such pride, yet regardless of their differences, they are wound into the same cloth-- now they are stones cast into the river of time and their years will have to be carried out working in accordance or simply learning to deal with one another.  

They were an unlikely pair, facing off again as smoke billowed from the end of the lit cigarette-- swirling into the expanse of the high vaulted ceilings, the vice should have been given up years ago when he was still mortal ( alas it could not kill him now ). But-- here these men are indulging in old pleasures from their old life, almost holding civil conversation. However, the former Professor moves, cigarette still clutched between forefinger and thumb, he almost dares to roll the cigarette between the pads of those aforementioned fingers. 

He does not make a move for his companion, but instead for the cluttered end table, cigarette is placed between lips for a moment as hands search for a box of forgotten mementos. The cherry box is located under papers in desperate need of grading-- but they are cast aside for a chain of thin silver with a cross on the end. The object is held out for the other. It’s been well cared for, it’s a way to silently amend, or perhaps make nice-- for they are stuck with each other. 

Until time runs out.  

Free hand removes the cigarette from ashen lips-- and with a small curve, smoke is blown, hooking up again in spirals.

“I have to retrieve some files that I do not trust the WRO to keep.” 

The chain is swung.

“I have transportation all figured out. Will you accompany me?” 

[turpium]

//steps all over the lawn ... WITH BLOODIED BOOTS

Watches as his perennials are trampled with such lack of grace. 

Body is aged, terribly so, and he cannot come from his spot– he is stuck tending to his flowers, and the crimson soldier is simply out of arm’s reach. Yet, a hose lays asunder and he pulls it into one hand– the water dribbles lazily for a moment, but the pressure is modified and a thumb is press over the water– aim it enough to at least spay the graceless ( and classless ) SOLDIER.

[turpium]

Among whatever else he might have received, which is undoubtedly slim, a journal left is for him. It is old, clearly so in its design, but rather well kept. It is over stuffed, notes of all temperaments scrawling across the lined pages, and it /should/ be familiar. Plucked straight from his memories, They leave if here, for him. It is a reminder, at least, but perhaps more. They do not need to give him something /more/; They have already given him so much.

Bound leather is familiar in the far off sense, for he knows that it is his ( the handwriting proves that alone, for it is the same small scrawl that he still uses ), but his memories of the book are disjointed in a way that he cannot bring to explain. 

Roughed fingers run over the binding for a moment, stopping at the gold laced letting that spell out his surname, only then does a flash of something flicker in the back of his mind. It’s an overwhelming sick that begins to boil for a moment-- and then it turns into a deep burn. And while nostalgia rushes over him, there is a darkness urges him to open the book...

But darkness lurks within those pages. 

For now, fingers retreat for a moment. Soon-- he will fall prey to It again. 

[turpium]

Professor Iori C. Hojo-- 宝条庵

                                                            “It is I, the bad guy.”

【 HOME 】  【 ART CREDIT 】  【 GUIDELINES 】 【 HEAD CANON 】

[turpium]

Drags in something freshly killed. Was it human? Probably. It was a little, well, gored and hard to tell. But! She comes back later with Materia that were horribly corrupted with It's taint. So she puts them on the corpse. She also brings him a coffee mug, because something in her had suggested it. The '#1 Dad' is covered in a bloody hand print.

Apparently the deck would have to be cleaned again. 

For, he could not eat this, nor did he have the tools for anything other than using the remnants of this creature as fertiliser for his roses-- however the slab of meat would have to be processed and that would require time ( alas, that was something he had in excess ). 

Materia-- was plucked from the chest cavity ( squeamishness and fear of disease was something that had left him long ago-- for there was no fear of death with something like illness ) blood smears across his knuckles and he dares to flip the materia between his fingers, looking them over before handkerchief is pulled from his coat pocket and the small glowing orbs are wrapped away, to be used later.

Then he picks up the mug, it’s comical in nature-- down to the handprint which he doesn’t dare wipe away ( he considers sealing it and baking the mug in the oven to set the bloodstain ). 

Perhaps, he did have some sentiment for foolish human tradition. 

[cupcakelogic]

cats have too much power

[memewhore]

[angstmemes]

Reblog if your muse can speak more than one language.

[molinaesque]

After replaying lots of Final Fantasy VII stuff, being inspired by an AMAZING artist, and also being encouraged I finally did a quick sketch of one of my favourite characters from FFVII, Professor Hojo. What can I say? Extremely fucked up characters float my boat as much as the adorkable ones!

But seriously though after going through a lot of tags and reading a shit ton of metas and headcanons and analysis on Hojo, I started to appreciate how complex he actually was which is terribly interesting.

Another interesting thing I noticed about Hojo was how tired he looks whenever I bump into him (currently playing Crisis Core), so I wanted to really convey him in a moment where he’s just DEAD tired. Also that plus his constant ‘so done’ resting bitch face is just A TREAT to draw! I realised his ponytail should be looser around the tie though. I shall fix that in the future.

I will be doing a finished version of this soon. I will also be doing another fucked up (but I love them for it) scientist from this universe, Lucrecia! The couple shall be complete… SOON.

This is for said amazing artist, crimson-sun, and the person who encouraged me and is also an amazing writer, karanguni!

[turpium]

pracina:

[turpium]

sanguinesaint:

Of his past, I do know know. I was allowed as much as what have been written on various reports, his resume, and the investigations accompanied one. Of course, some of those are not really public documents. Still, Turks do have their means whenever their minds are set upon a goal.

To survive, in particular, is the highest objective possessing in all the livings, and certainly one being clung to with teeth and nails among Turks. Gaining an Intel is simply one of the golden rules of ensuring that the ‘alive and kicking’ condition persists to remain so.

   He was not the only one among them I have investigated upon.    Probably, he would not even be the last.                 What of …her?    More is to be found. It is much the same about him.

        “You were surprised.”

               There, a minute tipping of cranium.

   “To the questions…? I wonder which. I had imagined those were always asked.” Judging from his reaction, at least one of them was not. A meeting of oynx and cinnabar irises was soon broken as twin scintillating blood red irises averted once more toward the preserved remnant of the specie once considered as lost.

“The crater. A collision of a great force could have created a havoc in seasons and land.” Thoughtful, oculus would narrow minutely down. “…Nothing ever thrived there. The land is dead… wound.” A necrosis of flesh. Quiet notions soon were dismissed with a roll of shoulder as both hands slipped inside navy pants’ pockets.

“A disease that came rendering in molten flame, perhaps.”, lightly interjected kavalierbariton. Deep tonality left a ringing echo of my own bemusement, if not reflected in the two rufescent oculus that shifted back.

Not much of his past is readily available for public consumption. There are few things he plays close to his coffer, conceivably, his past in one of them. A son of a drunken doctor who lost his title and name to an oubliette, a son to a mother who had to work for scrap that wouldn’t even buy her perspiration. Yet, those trials and tribulations—shaped the man that stands before cascading towers incandescent and massive. Dark eyes focus only on the cavernous mass that floats behind shielded class, and perhaps he feels some slight of kinship with the creature—a man cast aside with two counties of origin, yet no home.  

Perchance the Turk knows of what muddled past he bears, yet knowing and understanding are two vastly different ideas. “I’ve never been asked in regards to my faith. I suppose, I don’t believe in anything—my mother was of Wutai and Del Solian decent. She believed that Leviathan skipped rocks across the earth and created the ponds, he then used his mighty talons to pull the water into wells, creating the sky and the ocean—and the land. Of course as I grew…that became no more than a story.” A memory stirs, of a raven woman with kind features and a gentle voice, a soft song a melody. It’s cast aside, it’s all of a child’s fairy-tale. Gaze lowers behind bifocals, fingers drum over clipboard; subject turns back to the matter of his degree.

There is no philosophical nature wound into the facts of the crater. It is cold and clear cut, the suggestion that his Turk raises brings a hint of a smile to cross features. A hint of a chuckle pulled from the back of his throat. “There is a prevailing theory, that a meteor grazed the atmosphere, kissing the land and leaving a trail of its contents, strangle holding the populace, sending them into an ice age that wiped out all but few.” It was once a thriving tundra, bones and carbon dating show nomadic peoples hunting—even fishing, and then as if a switch was flipped a great wound was inflicted on the world, and perhaps that wound is in the towering casket that glows, pads of fingers reach out and touch the glass—a hint of mystery clouding normally so sure eyes. 

Formality is dropped, tone is soft, unusually so: “I think there are mysteries that even I will never understand, Vincent. And perhaps, if this is my magnum opus, even then I will not fully understand the severity this being has caused if it is not a remnant of the Cetra.”