[ She remembers that little girl from before the filth of Dorchacht, eyes full of exploding lights and a tiny fist in the fabric of Paloma's dress. Her hair had been soft when she combed through it with gentle fingers. Old enough to get into trouble with the others from her orphanage on a night like this, young enough to be caught underfoot.
A streak of sunset-orange and amber on black barrels into a man twice her size, or nearly that, because he'd raised a hand to the girl with an armful of parceled food. Paloma's full flight speed cannot completely compensate for a low-density body mass and light bones, which is why she first drives the butt of a pickhead axe into the side of his neck.
His shout vibrates from the pain of it, but the hand that shoots out to grip her thin neck has the strength of three adult men. She wonders what brand of monster or witch he is before her air flow cuts off and her talons kick uselessly above the cobblestones. ]
[he's distracted, though, which was his mistake. a solid hit to the solar plexus, a followup under the jaw, sweeping his legs to remove balance, and finally grabbing him, slamming the back of his head into a wall so that he falls unconscious from the force of it. it won't kill him - Dantes had promised that young man he wouldn't kill. but he won't be rising from this place for a while, and he looks between the two - the girl, and Paloma.]
Are you alright?
[shaken, he can tell, but were they injured beyond what his eye could see?]
[ Needing oxygen has become a novelty in of itself. Desperately needing oxygen and receiving none fires off too many panic buttons in her brain— she can't even gasp or gurgle—
It's awful, just an awful thing to feel vulnerable and know you're weak. The monstrous strength and agility she's relied on to survive for the last... almost half a year, since the Embrace, has substituted for any actual combat proficiency. Curled into a hacking ball on the dirty ground, she remembers what it's like to be a newborn. ]
Aven, [ Her voice rattles. The orphan girl hugs her winnings more tightly, hesitating. ] ... gghyes.
[the girl he bends down towards, murmuring to her of a place she should go if she has no other, to say she was looking for Louis, and they would watch over her for the night. but she should run as fast as her legs would go, at least for now.
Paloma he turns to next, extending a gloved hand - they are not pristine at the moment, white marked with soot and dirt. still, he offers a hand up for her, waiting quietly.]
[There’s a flowerpot with a big tricolore ribbon on his doorstep. It has irises growing out of it. Marie did not wrap it too tightly, to make sure the flowers will not get damaged by the wrapping, so there is just a few layers of paper protecting the irises from the cold.
There’s a handwritten message attached to it. ”A little bit of homeland”
So how good is Avenger with keeping houseplants alive?
[ She only knows he does business with Garadia, not where he lives, so who knows when ‘Louis’ receives this shimmering package. A little box, wrapped in paper magicked to look like constellations moving slowly across a blue-black sky.
Paloma’s never seen him do anything that would attract a crowd’s attention, and she knows he likes to go by two different names at minimum. His gift is a cloak pin with silver enamel bordering a red mask, its eyes shut serenely, its lips calmly turned up into a restrained smile. A note reads:
This is the only place I can hope the box finds you. Thank you again for what you did for me and the little girl.
[Though the barracks have seen better days — in a state of disuse and neglect until more recent clean-up efforts had trickled in — Sephiroth finds familiarity in the way the buildings are pressed together in a spartan row, how the design was laid out with military efficiency, with spaces for rest, food, and training being the most paramount of them all. A soldier, even one from a different planet altogether, would naturally gravitate towards this location, like the needle point of a compass twitching north.
He was no different.
Evening threatens to turn the sky a glaucous gray, hanging over a space behind the row of buildings, so barren, so flat, and designed to be so spacious and arena-like, that it could be nothing more than an old training ground, now quiet with neglect.
Here, Sephiroth chooses to train. Each swing of Masamune’s impossibly long blade is a glint of steel and the sound of puling crystal in the half-light. Each turn on the heels of dark boots is trailed by a length of silver hair, the flare of a black overcoat. Green eyes glint with a strange, alien glow. The training dummies, lined up on one side along the perimeter, remain untouched; there’s no point in destroying them completely with a single cut of his sword.
And out here, like this, anyone nearby might happen upon him if they’ve a mind to watch or pass by.]
[here is where Avenger steals away, covered from neck to wrist in black, looking for room to train. mainly he wanted to test his reflexes, if his strength could not be tested - there are a few he could reach out to, ask for their assistance, but not today. still, it seems like he was not the only one with that idea, and he pauses on the edge of the training ground, golden eyes tracking the other man's movements.
he knows what he's doing, that much is for certain. still, it must be dull having nothing to strike against - so in the space between one swing and the next, Dantes speaks up.]
You fight well.
[loud enough to cut through the silence without being boisterous, a genuine admiration there.]
[Dantes’ voice cuts through the silent space in-between one swipe of the sword and the next. Whether or not Sephiroth was aware of his presence is difficult to tell, for he merely straightens, falling out of an offensive stance, and turns his head to look at the other man. Placidity is written all over cool, unreadable features.]
A result of years’ practice.
[The result of being born, bred, trained, and tested, again and again. Genetics, too, to a degree, though he remains oblivious to that much.]
And being away from my planet— it gives me all the more reason to keep my skills honed.
[Since the incident with the Rathmores, Andersen has not left the theater they've made their home. Magic may have fully healed his physical injuries, but injuries to the mind and spirit -- those are more difficult to stave off. In Chaldea, there was at least the chaos of a constant crisis, of one issue or another demanding their full attention, allowing such worries to be tucked away for another time. Here, in Geardagas, there are stretches of peace, and that is dangerous for someone like Andersen.
He hears unfamiliar footsteps enter the theater and his heart seizes up. For a few seconds, he doesn't dare breathe. Seconds crawl agonizingly by into minutes, minutes stretch into an hour, and it soon becomes clear that no threat is coming. The brief terror takes enough out of him to sink back onto the couch, exhausted.
[he knows the terror that strikes at the heart of his Bonded - it's the same that held him, had him hold his sharpest knife to the other man's throat and speak words of warning. the mercy he showed would not be so extensive next time.]
Eren. He's another of the Mirrorbound - I helped him and another steal back what was theirs.
[their discussion about the forest can be touched upon when he knows Andersen is in a condition to hear it.]
He knows better than to forget to knock now. There's no one else - I checked.
[He knows his Bonded would be more thorough than any man, that he'd canvass the building without overlooking a single spot, and to hear his reassurance allows Andersen to dispel some of the tension curled around his heart. He pinches his nose bridge, pushing his glasses up as he does so.]
Since when did you become so social? You haven't been running around the city like a cowled vigilante, have you?
[It's the smell that tips him off. Though the scent isn't quite the same as its earthly counterpart, the weedy smell is similar enough for Andersen to make the connection. Whether that's a good or bad thing is yet to be seen.
He knocks on the door to Dantes's room and waits for a response.]
[there's a long pause there, because Dantes is dragging himself upright, thinking about answering the door when he's comfortable. but Andersen's being polite and knocking, which means he deserves the courtesy of an answer.
he opens the door, and the first thing Andersen will notice is that he's dressed down - absent his jacket and cravat, down to his vest and shirtsleeves - as he regards him with a raised eyebrow.]
[His suspicions are confirmed when Dantes opens the door and he sees the state of his dress. The Count of Monte Cristo never half-asses anything -- he always whole-asses things. Andersen leans against the door frame and gestures at him.]
[ A late hour to be flapping into the theatre and alighting in a woman’s shape right in front of the door separating stage from living space. She doesn’t think he sleeps much, not generally, and the flight home diverted when she thought of seeing the kitten again.
Paloma knows not to invite herself in. Rapping lightly on the wood, she tugs her shawl into order and self-consciously flaps the wrinkles from a knee-length dress, listening for signs of life. ]
[there's low light coming from under the door, the biggest sign that there was someone there. light, because Dantes wasn't sleeping - not when he feels as though someone cracked open his ribs and hollowed him, when he'd thrown himself over the city in desperation and knew and could not give an answer. the only thing he can handle to take is water, for the pounding in his head and the twisting of his gut is a strange sort of comfort in its mocking physical pain.
once, he had been caught in a riptide. the water that sucked one down, pulled and could not be fought against but moved alongside until it let go. that strain, that force that surpassed a modern man and only grew, holds his mind in one spot, fills his lungs and makes it hard to breathe.
knocking at the door rouses him as if he's in a dream, half moved by the desperate, insane thought that oh, this was all an accident - or someone was dead, and he could handle that, just not a thought like missing pieces falling like smoke from his veins, maybe it's all an accident and he's the victim of the worst prank, maybe something happened -
it's not him. Dantes just looks for a few seconds, and one glance is enough to say he was not expecting visitors. but he's never someone who comes to the door wearing his agitation on his sleeve, stripped down to his vest with collar undone, hair disheveled from where he'd gripped it, looking like he didn't know what to feel first. shadowed in the light of the lamp like some half formed thing, devoid of color with anchor cut.
his voice is far. thinner, than it usually is, and quiet.]
Miss Vasquez. It's late.
[an observation, not a critique, and his hand rests on the doorframe as if it does not know where it belongs.]
[ The whole of his degradation gusts through her in a cold, cold wind, and the casual greeting freezes on her tongue. The night when she'd smelled the clotting blood on Avenger, his refusal to give any time to weakness meant he had vanished into the mist looking untouched, untouchable, when it couldn't possibly be true. Now there's no blood on his body or clothes, fresh or otherwise, but something has wounded him.
Some while ago, say the three visible scars circling his neck, but Paloma thinks those have next to nothing to do with it. ]
Too late?
[ The wrongness is everywhere when she looks at him, at his hair, hands, in his thin voice. ]
[To be yanked from one dimension and into another is nothing unusual for a Chaldean Servant. For them, the absurd and strange is an everyday occurrence -- which is why, when Andersen is thrust through the mirror, he doesn't panic. It's more an annoyance than anything, which is why when he hits the floor, he curses:]
Shit!
[It takes him a moment to realize he recognizes the floor he's lying on -- recognizes the room that he's fallen into -- and he freezes.]
[he hears a thud from afar, and the automatic, reasonable assumption is that the cat got into something again. small as he is, he has a tendency to find his way into odd places - and therefore, cause some trouble.]
Ignatz...
[he's probably gotten into the bookshelves. abandoning the work he was doing, he gets up to see what exactly's been going on, to find what fell. the bedrooms have open doors, for fresh air today, and he can't help but to glance at the one that's been unoccupied for a time on reflex. absent a resident, though he keeps it together.
except it's not empty at all, and Dantes freezes in the hall, looking like he just saw a ghost - like a thousand things aren't flying about in his mind to say.]
[He figured Dantes would've abandoned the room or repurposed it for something better. But everything is exactly as he's left it. The stacks of unfinished drafts. The bookshelves. There isn't a trace of dust to be found, which speaks to diligent care. Before his mind can fully comprehend what he's seeing, he hears footsteps. Familiar ones, at that, and has enough sense to rise to his feet.
--he looks worse than he remembers. It's rare to see the Count of Monte Cristo so unguarded and worn. It looks wrong on him, wrong for a man who refused to bow to the lashes of Hell.
Andersen has nowhere to put his hands. He makes a useless gesture.]
... you've squandered a lot of time on this room's upkeep, I see.
[He doesn't know what to say. So he opts for a usual biting comment.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fright night; let's save some dirty orphans
[ She remembers that little girl from before the filth of Dorchacht, eyes full of exploding lights and a tiny fist in the fabric of Paloma's dress. Her hair had been soft when she combed through it with gentle fingers. Old enough to get into trouble with the others from her orphanage on a night like this, young enough to be caught underfoot.
A streak of sunset-orange and amber on black barrels into a man twice her size, or nearly that, because he'd raised a hand to the girl with an armful of parceled food. Paloma's full flight speed cannot completely compensate for a low-density body mass and light bones, which is why she first drives the butt of a pickhead axe into the side of his neck.
His shout vibrates from the pain of it, but the hand that shoots out to grip her thin neck has the strength of three adult men. She wonders what brand of monster or witch he is before her air flow cuts off and her talons kick uselessly above the cobblestones. ]
no subject
Are you alright?
[shaken, he can tell, but were they injured beyond what his eye could see?]
no subject
It's awful, just an awful thing to feel vulnerable and know you're weak. The monstrous strength and agility she's relied on to survive for the last... almost half a year, since the Embrace, has substituted for any actual combat proficiency. Curled into a hacking ball on the dirty ground, she remembers what it's like to be a newborn. ]
Aven, [ Her voice rattles. The orphan girl hugs her winnings more tightly, hesitating. ] ... gghyes.
no subject
Paloma he turns to next, extending a gloved hand - they are not pristine at the moment, white marked with soot and dirt. still, he offers a hand up for her, waiting quietly.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
modranicht gift
There’s a handwritten message attached to it. ”A little bit of homeland”
So how good is Avenger with keeping houseplants alive?
modranicht giftin’
Paloma’s never seen him do anything that would attract a crowd’s attention, and she knows he likes to go by two different names at minimum. His gift is a cloak pin with silver enamel bordering a red mask, its eyes shut serenely, its lips calmly turned up into a restrained smile. A note reads:
This is the only place I can hope the box finds you. Thank you again for what you did for me and the little girl.
Paloma C. Vasquez ]
text
Caster Cu, I mean. Not that scaly menace.
no subject
no subject
That, and I'm certain you've felt strange without your abilities as a Servant.
[As did Andersen, though he imagines it's far more manageable for him than Dantes.]
no subject
So I take it you would be in favor if I said I was considering looking into getting such modifications on myself?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
action.
He was no different.
Evening threatens to turn the sky a glaucous gray, hanging over a space behind the row of buildings, so barren, so flat, and designed to be so spacious and arena-like, that it could be nothing more than an old training ground, now quiet with neglect.
Here, Sephiroth chooses to train. Each swing of Masamune’s impossibly long blade is a glint of steel and the sound of puling crystal in the half-light. Each turn on the heels of dark boots is trailed by a length of silver hair, the flare of a black overcoat. Green eyes glint with a strange, alien glow. The training dummies, lined up on one side along the perimeter, remain untouched; there’s no point in destroying them completely with a single cut of his sword.
And out here, like this, anyone nearby might happen upon him if they’ve a mind to watch or pass by.]
no subject
he knows what he's doing, that much is for certain. still, it must be dull having nothing to strike against - so in the space between one swing and the next, Dantes speaks up.]
You fight well.
[loud enough to cut through the silence without being boisterous, a genuine admiration there.]
no subject
A result of years’ practice.
[The result of being born, bred, trained, and tested, again and again. Genetics, too, to a degree, though he remains oblivious to that much.]
And being away from my planet— it gives me all the more reason to keep my skills honed.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
action.
He hears unfamiliar footsteps enter the theater and his heart seizes up. For a few seconds, he doesn't dare breathe. Seconds crawl agonizingly by into minutes, minutes stretch into an hour, and it soon becomes clear that no threat is coming. The brief terror takes enough out of him to sink back onto the couch, exhausted.
When Dantes comes about, he says from his spot:]
Who was that?
no subject
Eren. He's another of the Mirrorbound - I helped him and another steal back what was theirs.
[their discussion about the forest can be touched upon when he knows Andersen is in a condition to hear it.]
He knows better than to forget to knock now. There's no one else - I checked.
no subject
Since when did you become so social? You haven't been running around the city like a cowled vigilante, have you?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
prior to the dragon tree quest
He knocks on the door to Dantes's room and waits for a response.]
no subject
he opens the door, and the first thing Andersen will notice is that he's dressed down - absent his jacket and cravat, down to his vest and shirtsleeves - as he regards him with a raised eyebrow.]
Yes?
no subject
You got any for me or what?
[...]
I'm talking about the drug you're taking.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
action
Paloma knows not to invite herself in. Rapping lightly on the wood, she tugs her shawl into order and self-consciously flaps the wrinkles from a knee-length dress, listening for signs of life. ]
no subject
once, he had been caught in a riptide. the water that sucked one down, pulled and could not be fought against but moved alongside until it let go. that strain, that force that surpassed a modern man and only grew, holds his mind in one spot, fills his lungs and makes it hard to breathe.
knocking at the door rouses him as if he's in a dream, half moved by the desperate, insane thought that oh, this was all an accident - or someone was dead, and he could handle that, just not a thought like missing pieces falling like smoke from his veins, maybe it's all an accident and he's the victim of the worst prank, maybe something happened -
it's not him. Dantes just looks for a few seconds, and one glance is enough to say he was not expecting visitors. but he's never someone who comes to the door wearing his agitation on his sleeve, stripped down to his vest with collar undone, hair disheveled from where he'd gripped it, looking like he didn't know what to feel first. shadowed in the light of the lamp like some half formed thing, devoid of color with anchor cut.
his voice is far. thinner, than it usually is, and quiet.]
Miss Vasquez. It's late.
[an observation, not a critique, and his hand rests on the doorframe as if it does not know where it belongs.]
no subject
Some while ago, say the three visible scars circling his neck, but Paloma thinks those have next to nothing to do with it. ]
Too late?
[ The wrongness is everywhere when she looks at him, at his hair, hands, in his thin voice. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
may 3rd
Shit!
[It takes him a moment to realize he recognizes the floor he's lying on -- recognizes the room that he's fallen into -- and he freezes.]
no subject
Ignatz...
[he's probably gotten into the bookshelves. abandoning the work he was doing, he gets up to see what exactly's been going on, to find what fell. the bedrooms have open doors, for fresh air today, and he can't help but to glance at the one that's been unoccupied for a time on reflex. absent a resident, though he keeps it together.
except it's not empty at all, and Dantes freezes in the hall, looking like he just saw a ghost - like a thousand things aren't flying about in his mind to say.]
no subject
--he looks worse than he remembers. It's rare to see the Count of Monte Cristo so unguarded and worn. It looks wrong on him, wrong for a man who refused to bow to the lashes of Hell.
Andersen has nowhere to put his hands. He makes a useless gesture.]
... you've squandered a lot of time on this room's upkeep, I see.
[He doesn't know what to say. So he opts for a usual biting comment.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...