ooc: Weeps I totally forgot that I have write and complete all these forms to attach to my dissertation document, so unfortunately I’ll have to hold off drafts/rp today. I know I shouldn’t make plans when things can change just like that. I apologize profusely for being such a slow and inconsistent partner.
While his tone was calm, there was edge behind it — a thinly sheathed razor blade. Brow knit gently over cerulean, and her head canted slightly to the side in curiosity; there was more to these feelings and the rousette was letting on.
”Well, if they did something bad to the planet, then shouldn’t they just work toward making it better again? It’s a better alternative than just being sad and not doing anything to fix it — at least, it is to me, you know?”
And that is a child’s wish.
One muttered from beneath the slabs that concealed a massacre, a porous thing that managed to break through the rubble and ascend into airs far more deadly. The rugged junctures of Midgar’s heights were a prime example at humanity’s attempt to fix things. The blasts from futile efforts, the needless sacrifices made to make such possible— what did working ever do?
"You say they musn’t be sad?" It is a confusing thing, what she says. As if one is expected to forget, to cast aside the melancholy bequeathed by the tragedies that befell them, but perchance he stands here a hypocrite. Noble and on fire; had he ever reflected? Did eyes, tinged by the tainted seas of synthetic enhancement, ever glaze over with a sense of guilt that summoned any saline tears forth? No.
No. For he were cold, as much as his semblance burned.
The sorceress eased closer, her light footsteps announcing her presence as she tilted her head and gazed curiously in Genesis’ direction.
"You’re quoting from Dante’s Inferno, aren’t you?" Creases emerged on her forehead as she went on her with her assumption. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the part where Virgil and Dante continue down the Fourth Circle of Hell and meet Plutus?"
"Hoh—? You are familiar?"
An odd thing. This lady, so quiet in her steps, alluding to fires far deeper than the grounds of imagination itself. The grovelling, the lost; stanzas of ruin that are cast in everlasting sorrow— why do these words capture her so—?
Is she fond of tragedies?
"And downwards to the seventh sink we went, advancing further down the curving that bags up all the evil of the universe." There is ill-humour on his tongue, wondrous scripts blending with vicious ones, and then he smiles. "Aye— Plutus has already been met, and then they argue as they delve deeper. Deeper and deeper into chasms which they long to know but long to forget. Rinoa, you never cease to amaze me."
"Perhaps sadness is what they need to feel. For Gaia to be so greatly hurt by its own ignorance, and to look upon a land they had robbed. No man deserves that gold. No man deserves that respite just yet. But ah—”
ooc: I apologize for my lack of activity over the weekend, but I think most of you knew I had been spending my entire spring break writing up my dissertation, and I did not have much motivation to move onto my drafts (Too much writing man, too much writing).
Anyhoot, I have noticed an influx of followers. But, if anyone would like to thread, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’ll be getting to drafts steadily over this week, and probably post a few short opens for anyone to respond to. I also have skype if anyone wants holla.
Eyelids lowered, the Fae chortled lightly at the inquiry of the poet. Both assumptions were wrong, thus making it all the more delightful for him to provide and answer— yet perhaps cautiousness is advisable, having stumbled upon an unfamiliar person (as it is, all those who cross his path shall be strangers, since it is Fintan who has set foot in, to him, an unfamiliar land). Who knows what this stranger, this wandering poet, would do once having received the answer to his questions. Chain him in iron, bring him forth to proudly show a creature like himself to his kin? Tales like those were not unfamiliar to the Fae’s ears.
Yet it seemed that most, if not every tale of the Fair Folk and its kind were lost to mankind. All trace of them gone, and few folk remembered them. And what could Fintan have to fear of a weaver of words— ought he not to be more delightful to have stumbled upon one like him, who was more likely to understand his words and rhymes? ”—A man may think no ill of nettles and thistles, Yet will still avoid its touch, not to have skin itch and burn, by the caress of short bristles.”
It may be so that those who were pure Fae could die upon touching iron, but that did not count for him. Uneasiness when near, burning, tingling feeling when flesh briefly met with the cold surface— sometimes leaving red marks on porcelain skin, but no more than that. A longer caress of steel may make him ill, weaken him, yet he had never tried, nor felt the need to test.
Verdant irises flickered over to the resting figure, lips remained curved— only when gaze turned back to the imposing building, his mouth twitched, losing the sign of amusement as well as interest. He pondered over the words of the man. The man who may not be a man, for Fintan was aware of how ordinary mortals looked. Never had he heard of irises hiding an illuminated sky within. Still, exceptions were possible. A rarity among his kind? It was beyond doubt that there was something unusual about the other, even if it were only the hue of its eyes.
An unusual man who spoke of unusual things, then. —Words which reminded him of something else, which was prophesied many decades ago.
”—I shall not see a world Which will be dear to me…” A reciting, silent utterance not of his own making. But it was well-known amongst the Fair Folk, both the Winter and Summer Court knew of it.
”Summer without blossoms, Cattle will be without milk.” Words were not meant for the stranger, but for himself. A reciting which seemed befitting, a prediction now fulfilled, but not for the Morrígan— nay, for himself. It was nearly laughable, how a War Goddess, a harbinger of Death, one who Fintan was not likely to encounter, should have spoken of things he witnessed now.
“…—An evil time, Son will deceive father,—”
And so he turned back, with a heart and head that weighed him down as if made of the metal his skin could not bear to touch. The smile did not return to features, not even when the stranger’s gaze was met, whilst Fintan himself preferred to be in merry company over a grim, bitter one. Heavy sigh escaped parted lips to prevent a silence. And the playful flicker oft seen in his eyes was now gone, replaced by an emptiness which expressed sincere grief for what the world has become of today. “It seems I wander in a land, where even an absence of steel will not lift my spirits. Once my kin warned me for poets, as whilst they may weave syllables to make them flutter, twirl and sing— as if Brigit herself had spun them— an emptiness is felt in the hearts, of those whose ears have caught the words. Mine is not left empty, but filled with worry and grief. It is sad, to hear many have forgotten nature’s belief.
—What of the poet who rests in the wild? Does he have part in this tragedy, now atoning for his and mankind’s sins?" No treat, no blame was found in the inquiry, merely curiosity— a wish to hear his tale, should the man wish to share it. A rejection would not surprise him, nor would it evoke anger. The only thing Fintan did expect was honesty, for lying he did not approve of. Mortals were so eager to hide truths from each other that they twisted and turned their words, telling others of thing that never occurred. How pitiful, how distasteful. Pathetic attempts to create a different, imaginary world for others— they should know that untruths never survived for long, and were always found out. Fintan had never, and will never, know how a lie tastes on the tongue. But it was not something he wished to learn, nor did he envy those who were adept at deceit. It was a privilege as a Fae, and he was glad to have inherited that privilege himself.
And these are solemn words that please him.
Wonderfully crafted responses to wider questions, weighing barbed thistle with steel bracts, comparing forgotten details of nature with the coldness of synthetic constructs. Aye— perchance the realms of metal that slumber beyond the mark are no different from the beds of bineweed and nettle. Where one could admire something from afar, yet stay away knowing of the consequences that sparkle true on their forms. Here, the romantic creature that is Fintan, bears a curiosity with the unknown, just like this poet whom is not really a poet, but a beast who is alike the iron that the wanderer so fears; fake and cold.
Colder than ice.
A deceiver whom never willed his deception.
Even he does not know what he truly is. Hand-crafted by the lab-coats that chundered wickedly in the repugnant depths of Shinra’s white halls, parents unknown, hammered together with a taint that labelled him humanity’s first surviving sin. Akin to the creation of steel; where the oddments of ore were melted and poured into forged troughs, the inner circles of their design bearing monikers and numerals to decorate their noble sheets. Aye— he were alike the making of steel. Where only machines and chemicals were used to force his soul into being, not the love of a father and mother whom desired of his existence, nor did the world ever accept him in the first place. And like the iron that rusts, he had been subjected to a similar ailment. Where his skin had become dry, drier than the untouched clefts of a sandstone height, fading to a chalky white as an illness took hold of him and robbed him of all his phony majesty. And he had grown mad. Screaming like the rusted metals that were forcefully moved from their stagnant placements, his fleeting breath bitter against the bleak airs that filled his lungs with poison, damning him to a perpetual solitude in the glacial bowels of the world.
It was only the comedy of a Goddess that had freed him from such a fate.
His hatred against the word Destiny.
Would the Fae tingle and burn if they were to touch the sun-kissed flesh of an artificial man, then—? His outer-fire a farce, his charm but an illusion; many folk would not even compare him to the lumbering oafs that clamber o’er the healing hills of Gaia’s greatest scopes. Where his honeyed words were far too seductive for a lass to deem him monstrous, where his eyes were far too lustrous to be belong to anything less than a king— they would never think to ask of his past when they were too much in love with what they had found. And he’d play. Frolic and bowl them over with archaic words of power, treating them with the songs of the Divine that he held so dearly beneath his breast. They would be won over with only a voice; protesting, protesting against the truth that beckoned to be known when scapula stirred and his wing hankered for freedom. A wing so grotesque, with pinions blacker than jet, despised by even he whom carried it, for the darkness it described was not like the pleasant evenings of a summer’s night, but of a Hell where nothing ever burned and nothing ever lived.
Mayhaps the Fae made a mistake.
He were no man. He were no angel.
"Such tragedy in your rhyme, but it is beautiful nonetheless." He makes a comment about the display first, for he could never ignore such a magnificent play of words without offering a compliment, as if he had just beheld the most exquisite of plays before his very eyes. Their location served to be a perfect stage. One where they could exchange words of wisdom in the company of a threatened nature, where the choughs in black in their cacophonous flocks would nestle down to listen as if they were druids too. And thus he stands; fire-crown just touching the bluegreen under-bellies of over-hanging vegetation, dipping down and under so he could stand in a taller and more open grove within the wood. He expected the other to follow, to trace his steps through the flattened rows of weeds, where the wind funnels more truly against leathers of red and black.
"Everything and everyone is a liar."
A somber beginning, but there is a smile present that contradicts his chosen script, alluding that there was more to what he meant than what could easily be perceived. Aye— even Fintan had said such himself in a more grandiloquent and slower wave of words. His mention of poets and their trickery; veiling events with pretentious stanzas that blew away the truth. The lies that are within every living thing; both good and bad. The thistles, the harsher summers, even himself— even if he were to explain his reasoning behind being here, there will always be some semblance of a lie.
He could not damn himself with another talk about how much one pitied him.
"None have ever truly understood my part. My reason. For they all like to jump to conclusions and spit slander whenever something they disagree with is mentioned. Hah—” A chuckle as eyelids lower, enshrouding unnatural blues with irritation stinging his brow. "Maybe I am here to atone, to protect that which no other has ever cared for in the past until now. But sometimes I question my own ability, or whether or not my oath is something laughable."
I do not exist to be humiliated.
"You say the metal of this world harms you, in a sense. Perhaps that spreads to all that which is not truly natural." He turns now, bequeathing the other with his full attention while maintaining a reasonable distance. He would not be all that surprised if the other were unable to understand what he meant by his coming question, but the bard was at least confident that the other would care to think.