Post by Kempff on Jul 31, 2010 23:56:04 GMT -5
Username: kempff
Current Canon(s): Nada
Auditioning for: Sephiroth
Audition (450 word minimum):
"I knew ever since I was a child, I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence."
Words have accomplished little in my time. At their best they announce an expectation of defeat in the eyes of my foes, and quicken the passage of my blade to snuff the light in their heart. That is the most a warrior like myself can be expected, or bothered for; diplomacy is for the dead.
Memory holds that words are the best facade for the liars and deceivers of all places, all times, of all people. The weak flock to what they can speak and claim to, yet never show what they can do. Those that cannot do remain tiny and indecisive, waiting to be crushed.
I make no attempt to remember what is said to what can be done. The only truth that I know remains from when I was a child: I am different, a god among mortals.
The hallowed halls of Radiant Garden's Hollow Bastion had long lost a noble patronage. This fact and story was quietly forgotten in the world's history. When and why exactly the legendary swordsman left are questions to which no answer emerges, but of those who remember him there lives on the allure of measuring up to the swordsman's monumental fame. The truth, a tale of lie and intrigue they cannot even begin to fathom, would shake their faith in the hero so fervently as to send Radiant Garden to its doom in chaos.
A calm wind blew on the day clouds filled the sky over castle Hollow Bastion once again, clouds uniformly black the likes of which had not been seen in nearly a decade (though hardly anyone likely kept records). For those that faintly remembered, it was on this occasion the former hero had disappeared without a trace.
At the base of the castle a small vortex of wind began to swirl, blowing leaves and debris about in all directions, slamming into castle walls and rocky alcoves. A thin funnel from the sky shot out suddenly directly above, visible for only a fraction of a second before the funnel dispersed.
The vortex spun wildly as a figure levitated above it, a single black wing drooping to the right. As the figure lowered them self to the ground, the wind vortex slowed, shrinking until it disappeared. Faint silver hair draped a tall man's back, slightly frizzy and ruffled and lacking its former sheen. He held out a hand and cupped a falling black feather, noting its roughed edges.
His uniform, one of a kind (mainly for his size and build, largely responsible for allowing him to perform the feats he could) and delicately crafted to suit his body in his duties, was ripped and stained. The expression on the swordsman's face mirrored his sorry apparel's state. He was more than wizened, more than experienced; he was burdened with truth, a truth that led to his self-exile. His pride was shaken, his aura of perfection had been tampered with. Why he had left, the reason Radiant Garden lost its greatest hero, still burned in his mind as clearly as it had years ago.
With a flick of the wrist, his wing disappeared in a flurry of scattering feathers. The man stepped towards the entrance of his old home, a place he vowed to protect on his life.
"Home, how long has it been..." A steely voice cracked, perhaps the first time he had spoke in years. A light flashed and a sword long unseen appeared. Masamune, wielded and usable only by the greatest swordsman ever.
"Sephiroth however, is no longer your servant." Sephiroth turned to a fountain nearby, rose Masamune and jabbed at the stone. A series of quick strokes cut the stone like it was butter, while sounding of the harshest nails on an old board. Sephiroth turned quickly and left, seeming to have something on his mind.
The inscription he made on the fountain read: Your prodigal son returns, Hollow Bastion.
And all would remember and know of only one blade ever to cut as this was done.
Current Canon(s): Nada
Auditioning for: Sephiroth
Audition (450 word minimum):
"I knew ever since I was a child, I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence."
Words have accomplished little in my time. At their best they announce an expectation of defeat in the eyes of my foes, and quicken the passage of my blade to snuff the light in their heart. That is the most a warrior like myself can be expected, or bothered for; diplomacy is for the dead.
Memory holds that words are the best facade for the liars and deceivers of all places, all times, of all people. The weak flock to what they can speak and claim to, yet never show what they can do. Those that cannot do remain tiny and indecisive, waiting to be crushed.
I make no attempt to remember what is said to what can be done. The only truth that I know remains from when I was a child: I am different, a god among mortals.
The hallowed halls of Radiant Garden's Hollow Bastion had long lost a noble patronage. This fact and story was quietly forgotten in the world's history. When and why exactly the legendary swordsman left are questions to which no answer emerges, but of those who remember him there lives on the allure of measuring up to the swordsman's monumental fame. The truth, a tale of lie and intrigue they cannot even begin to fathom, would shake their faith in the hero so fervently as to send Radiant Garden to its doom in chaos.
A calm wind blew on the day clouds filled the sky over castle Hollow Bastion once again, clouds uniformly black the likes of which had not been seen in nearly a decade (though hardly anyone likely kept records). For those that faintly remembered, it was on this occasion the former hero had disappeared without a trace.
At the base of the castle a small vortex of wind began to swirl, blowing leaves and debris about in all directions, slamming into castle walls and rocky alcoves. A thin funnel from the sky shot out suddenly directly above, visible for only a fraction of a second before the funnel dispersed.
The vortex spun wildly as a figure levitated above it, a single black wing drooping to the right. As the figure lowered them self to the ground, the wind vortex slowed, shrinking until it disappeared. Faint silver hair draped a tall man's back, slightly frizzy and ruffled and lacking its former sheen. He held out a hand and cupped a falling black feather, noting its roughed edges.
His uniform, one of a kind (mainly for his size and build, largely responsible for allowing him to perform the feats he could) and delicately crafted to suit his body in his duties, was ripped and stained. The expression on the swordsman's face mirrored his sorry apparel's state. He was more than wizened, more than experienced; he was burdened with truth, a truth that led to his self-exile. His pride was shaken, his aura of perfection had been tampered with. Why he had left, the reason Radiant Garden lost its greatest hero, still burned in his mind as clearly as it had years ago.
With a flick of the wrist, his wing disappeared in a flurry of scattering feathers. The man stepped towards the entrance of his old home, a place he vowed to protect on his life.
"Home, how long has it been..." A steely voice cracked, perhaps the first time he had spoke in years. A light flashed and a sword long unseen appeared. Masamune, wielded and usable only by the greatest swordsman ever.
"Sephiroth however, is no longer your servant." Sephiroth turned to a fountain nearby, rose Masamune and jabbed at the stone. A series of quick strokes cut the stone like it was butter, while sounding of the harshest nails on an old board. Sephiroth turned quickly and left, seeming to have something on his mind.
The inscription he made on the fountain read: Your prodigal son returns, Hollow Bastion.
And all would remember and know of only one blade ever to cut as this was done.
