Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Rothcar blather

I'm such a derivative fantasy whore. *sigh* Here's a really, really sketchy timeline of all the various plotlines that take place in this universe. They are legion, and I came up with most of them when I was in eighth grade, which is why they suck, and why I'm only giving sketchy details, so as to embarass myself as little as possible.

The history of Rothcar and the surrounding areas can be divided into four main sections- five, if you count post-Stella Matin, but that's still technically part of the Fourth Era. Given the way certain characters keep making ominous noises, I'm sure I'll have to come up with a Fifth Era soon.

The First Era is characterized by nature worship and cohabitation between human, non-human, and demi-human species. There were no gods and no form of organized religion. It ended when a war between the humans and demi-humans escalated to engulf the non-humans as well.

During the First Interlude (began in 1E 3087), most of the demi-humans and non-humans were killed; those that survived were banished underground. Most of the dragons died then, as well, and those few that survived became royalty among the non-humans.

The Second Era saw the beginning of actual deity worship; two goddesses were born out of the wreckage of the First Era, and they were recognized by all species as the final authority on everything. The humans lived in dozens of small fiefdoms and city states; the two largest of these were called Rothcar and Izalia.

The Second Interlude (whose plot is so pastede on, I don't even have words to describe it) began in 2E 963 when a plague drove the non-humans out of the Rift and back to the surface. The two Goddesses were kidnapped by someone who had figured out how to attain godhood on his own. Both Rothcar and Izalia were destroyed; the high princes of both countries banded together, along with a ridiculously large cast of side characters, to end the war and recover the Goddesses before the idiot who'd kidnapped them blew up the continent.

In the end, an elf priestess named Tybarra, and an outlaw magicrafter named Radrezyne were the ones who actually saved everyone. The two of them killed the Goddesses and the wannabe god, and ascended to godhood on their own. They separated the excess godhead into six pieces; Tybarra moved on to another plane of existence, and Radrezyne went back to take care of her husband, the ex-prince of Izalia.

Radrezyne and her then-husband united several of the fiefdoms around Izalia and became wise and benevolent rulers. Eventually they had children and everything went to hell, but that's another story altogether. The high prince of Rothcar went back and united a few feudal states of his own, and began rebuilding Rothcar. The Six pieces of leftover godhead became six new gods, and the Third Era began.

The Six were elemental deities- the four principal elements, plus life and death. Each one chose an area of the continent to patronize and agreed to maintain a balance in the forces of nature. They also agreed to leave Radrezyne and her people alone.

This worked for a few hundred years (even though they'd all wanted to do something when Radrezyne lost her mind and her son sealed off the country), until the elemental of death tried to take over the continent (3E 542). The rest of the Six picked six mortals to represent themselves on the physical plane, gave them powers by proxy, and waited for things to fix themselves.

The Six Avatars sealed the elemental into a rock and went into hibernation. The Third Interlude began in 3E 1150 when a bunch of idiots revived the elemental and all of her nasty creations. The Avatars were awakened and told to go forth and be useful- but they'd been asleep for six hundred years, and they had to get over their culture shock first.

The Fourth Era began with the mutual suicide of the Six and their Avatars; they shattered themselves into a thousand pieces, and each piece became one of the Thousand Little Gods. By this point, most of the non-humans and demi-humans left the continent or the plane; the incredible variety of creatures that once called the continent home had dwindled to a few dozen races.

Rothcar became the center of commerce and culture; Radrezaria, to the east, had opened its borders to annex the lands to the south and north, but remained otherwise completely isolated.

The Fourth Era is my favorite because the focus shifts away from the country as a whole and focuses more on the capital city of Shaivhen, where the Guilds and Temples vie for power. I love my Thousand Little Gods and my Assassins' Guild, even if I did completely steal them from Tamora Pierce and Eve Forward. The Fourth Era has the highest ratio of cool characters to useless pieces of crap than any other Era, too.

Derivative fantasy whore, like I said. Foxbird's story takes place in the middle of the Fourth Era, while Stella Matin happens towards the end. (Silverlock was born in 4E 398; he meets Foxbird and Blaine in the 480s; Theron kills his father in 4E 776; he leaves Radrezhaea (or Radrezaria, or whatever else the fuck I call it at any given point in time) with Bren and Co and arrives in Shaivhen in 4E 1000.)

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Sun goes up and the sun goes down

Apprentince!Theron is totally just an excuse for me to blather about Rothcar and the surrounding countries. Get yer exposition while it's hot! (I love this world so, so much, no matter how derivative it is. I think I may need to do a non-humanoid creatures post soon.)

Also, I really enjoy torturing Theron. It's his own fault, really- he just can't leave well enough alone. It's reverse karma- his shitty childhood almost balances out that whole God of the Dead thing. Almost.
---------

Winters in Shaivhen were typically mild affairs, characterized by biting winds and the occasional miserable drizzle. Silverlock said it had something to do with ocean currents and the high harbor cliffs, cloud plateaus, and population fluctuations among the endangered snow butterflies of the Ikatian Peninsula.

Theron had ignored this as more of his teacher's nonsense and teasing until Silverlock brought out a glass specimen box from one of the many locked storage rooms in the basement.

"They're the only thing that can survive on the peninsula- it's the most inhospitable place on the continent." Silverlock set the box down on Theron's work table and removed the steelcloth gloves he'd been wearing. "Don't touch the glass."

The box radiated a miasma of death and cold; it left a slick, bitter taste in the back of Theron's throat. The insect's wings were elegantly tapered, transparent affairs, shot through with threads of silvery blue. It was about the size of Theron's palm, and equisitely beautiful.

He didn't touch the glass, but he did twine his fingers through the threads of air and death that tangled around the box. Something pulsed against his fingertips, a slow, steady drumbeat.

"The Ikatai call them edranai, after a rogue shaman who gave herself over to the forces of death." Silverlock smiled fondly. "They say she brough the darkness upon the peninsula and turned her people's homeland into the wasteland it is today. Legend has it that when she died, her body dissolved into butterflies."

"Cute. What is it, really?" Theron watched as the box slowly pulled bits of fire and water out of his fingertips; the drain was so faint he could barely feel it, but he could see the threads drifting away. He twisted several threads around his hands, pulling on them carefully.

"Some sort of Shrive creature, given the aura and the way the anger lingers after death. I've yet to find an account of a live encounter, and the Shrive themselves aren't telling. This one was a gift from a friend, many years ago."

The threads wound around his fingers and stretched into a triple cross pattern. Theron pulled sharply, and closed his hands, bringing all of his considerable willpower to bear on the weaving around the box. The pulsing against his fingertips sped up to a frantic pace.

The glass shattered with a noise like falling boulders. There was a bright light and a bone-bruising wave of force that knocked Theron to the floor, and then silence.

"You little bitch!" Silverlock's voice sounded muted and far away.

Theron smiled, and ignored tickling wetness of blood seeping from his nose and ears. The edranai had been beautiful in death, a whispy, etheral thing. Alive, it pulsed and glowed and beat with power. The air was heavy and cold, deliciously cold.

It was better, he decided, to be consumed by ice than fire. Heat distorted things, while the cold put everything in sharp focus.

The edranai drifted out the window, surrounded by a corona of bluish rainbows as the light refracted off its slowly beating wings. The weighty silence left in its wake reminded Theron of the forests of Bren's hometown after the first snowfall; everything was muffled and softened by sheets of ice and blankets of snow.

He tasted blood in the back of his throat, accompanied by the sharp tang of lemons. His hands were numb, but they still pulsed with that frantic heartbeat; he remembered the feel of the threads between his fingers and the shape of the power that bent them with perfect, ice-sharpened clarity.

"When I'm done pulling glass from my face," Silverlock said conversationally from the other side of the room, "I'm going to kill you, and you will find out why I was sometimes refered to as "The Cruelest Knife" in the Guild. And then I will demonstrate the proper technique for a resurrection so you'll fucking do it right next time."

"Whatever, old man." Theron was shivering now, feeling the cold on a fundamental, bone-deep level. The sharpness had faded into emptiness, aching and uncomfortable. He closed his eyes. "You're boring me. Think I'll take a nap."

Silverlock said something else, but he was too far gone to hear it. Most of what the other man said was unimportant, anyway.

That winter, the harbor iced over so that no ships could come or go; the city slept beneath four feet of snow, and waited quietly for spring.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Whatever happened to Mary?

I've had Silverlock stuck in my head all day, both original flavor and Stella Matin style. This isn't exactly a bad thing, since his antics are almost always entertaining, but yeesh, brain. The man isn't made of angst and sex. Sometimes, he's made of cotton candy and creepy inuendo. *snerk*

Foxbird, at least, is always cute. Not entirely sure she successfully cancels out Silver's creepy factor, but she tries. (Foxbird is nine or ten here, I think.) Largely unedited, for the win!

-------

The Guild's library was almost as extensive and well stocked as the National Library. This was wonderful if you wanted to browse the stacks for a few days between assignments, but when you knew exactly what book you needed and could not, even with the master librarian's help, find the damn thing, it was more than a little frustrating.

He could just barely make out the lettering on the topmost shelf; if his book was anywhere, it would be there, a good fifteen feet above his head. Silverlock glared at the immense shelves, as though he could force them to give up the book he wanted by strength of will alone. The shelves ignored him, and he went in search of a ladder.

He found one, but it was already occupied- a tiny redheaded girl crouched under it, frantically stacking books around herself. Silverlock stood over her with his arms crossed and tried not to laugh at the comical way her eyes widened. Panic was one of his favorite emotions.

"Will you be done with the ladder anytime soon, my lady, or should I just find another?" he asked softly. He could hear another set of footsteps in the stacks, coming closer.

"Hide me!" she hissed, and dove beneath the hem of his robe.

"What's in it for me?" he hissed back, resettling the cloth so that there were no tell-tale bulges. His mage robes were cut so that he could hide several small girls beneath them, if he had to.

"Help me and I won't bite you!"

"You're a bit young to be making those sorts of deals while sitting between someone's legs, aren't you?"

She bit him in the ankle; her teeth were sharper than they had any right to be. Silver kicked her, readjusted his robes, and pretended to be engrossed in the bookshelf before him as the footsteps came even closer.

"Excuse me, Lord Assassin- have you seen a girl here? Red hair, about this tall?"

"Hm?" Silver glanced up at the man, taking in the gray healer's garb and the veil that covered half of his face. "A girl? In this part of the library? I should think not."

"Damn. My apologies for disturbing you, Lord Assassin." He performed a full formal bow, to Silverlock's amusement.

"No trouble at all, healer. If I do see her, I'll be sure to send her on her way." He smiled pleasantly, and watched the man's face turn a sickly shade of pale green. Disgust, fear, and no small amount of nausea rolled over him in waves of second hand emotion. Silverlock's smile widened; he didn't often induce such a strong reaction in others- not without trying, anyway.

"Th-thank you, Lord Assassin. By your leave." His steps were slightly unsteady as he fled to another part of the library.

A moment later, the girl stuck her head out from under his robes. "He's gone?"

"Indeed. What, exactly, did you do to get a healer sent after you?" He nudged her gently away from his ankles and out of his robes.

"He's my father. I'm supposed to be taking lessons with Lady Mishkal right now." She dusted off her tunic and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like blood."

"Of course I do." He swished his robes out of the way and sat down beside her. There were rumors among certain guild members that he loved children- as appetizers. He objected to this sort of slander; children had far too many bones to be good for anything but soup. "I thought Mishkal would be dead by now. She was a terror when I was an apprentice."

"She's an elf." The girl wrinkled her nose again. "They don't die."

"Ah-ahh." Silverlock tapped her on the nose. Truthfully, he found children charming when they weren't delicious. "Everything dies, my dear. It's all just a question of when and how."

She smiled then, eyes lighting up. "Sometimes it's a question of how much."

Silverlock's expression matched hers. "Spoken like a true Guildswoman! I hope you don't skip all of your other classes."

"Of course not! I go to all of the useful ones."

He nodded. Mishkal's specialty was interrogation, but she taught ettiquette to younger children. "And which is your favorite, then?"

"Hand to hand combat. I'm at the top of my class in ranged weapons, but I like knife fighting best even though I'm not as good." She scowled. "It's because I'm smaller than the rest of the class, but I'm still better than most of them."

"Being short just puts you closer to their knees. But you'll catch up to the others soon enough, I imagine." He looked her over. "How old are you?"

She grinned. Her teeth really were too sharp. "Blaine said I should say I'm too young, and bite anyone who asked me that."

He laughed. Overprotective parents were common in the Guild, particularly among the non combatants. "More biting! Fair enough. I'll look you up in five or six years and ask you again."

"Okay." She held out her hand. "Foxbird Torkehaav."

He kissed her knuckles with an extravagant flourish. "You are a most charming young woman, Lady Torkehaav. My name is Silverlock D'Alestri. You may seek my assistance any time you wish to shirk lessons with Lady Mishkal."

She stood and gave him a perfunctory bow. "I'll hold you to that, Lord D'Alestri." Her eyes flashed yellow green momentarily. "Thank you!"

He watched her scamper off into another section of the library with a crooked smile on his face. Charming, indeed. He pulled a long strand of rust colored hair out of the hem of his robe and twisted it around his fingers. The book could wait; he now had far more interesting things to attend to.

----------

Ahahaha. To make things creepier, they do eventually end up sleeping together. And then he starts sleeping with her father. (And that's a trick, since Blaine gets sick when Silverlock is within fifty feet of him.) Oh, Silverlock. You're such a ho.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

All good things

I've gotten to the Water 7 arc in One Piece. ...I hit chapter 335 and had to take a break to stop crying.

Chrisy. The Valley of the End got me a little teary in Naruto, but it had nothing on this. One Piece is amazing. Sure, it's got less of a plot than Naruto (that we can see; there are hints of a bigger picture, but only hints thusfar), and the art isn't as classically pretty as Bleach, but I would consider it the crown jewel in the Great Shounen Trifecta. The characters just- ohman. I'm in love with all of them- Luffy, and his incredible, eternal optimism; Zoro and his phallic objects; Ussop and his slingshot; Nami and her manipulative games; Chopper and the way he's the most adorable thing since the invention of adorable; and Robin, who is actually just a synonym for sex. So's Ace, come to think of it. And Smoker, and all the other Marines.

Supposedly Oda is only halfway through the story- I certainly hope so. It seems I've picked up a new obsession; I'm going through the archives of all the livejournal communities. Pretty soon I'll start on the f.net archive, though I don't have much hope for anything of quality there. (What's with all the people who are convinced Sanji bottoms for Zoro? Dude. It's totally the other way around. But that's totally beside the point, since Zoro is completely in love with Luffy. Then again, every one on the ship is in love with Luffy, so never mind.)

All my love for Naruto seems to be gone; between the manga sucking and not having anyone to discuss the manga with and my sudden discovery of a well hidden love for pirates, I'm just not feeling it anymore.

Perhaps I'll fic for One Piece, but I'm not sure I could do it justice. I think I'm mostly burned out on fic for the time being, anyway.

I'll take Blindsided down if I don't feel the urge to write any more of it by the end of June. Maybe I'll finish the Ino thing and Bone Harvester (I'd like to, I think, but I'd also like to finish BS, and I'm not sure that's possible).

*sigh* Don't want to go back to school. Meh.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance

Dear Fire Emblem:
I'm barely an hour in, and I'm already positive Shinon and Gatrie are boinking in their off duty hours. So are Rhys and Oscar. Please stop being everything I've ever wanted in a game before my head explodes.

The battle system isn't great, but it's fun when it's not being terminally frustrating. I'm enjoying the story and characters so far. (When I say "story and characters," I actually just mean "Shinon." gfzziffle. That was the sound of my brain dribbling out my ears from the sexy. Damnit, game, could you possibly tweak any more of my kinks in one character? If he gets any cooler, I may be forced to take drastic measures and...I don't even know. Every time he gets dialogue, I start squeaking at my TV.)

I- just- Shinon. Guh. It doesn't help that his character portrait both scowls and slouches, and he's a redhead and a heartless bastard. He got yelled at for looting corpses! Heart! Squee!

I dunno, I've never fangirled an archer before. I feel like I'm betraying my roots by not obsessing over the lancers. Not that the lancers aren't cool, but...man. I'm so predictable. Give me a pretty, bad tempered badass, and I'm all over him.

Ike is a pretty stock hero, all things considered, and the other characters all have stereotypical elements to them. Titania feels like a cuddly, two-eyed variation on Beatrix, and Gatrie is just like every other dumb meatshield. Rhys and Soren are potentially interesting, though Soren's coldbloodedness seems like an easy way out for his character. It would be more interesting if the healer were the cynic- but at least Rhys isn't a girl. Oscar and Boyd are adorable in that tried-and-true stock character sort of way.

I wish they'd left Titania's name as Tiamat when they translated shite. That would've been even more awesome. I'm definitely looking forward to running into the laguz later on in the game, if only because having winged people in the party would be almost unbearably hot.

Plot is all politicky and stuff, and I love that. Hopefully it won't degenerate into heroes vs big bad evil overlord; I'll take a political upheaval instead of the end of the world any day.

FFTactics is the only other tactical RPG I've ever played, really and, bad translation notwithstanding, I doubt I'll find any other tactical RPG that quite measures up. Fire Emblem does fill me with lots of squee, but that's because it's engineered to hit those buttons. Tactics never did that- it confused the hell out of me with its ridiculous plot and made me fall in love the hard way, one zodiac stone at a time. It didn't rely on stock characters or cute jokes (aside from the lounging around in Goug scenes, but those just make it even more obvious that Mustadio and Ramza are in luuuurve so we forgive them for being silly). And it let me revive my bloody party members. -__-

Ohgod, I need to stop playing and go to bed, but I can't. Must. Finish. Map. Augh. Damn you Boyd, stop dying!

*yaygamesquee*

Saturday, January 07, 2006

A little bit behind the times.

Finally saw the Naruto dub. They're still in the Wave Country arc; Haku just kicked the bucket. It's not half bad, really. Now One Piece is on, and I'm so, so glad they didn't fuck with the Naruto intro as much as they could have. Dear god, the One Piece intro hurts. (Must not start reading One Piece. Must not start reading One Piece. Must not- fuckit.)

Heh. Kakashi doing chidori? Hot. Clearly I need to actually watch TV more often. That way I won't miss gems like Super Robot Monkey Team Hyper Force Go- which, surprisingly enough, isn't half bad. ...As for Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo, I'm not entirely sure I have words.

Words other than, "Oh, Japan," that is.

...Yeah, okay, that was my brain melting out my ears. Changing the channel now.

Still working on posting the rest of DIP, which I technically never finished. Dunno why the feed posts aren't being cut all the time; I'll try posting 'em one at a time instead of in batches, to see if that fixes things.

Saiyuki and Qwan came in yesterday; Qwan continues to be quite pretty and the plot has gotten even weirder and awesomer. I've got a soft spot for crazy, immortal prostitutes and crazier wisemen with a penchant for stealing beards. Also, Jou Kai's use of kanji to kill people? Really hot.

Still good stuff; the manga-ka is the same woman who does Suikoden III, and her style is quite lovely.

Saiyuki never disappoints- the art never fails to be sexy and the story never fails to be entertaining. Man, I love Kougaiji. And the boys wandering around shirtless? Hot.

(It was a long day. Clearly I can't be expected to manage intelligent commentary on anything anymore.)

Oh, yeah. Ralph Fienes? Hot. Just sayin'.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

December, 2005

This year's offering for December is nowhere near as impressive or as well organized as last year's. But it's mine, and I finished a fair chunk of it, and now it's mostly edited and coded and done, which is all that matters, really.

And now, the writing.

1. Cancer
Naruto. 600 words. Younger Sannin. "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell."
-Edward Abbey

2. Scars, part 1
Naruto. 403 words. Being shinobi is all about picking your fights. Ino-centric.

3. Janus
Naruto. 404 words. "Hope has two daughters: anger and courage. Both are lovely." Hyuuga-centric.

4. Turning
Seventh Hour. 300 words. The end of one line is just the beginning of another. Marcus at the end of the world, lifetimes later.

5. Scars, part 2
Naruto. 204 words. Cherry blossoms bloom only briefly. Ino-centric, with a dash of Sasuke/Sakura.

6. Crystalize
Final Fantasy VII. 360 words. Very unfinished. Magic is nothing of the sort; his only wonder is science. Hojo-centric.

7. Kankurou
Naruto. 987 words. Kankurou/Hinata, Kankurou/Neji. Kankurou, 20 Truths style.

8. Contingency Plans
Bleach. 448 words. You have to plan for these things when you're third seat of the Eleventh Division, you know.

9. From the Dead
Final Fantasy VI. 368 words. It's a new world, but Shadow wakes to old ghosts.

10. Scars, part 3
Naruto. 239 words. Not all scars are visible; Ino fails to play matchmaker.

11. Scars, part 4
Naruto. 234 words. Genma/Ino/Raidou. Our scars make us beautiful.

12. Terminal Idiocy
House. 302 words. Kittens don't belong in hospitals, but just this once...

13. Southside of the Sky
Final Fantasy IV. 333 words. Kain, Edge, a mountain, and all the time in the world.

14. Shield Brothers
Seventh Hour. 426 words. Marcus never deserved their love or their loyalty.

15. Anzani
Stella Matin. 529 words. Nothing more, nothing less. Think about it, brat.

16. Naming
Stella Matin. 891 words. Silverlock finds an ending; Theron, perhaps, finds some closure.

17. Recycled Airl
Firefly. 310 words. In space, no one can hear you dream. River-centric.

18. Scars, part 5
Naruto. 469 words. Ino's got ambition; Ibiki's got patience.

19. Ghosts
Final Fantasy VI. 376 words. Everyone is haunted by something.

20. Predictable
Birds of a Feather. 430 words. I think I've written this one before...

21. Conundrum
Bleach. 156 words. Zaraki/Unohana. He was the strongest man in Seireitei. This was quite a conundrum.

22. Constancy of Stone
Final Fantasy VI. 1276 words. What face stares back at you when you look into the abyss?

23. Convergence
Original, untitled. 2606 words. There was a man on the side of the road, and two women in a car. The rest, as they say, is history.

Twenty-Three: Convergence

There was a young man walking along the highway in the dark; he kept his hands in the pockets of his faded, dusty windbreaker, and his breath fogged the lenses of his glasses with every step. Whenever a set of headlights threw shadows across his path, he shifted the canvas bag on his shoulder and stuck out his thumb. Cars were few and far between on this stretch of road, at this hour- and those that did drive by never stopped.

His face was that of a twenty-something college dropout but his hair was both in desperate need of a trimming and completely white. His clothes were nondescript and dusty.

A pair of eighteen-wheelers thundered by, ignoring him; he shivered in the wake of their passing and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his ears. The sun had set a few hours ago, and the night wasn't getting any warmer.

He walked on for another fifteen minutes before the rumble of another vehicle approached from behind him; he held out his thumb again, but it was clear from the cant of his shoulders that he didn't expect it to stop.

It slowed as it drove by, then pulled over further down the road. The engine cut out and the front passenger side door opened with a faint chime.

The young man stopped short as a bare foot encased in pantyhose kicked the door open all the way; the one foot was followed by another, followed by a set of panty hose encased legs. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as the woman belonging to the set of legs stepped out of the car. She was tall and slender and wore a business-like suit jacket and skirt, and had legs up to her neck.

She leaned against the hood of the car, backlit by the headlights, and lit a cigarette. She watched him as he approached the car slowly; the end of her cigarette glowed cherry-red when she took a drag. At first glance, she appeared quite young, but a closer look revealed fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a scattering of gray strands in her shoulder length dark hair.

He stopped a short distance away. "That's a nice car. Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville- you almost never see them in this condition on the road these days. Is that the original paint?" He had a quiet, low voice.

She shrugged. "Probably. Ask the driver; I know nothing about cars. Where are you headed?"

"Wherever you'll take me."

She blew a stream of smoke out her nostrils and dropped the cigarette. It landed on the asphalt and rolled under the car. "You have a name?"

"Most people call me Dove." He rubbed the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "It's because of the hair."

"That's a silly name. I'm Sabatini." She held out her hand; her nails were painted black, and the polish was chipping. "My sister does the driving; her name is Cabiria."

Dove shook her hand. "Those aren't exactly normal names, either."

The smile she gave him was nearly a smirk. "We're not exactly normal people. Get in the car."

The door pinged when he opened it; the interior of the car was upholstered in shiny dark blue leather. Dove set his bag on the floor. The woman in the driver's seat turned to look him over as he buckled his seatbelt; she looked like a softer version of her sister, with shorter hair and a rounder curve to her cheekbones. The lines around her eyes were a little deeper, though.

She turned back to the wheel before he could introduce himself properly; Sabatini closed her door and her sister started the car.

Dove leaned back in his seat and counted stars through the window.

***

She was eating a lollipop and hanging upside down over the arm of the couch. It was blue raspberry flavored, and her lips and tongue were stained. "You know," she said around the candy, "I think we should get a dog."

"What kind?" He was sitting at the table by the window, doodling in a battered, spiral bound journal.

"Something big and shaggy. A komondor, maybe."

"A what?" He didn't look up from his notebook; he was drawing little spiral shapes in the margin.

"They're guard dogs, mostly, but they're smart and gentle. Very protective of their families and flocks. And they look like mops on legs."

He gave the squiggly shapes tiny feet and hands. "The landlord would get pissed at us."

She sighed and stretched her arms above her head, touching the floor. "I suppose." Her eyes drifted to the door and stayed there. "But we will get a dog someday, won't we?"

"Sure." He drew eyes on the squiggle people; they slanted upwards, sad and pleading.


***

Cabiria asked a question; Dove shook himself and looked away from the window. She repeated herself. "You're not local. Wrong accent."

"Yeah. I mean, no, I'm not from around here. I travel a lot."

"You've been hitching long?" Her voice was softer than her sister's.

"Not long. Only since my car was stolen." He smiled when he said that, self-deprecating.

Cabiria laughed. "It's good to travel, even under poor circumstances." Outside, a sign for the next exit sped by. Westfield, thirty-three miles.

"Sure, if you're traveling with style. I had a Toyota, not a Cadillac."

"Style is a thing so few people have." There was a distinct note of pride in Cabiria's voice; in the passenger's seat, Sabatini made a low, laughing noise. "And a thing even fewer people appreciate."

They talked about cars and traveling while Sabatini occasionally made derisive comments. It was the easy sort of conversation that comes to complete strangers who discover they share some kind of uncommon common ground. Cabiria dreamed of owning a vintage Corvette someday; Dove wanted to drive cross-country in a Vespa.

Eventually they pulled up to the curb in front of a decrepit line of row houses during one of the lulls in conversation. Some of the windows were boarded up and the paint was curling away from the siding in jagged chunks and strips. This was the stuff urban decay was made of: the houses sat in the stale glow of the streetlights and threw ragged shadows over the sidewalk and the scraps of lawn in front of them.

"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Cabiria asked.

"No."

"Do you want one?"

There was a long pause, during which Sabatini smirked and her sister examined the display on the dashboard with unnecessary interest. Dove stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists. "Yeah," he said at last.

Cabiria smiled and cut the engine. "Good."

***

The interior of the house was as dated as the car; everything was upholstered in shades of avocado green and burnt sienna. The living room and kitchen were comfortably cluttered with bookshelves and oddly shaped but curiously comfortable chairs. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes.

Cabiria made him a bed on the couch and gave him a spare set of clothes to sleep in; the pants hung off his hips, and the shirt smelled strongly of cedar and faintly of mothballs.

"Thank you for all of this," he said to her over too-strong coffee in the kitchen. He put enough milk and sugar in his to turn it a pleasant off-white color. The remains of a sandwich sat on a plate at his elbow. "I can't repay you and you have no reason to trust me, but you're being incredibly generous."

"Should we have reason to distrust you?" she asked. "Are you, perhaps, a serial killer? A thief?"

"No!" He nearly choked on his coffee.

She smiled. "I doubt you kick puppies for a living; that doesn't pay well enough for the effort involved. It is a simple truth that most people are harmless. And if they are not- well. We can take care of ourselves."

The way she said that made it seem like it was as much a reassurance as it was a warning.

When she finished her coffee, Cabiria said goodnight and disappeared into another part of the house. Dove left his half-empty cup in the sink and went back to the living room.

There were pictures on top of the TV: Cabiria and Sabatini, Cabiria and her car, Sabatini and Cabiria's car, a sullen teenager and Cabiria's car. There were other pictures of the girl in various stages of growth, from what looked to be a third grade ballet recital to a high school graduation. She looked like the sisters, though it was difficult to tell which one she resembled more.

Dove left the pictures alone and took a spiral bound notebook out of his bag. He made himself comfortable on the couch and began to write. He started page after page with "I miss you" and "It's been five months" and "I'm sorry," but he eventually stopped trying, and drew multitudes of little spirals in the margins instead.

***
He told her he was just going to walk down the street to get coffee and a paper. He wasn't gone more than half an hour, but the apartment was empty when he returned. The apartment was empty. She'd taken all of her possessions and most of his; they hadn't had much to begin with.

He didn't go to the police; he picked up the phone to call half a dozen times, but never went through with it. He tried calling her, but he could only get a mechanical, "I'm sorry, your call did not go through" message. He tried writing letters, dozens of them, scribbled hastily in his notebook and then thrown away. He didn't know where to send them, anyway.

After five days and no sign of her, he decided to do something about it. He gave his two weeks notice at the office, pawned off the rest of his possessions, and hit the road as soon as possible.

He still hadn't found her; it was possible he just wasn't looking in the right places.


***

Dove woke up in the middle of the night to shouting from outside.

Sabatini stalked by, wearing a bathrobe and bare feet, carrying something long and dark in one hand. She slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. There was no sign of Cabiria, just shouting from outside, joined by Sabatini's voice. The words were indistinct, but the anger was clear in the pitch and volume.

Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. Dove pulled on his jacket and ventured outside. Sabatini was standing on the strip of lawn with a crowbar in one hand. She set the crowbar in the grass and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.

"This happens all the time," she said as she lit a cigarette. "Idiots get drunk and try to fuck with us. Some people just enjoy concussions, I suppose." She threw him a sidelong glance and picked up the crowbar. "You should go inside. It's cold out here."

He stared at her from the open doorway; she was standing in the wet grass in bare feet. "I'm fine," he said. A moment later, he spoke again. "You know, I asked your sister why you were being so generous. She never actually answered me."

"Does it matter?"

"If you're going to kill me in my sleep with a crowbar? Yes." He frowned and crossed his arms.

She shrugged. "I'm not." She walked up the steps and leaned against the porch railing, still smoking nonchalantly.

His frown deepened. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up," he muttered, more to himself than anything else. "That girl in those pictures. Who is she?"

Sabatini raised her eyebrows and ground the butt of her cigarette against the railing. "Cabiria's daughter. We haven't seen or heard from her in four years. She just left- she's your age, or a little younger." She lit another cigarette.

He leaned against the doorway and stared at his feet. "I've got someone like that," he said quietly.

"I figured. Are you going to stand out here all night? We gave you a place to sleep so you wouldn't be stuck in the cold."

"I can't stop looking for her."

She rolled her eyes. "You will. Eventually. What won't stop is the urge to do stupid things to apologize to a person who isn't there anymore. Now go back to sleep. I have a crowbar, don't argue with me."

She had a persuasive argument; Dove smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the door. A few minutes later, Sabatini came back in and locked the door behind her, but he was already asleep.

***

In the morning, he found more bitter coffee in the kitchen, a note, and a short stack of twenty-dollar bills. The note gave directions to the nearest bus station and told him to lock the door when he left. He left a note of his own- a hastily scribbled "Thanks," signed with his real name- and packed up his things.

The Cadillac wasn't in front of the house when he left; he made sure the door was locked, shouldered his bag, and left.

---------

Final project for creative writing, written mostly in one night. >_< The real story of Dove and the Valentines, and Maeve. Not much to say about it, really. Sabatini is badass in the extreme, but Cabiria is actually even more badass in her own way.

Thankfully, Dove gets over his angst eventually.

This is the last piece I have for December, 2005. I'm eight pieces short, but twenty three is still respectable.

Aaaaand...that's all she wrote.

Twenty-Two, Final Fantasy VI: Constancy of Stone

Ancient Castle bit, because it's totally my favorite dungeon in the game (and it's totally the last stand of the Baronian Dragoons). A little unfinished at the moment.
---------------

Celes hadn't been sure what to expect at the bottom of the strange, twisted set of caverns, but it certainly wasn't this. The stone changed color beneath their feet, shifting suddenly from water-worn cave to cracked paving stones.

Celes was on point, Atma in her hand; of the four of them, she was the best equipped to deal with a head-on threat. There was an acrid scent in the air; she covered her nose in alarm and looked for the source of the smell. They had yet to encounter a creature in these caverns that breathed poison gas, but she wouldn't be surprised to find one.

"Something the matter, Miss Celes?" Setzer flicked his lighter shut and hid it in a pocket. "You look worried."

She glared at him. "The air in here is poisonous enough as it is, Setzer. Put it out."

"Sorry." He ground out the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "Keeps my hands steady. It's a bit...claustrophobic in here."

"Try biting your nails," she snapped.

"I'd have no fingers left if I did that." He took out a deck of cards from one of the many pockets of his coat and began shuffling them. "Try seeing it from my point of view, love. Would you prefer a slow, painless death by asphyxiation, where everything goes dark a bit at a time and then you fall asleep- or death by thirty thousand tons of rock falling on your head? That could go quick, too, but only if you're lucky. If you're not, you're stuck under a boulder, bleeding to death with all your bones broken, suffering unedurable pain for the last minutes- even hours, or days- of your life."

"Setzer, for the love of all you ever held holy, shut up." Locke glared at the gambler. "This place is creepy enough as it is."

"Says the man we found at the bottom of a cave filled with lava and zombies," Setzer shot back. "This place is a walk in the park!"

"It's not creepy...just sad." Terra had that distant glow in her eyes that usually prefaced some otherworldly insight.

"Creepy and sad," Celes amended. "How long do you think it's been buried here?"

The crumbling turrets of the castle pushed against the roof of the cavern, as though holding it up. The stones glowed faintly on their own, coated in some sort of bioluminescent moss. More moss and lichen covered the pathways, and filled in the places in the courtyard where grass had once grown. Locke held his lantern higher; they could see the outlines of banners and flags that had long since turned to dust on the walls.

"They haven't seen the sun since the end of the war," Terra whispered. "All of them, trapped here, since the war." She left glowing footprints in the moss. "These stones were old even before the Espers came to be."

"There was a battle here." Celes knelt by a fallen column. "Monsters didn't leave these marks- the castle was probably destroyed and abandoned before it was buried."

"We should see if there's anything left worth using, then. And keep an eye out for weird things in treasure chests. That last one was a doozy." The prospect of more treasure brightened the thief's demeanor; he slid the Gradeus out of its sheath and made his way up the steps.

The silence in the place was eerie; even in the deepest caverns, there were noises. Something about the quiet was even more unsettling than the hiss of the most terrifying monsters. They followed a decaying red carpet into the throne room, leaving behind footprints of dust and ash.

"Holy..."

Even in stone, Odin was a thing of nightmares. He had been caught in the middle of a scream of rage, sword upraised. Sleipnir's front hooves were raised as if to strike down some long dead foe, frozen with his mane lashing around his eyes.

Terra stepped past Locke and reached up to touch the statue. "You've been alone for so long," she murmured. "Humans destroyed this place; the citizens here were allied with the Espers. Odin swore to protect them at all costs..." She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold stone. "The enemy turned them all to stone and crushed them into dust, until only Odin was left."

Ghost light flared around her, engulfing the statue. When it faded, there was nothing left of the statue but a glowing green stone. Terra held the magicite shard in one hand and scrubbed at her eyes with the other. "So much cruelty. Have humans really changed since then?"

"Does it matter? We're doing the best we can with what we've got. You can't ask for more than that." Setzer took the magicite from her and tossed it to Celes. "Come on, we've got more exploring to do before we can get out of this place. It's depressing."

There was a sudden rumble, followed by a series of crashing noises. Terra, Celes, and Setzer immediately turned to Locke, who glared at them.

"What? There was a switch. You would've pressed it too!"

Celes pinched the bridge of her nose and took a slow, deep breath. "Right. The sound came from over there. Let's go see what you've done."

"Hey! Come on, Celes, that's not fair- if I'd told you about it, you'd have said, 'Okay, Locke, go ahead and press it, maybe it's something important.' Don't even pretend you wouldn't!"

The other three ignored him. He followed after them, muttering unflattering things under his breath.

As they passed through the small basement library into the second basement, Celes paused at the bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines. Her hand lingered on one slender volume, tracing the facets of a gemstone set in the spine.

"Celes come take a look at this!"

Locke's voice startled her out of her contemplation; she slipped the book into her pack and hurried down the stairs. The basement gallery was lined with broken statues, but a single, whole statue stood on a dais at the far end.

"Looks like Odin wasn't the only statue that survived." Setzer had put away his cards and was now flipping a coin across the backs of his fingers. "General Celes, could you perhaps explain why you look so very like so very many important people?"

She looked too young to be a queen, but the crown on her head bespoke her status. Her clothing reminded Celes of the Opera House; Maria's saga was grounded in history, albeit distantly.

"Celes is prettier, definitely." Locke circled the statue, grinning.

"Oh, certainly. The real question is whether or not this young lady could carry a tune." Setzer winked at Terra and flipped the coin at her; she caught it with a giggle.

Celes ignored them, and the strange, almost hysterical lightness that had fallen over them. This was no Esper, caught in eternal fury. This was a human woman, dead for over a thousand years- nameless queen of a nameless country. Her gaze was lowered in sad resignation.

The statue was weeping.

At first she thought it was just a trick of the light, just a flicker across the surface of the stone, but there were actual tears running down the frozen queen's face.

Beneath Setzer and Locke's banter, she could hear a dry rattle. Ice trickled down her spine. "Quiet," she hissed.

"Celes? What's wrong?" Locke had stopped grinning.

She turned around slowly. "Her majesty hasn't been alone all these years."

The dragon rose out of the gloom with a scream. Celes struck without thinking; Odin burned in her hand, slicing the very air to shreds.


-----------

-----------

This started out as a Setzer peice so I could further explore his backstory, but then Celes claimed it- which is well within her rights, really.

Perhaps I'll continue this to its proper conclusion, but I doubt it. It's finished enough at this point, and I don't feel much need to narrate the battle, or explore the past of the Ancient Castle (totally Baron) and its (tenuous) connection to Celes.

Twenty-One, Bleach: Conundrum

DRIVEL. Zaraki/Unohana
-------------------------------

Zaraki Kenpachi was the strongest man in Seireitei. This wasn't opinion or rumor; this was fact. His spiritual presence was like a gale when calm, like a hurricane when roused, and indescribable when angered. He could fell weaker shinigami by walking down a corridor and ignoring them- and he did so, on his routine strolls through the Fourth Division.

When he removed the eyepatch given to him by the Research and Development division on these excursions, the junior chairs of the Third and Fifth divisions dropped as well.

He was the strongest man in Seireitei, captain of the most powerful and loyal division of the Gotei 13. Lesser beings trembled at the mere thought of him.

And yet, when he took one of his routine strolls through the Fourth Division, cackling at the sight of all those wimpy medics on the floor, a gentle smile from Unohana-taichou could calm his reiatsu and render him completely helpless.

Twenty, Birds of a Feather: Predictable

Tyler and Dei will take absolutely any possible excuse to attack each other. Opal is occasionally tempted to start carrying a cattleprod. (And yes, all of my characters are raging alcoholics, now leave me alone.)
----------

It was snowing; this wasn't entirely surprising, given that it was Massachusetts in late December. He had the house to himself; Jim was out getting drunk with friends from school, Tristan hadn't been seen in weeks (but he did occasionally remember to send postcards), and Carly had left an hour ago, babbling something about Jance and snow and fucking socially awkward demons. (He wasn't sure if the fucking was meant as a verb or an adjective; for her sake, and the sake of his own sanity, he hoped it was the latter.)

The doorbell rang.

Dei sighed; he really had been intending to spend the evening wallowing in misery alone. With any luck, it was just some lost and confused sales person, or a Jehova's Witness. Or maybe someone looking for directions, or a neighbor borrowing a cup of flour. Anyone but-

"Hey, it's snowing out there, did you notice?" Tyler stomped the snow off his boots as he unwrapped his scarf. "You left your door unlocked, you know."

"No, I didn't."

"Sure you did. Move, Tyler. It's cold out here." Opal pushed her husband out of the way. She shut the door behind her and began peeling off layers; by the time she was done, she was two feet thinner and still looked to be wearing at least three layers.

"Why are you here?" He took Opal's coats and hung each of them up in the hall closet until he ran out of spare hangers; he left the rest folded on a shelf.

"Well, we saw Carly up at the office, harassing Jance, and we figured you might want some company tonight. Quit looking so pissed off, we brought drinks." Tyler held up a brown paper bag.

Dei rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm getting predictable, aren't I?"

"Getting?"

Opal kicked Tyler in the shins and smiled sweetly up at Dei. "Jubal and Len wanted to come, too, but I made them stay home. In fact, everyone at the office was offering to come and cheer you up- there's a cubicle full of alcohol just for you at headquarters."

"Thank you for keeping the masses at bay," he said gravely. He took the paper bag from Tyler. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get very, very drunk."

"Hoy! Share, you bastard!"

Dei glanced over his shoulder at his half brother, one eyebrow raised. "No, Tyler, that's you."

Opal caught the bag and its contents neatly when her husband tackled Dei. She stepped over the two squabbling men on her way to the kitchen, in search of a corkscrew.

Nineteen, Final Fantasy VI: Ghosts

Setzer/Shadow, takes place after the last bit. I love these two, they're like the deformed, horribly scarred and traumatized odd couple.
--------

His wounds were far from healed, but even he could only sleep for so long; Shadow found himself wandering the corridors of the airship, looking for her owner. He folowed the sound of whistling to the engine room. The whistling was a surprisingly tuneful rendition of a Jidoorian sea shanty. He'd heard the lyrics in a bar in Zozo once; the words were crude enough to make the whores blush, as he recalled. He found the gambler's boots sticking out from underneath one of the hulking rotaries in the bowels of the Falcon. They were rather distinctive, as far as footwear went.

"Everything all right, Mister Shadow?" Setzer punctuated his question with a particularly loud bang.

"Fine." Shadow leaned against the door and watched the toes of Setzer's boots tap to the beat of some tune only the other man could hear.

"Good!" There was another bang, and then Setzer emerged from beneath the machine. He was filthy with dirt and grease; the dark smudges stood out against his pale skin like ink on parchment. "You seem in good health today."

Shadow shrugged. "I've no complaints."

"Odd, for a man who was nearly dead not even a week ago. You're a lucky man, Mister Shadow." Setzer smirked. "I like that."

He heard a faint giggle from the corner, but there was no one there. Shadow stared at the empty space with a frown. "It's not luck," he said at last. "Not when you ought to be dead."

Setzer stood, wiping his face with a lacy handkerchief. "It's not our place to say whether or not we should be dead, Mister Shadow. It's out of our hands, from the moment we're born to the moment Dame Fortune decides to call our bluff."

He heard the giggle again, but there was still no one there. Setzer clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. "You still look only half-warmed over, my friend. Get yourself back to bed; we're stopping in South Figaro in a day or so to pick up fuel and supplies."

He let himself be pushed out of the room, but as he turned to go, he saw a flicker of purple and gold in the corner of his eye.

Eighteen, Naruto: Scars, part whatever

More of the Ino thing. If I finish it, it'll be an extended one-shot, I think.
---------------

"You're going to train me."

Ibiki looked down. He recognized the blonde from the disastrous chuunin exam a few years back- the one with the bad attitude and a big mouth, not to be confused with the other blonde with a bad attitude. This one hadn't actually advanced to the finals.

"Why am I going to do that?" he asked. Yamanaka, that was her name. Her family had a reputation for being stubborn and a little crazy. The determined look on her face reminded him of Anko, and wasn't that a frightening thought- he didn't need more than one of those in his life.

"Because you've got three spaces in your intelligence division that need filling, and right now you don't have anyone capable or willing to fill them. Train me, and I'll be both."

He took in her long blonde hair, and the way she'd combed it to cover half of her face, and wondered what had happened to all of the talent in Konoha's youth. The Hyuuga and Uchiha couldn't have taken all of it- that was statistically impossible. Ibiki did need those three positions filled- but he didn't need some upstart of a Yamanaka reminding him of the fact.

"I don't take on apprentices." He brushed by her.

She didn't try to stop him- she simply appeared in front of him again. That was good. She had some notion of finesse- and she wasn't stupid enough to attempt physical force on him. He kept moving, though, and she moved with him.

She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "If you don't, the Hokage will assign you new personel- people who only know you by reputation and have no clue how to work with you."

"You only know me by reputation," he pointed out. "At least the people she'll give me will be fully trained."

"No one is fully trained these days. She'll give you whatever poor idiot she can pull in off the street and convince to work with you. You need me, if only because I'm not afraid of you."

He stopped and looked down at her from his considerable height. "You should be."

Her eyes didn't waver. He smiled, and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "This is the address of a teahouse where you'll be able to find Mitarashi Anko. If she agrees to train you, I'll take you on when she thinks you're ready." He scribbled the address in a completely illegible code and handed the paper to her.

She folded it without looking at it and bowed carefully. "Thank you, Ibiki-san." She didn't make any pithy comments, either.

He watched her walk away. Better and better. Maybe there was some talent still hiding in the ranks of Konoha's shinobi. If she survived Anko, she might even be worth something.

Seventeen, Firefly: Recycled Air

River knows that Simon doesn't like it when she goes Outside; she knows he's afraid of the dark and the cold, and he doesn't understand why she loves it there, with nothing between herself and the Black but a thin, thin layer of glass.

She doesn't know how to explain it to him- and that is true of so many, many things. The words are there, but they can't get past the things in her head, the voices and the pictures and the secrets, so huge and frightening and loud. She's stopped trying to explain it.

Every chance she gets, she goes for a walk Outside. She doesn't know how to share the vastness of the Black with Simon, or the way her head goes quiet for a little while. Out there, she thinks she could talk to him about anything, about everything. The secrets are smaller there- everything is smaller there, so small, so tiny. They could be fly-sized, for all the notice the 'Verse gives her when she holds to Serenity's hull. The voices fade away until she can hear the singing of stars, each one humming at a particular frequency, pulsing out lightwaves in time with the heartbeat of the 'Verse.

It's just her and the stars, and Serenity, warm/cold and alive beneath her. Simon is afraid he'll lose her to the Black one of these days, and she wants to tell him that he can't lose her when she's tethered to Serenity, clinging like a child. Serenity won't let her go, because Serenity knows her, knows she's not ready yet.

She doesn't think Simon will understand, and she doesn't think she can get the words out past the secrets. But she just wishes Simon could know what it feels like, to be rocked asleep by Serenity, listening to the lullabye of a hundred thousand singing stars.

Sixteen, Stella Matin: Naming

Two hundred years ago, Silverlock's hair was mostly black, aside from the thick silver streak that fell over his right temple. Now, his hair was completely bleached, from age or magic or stress, Theron did not know. Otherwise, the half-elf was unchanged; he still wore robes that were centuries out of style, and black ink still crawled over his skin. There were, perhaps, a few more lines around his gently slanting eyes, but that was all.

"When I heard you were in town and hadn't come to visit, I was quite hurt." He wore glittering steel sheathes on his fingers. They made tiny musical sounds against his teacup. The engravings on them matched those on the heavy metal collar he wore, and the shackles around his wrists. "It seems the time between our last meeting and now has done nothing to turn you into a civilized creature."

"I thought you were dead." Theron's own drink sat untouched. "You ought to be dead."

"One might say the same of you. How many people even know who you really are?"

"None." He turned away, jaw clenched. "Though I could ask the same of you."

Silverlock laughed. "Anyone who truly knew me died long before you were born, my dear. Now, only you and the Shrive have any inkling. Not even the gods are sure, anymore- not even Varun, and it's a sad thing indeed when your own patron forgets your name." He put on an exaggeratedly agrieved face. "Disgraceful, that."

Theron relaxed minutely and shook his head ruefully. Silverlock hadn't changed in the slightest. "Some day you'll have to tell me how you came to be a servant of the god of healing and clean water."

"It's a good tale, that one, full of intrigue and entrails and snakes." Silverlock shrugged. "But now Varun is my patron in name only. He hasn't spoken to me in centuries- none of the gods hear their followers anymore. The people of this world are moving on. The old order will collapse in on itself, and a new one will follow. It's your fault, you realize. The death of your country and your people and your gods has left a hole. I, for one, do not look forward to seeing what fills it."

Silence filled the air between them as Silverlock sipped his tea. Theron played with a loose thread on his sleeve, and felt sixteen again. "When you took me in, you said I had great potential to do great things," he said at last. "When I went home, all I could think of was making my father pay for what he did to my mother- and to me, by association."

"Is it my approval you crave? My commendation? You became a god. Not many teachers can say that of their students." There was mockery in Silverlock's voice. "You were always something of a romantic, Theronil, but I never suspected you to be capable of sentimentality on this scale."

"I never earned that name," Theron interupted. His bitterness was palpable. "Ironic, isn't it? I destroyed the Thaumatocracy before I could be reclassified."

"Fool. You learned nothing- seven years with me, and countless more with your mother's ghost to guide you, and you learned nothing." Silverlock reached across the table and grabbed his chin. The blades on his fingers drew tiny drops of blood. He cocked his head to the side, birdlike, and examined Theron's face carefully. "That name has been yours since the moment you clawed your way out of your mother's womb. You weren't worthy of it before but now, I think, you are."

He licked the tiny traces of blood from his claws and smiled, cat-like. Theron shuddered, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Names are important, Theronil. If you forget everything else I taught you, remember that, at least." He stood in a swirl of magic and patterned cloth. "Now, as pleasant as it is to visit and reminisce, my dear, I doubt I'll see you again. This is no longer my city and, much as it pains me to admit it, I can't stay here and remain true to myself."

Theron stood as well, and tried to ignore the fact that Silverlock stood a full head shorter than him. The mage had always seemed to tower over everything in his memories- but then, he didn't remember much, these days. "Be sure to send word when you die, D'Alestri. I'll have Stella look for your soul on the tide."

"You'll be the first to know; my estates are yours when I'm gone, if you can find them all. But don't trouble your Mystic; my soul has no need for guidance."

"Then we part as equals, if you'll allow it, Silverlock." Theron held out his hand. Silverlock's claws drew more blood from his wrist, but they were warm against his skin. "Or, should I say- Anzani."

Silverlock's free hand touched the collar at his throat and smiled openly. Not a smirk or a sneer, but an honest smile. "Equals, indeed. To speak my name means we cannot be anything else. You always were a clever boy, Theronil. Nothing more, nothing less. We must never claim to be otherwise."

He disappeared silently, leaving behind a faint aftertaste of blood and magic. Blood dripped down Theron's wrist, and spattered the table with tiny drops of red.
------------

...shit, I think I just killed off my favorite character. What the hell, Silverlock, that was totally unnecessary.

In half-elven culture, names are sacred; you don't share your name with anyone unless you're completely comfortable with them knowing the shape of your soul. Traditionally, a half elf tattoos his name on his neck and wears a slave collar to hide it.

Aside from Theron, only four other people have known Silverlock's real name, and two of them were gods.

Names have less religious significance and more socio-political significance in Radrezhaea, since names denote skill and rank, but there are plenty of parallels between Theron assuming his fully ranked name and Silver using his true name.

Fifteen, Stella Matin: Anzani

Silverlock is probably one of my favorite original characters ever. I'm a little sad that I never really write anything for his actual story; he just gets cameos in Stella Matin and does his best to make Theron's life miserable.

And Radrezhaean accents really do sound silly. They all talk like they've got marbles stuffed in their cheeks; everyone else calls them Radrezians (long "e" sound). Silverlock, in addition to teaching Theron all he needs to know about blood play and being evil, has made it his goal to get the boy to talk properly.
--------------

"Anzani."

"What?" Theron glanced up from the Weaving he held between his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. "Can't you save your distractions until after I've finished with this?"

"That would hardly be any fun." Silverlock traced his finger through the blood puddled on Theron's work table. "You're working in messy conditions. Very sloppy."

"It's messy work," Theron grated out. He pulled a few more glittering strands of aether and the quasi-elemental stuff that felt like life and tasted like death from the blood. They clung to his fingers like spider silk.

"Hence my suggestion: anzani." The necromancer drew patterns on the table with his bloody finger. "It will help you a great deal if you take it to heart. Of course, you could continue on as you are, and still receive satisfactory results- but I've never felt that the ends justify the means. The process of magic is as much an art as the product. Sometimes I feel that you forget that."

Several threads snapped under tension, and the Weaving dissolved into thrashing strands between Theron's hands. "You're a bastard, D'Alestri." The loosened strands had lacerated his palms; more blood dripped down his wrists.

"You should pay more attention to your work when I distract you, that's all." Silver took one of Theron's hands in his and wiped away the blood with the edge of his sleeve. "Anzani. Nothing more, nothing less. It's roots are Shrivish, making it a very old word, indeed."

"Anzhanyi," Theron repeated. He wrenched his hand out of Silverlock's grip. "Fine, I get it."

"Your accent is one of the most frightful things I've ever heard. Do all Radrezians all talk like that?" He licked Theron's blood from his fingers with the air of a connosieur.

"You're one to talk about accents," Theron muttered. He glowered at his still-bloody hands. "Radrezian." He mimicked Silverlock's nasal pronunciation of the word. "It's Radrezhaean."

Silverlock waved his hand negligently. "You're so poorly educated, it's no wonder you can't even keep the name of your homeland straight."

"Some day, old man, I will kill you."

"You know you enjoy the abuse," Silver breathed, reaching across the table to stroke an exceptionally long fingernail down the side of Theron's face. "Now, anzani."

The terrified revulsion on Theron's face was delicious for all that it lasted only briefly. He brought his face and his emotions under control quickly. "Nothing more, nothing less," he said. His voice wavered only slightly. "Fine. What's it supposed to mean?"

"Now he asks questions." Silverlock rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "You're an ungrateful brat and an idiot, my dear. But I'll explain it to you in simple terms because you're pretty. Anzani is a form of perfection, a sort of elegance. An economy of thought and movement and deed. Perfect it, and you perfect all things. Your magic is creative, but it's also very sloppy."

He stood in a swirl of magic and expensive cloth. "Think on it, and report your thoughts to me at dinner. Be prompt, please. I'm in no mood to wait for your temper." The mage disappeared with a controlled lack of noise, leaving behind a seething teenager.

Fourteen, Seventh Hour: Shield Brother

Seventh Hour was all about the high-handed language and epic heroes. Dunno why I'm suddenly writing for it again; I'd thought that world was abandoned and gone in my head.
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A firestorm raged over the battlefield, with Marcus standing at the center of it. When the ash finally cleared, it was Numa, not Asphodel, who walked through the smoking coals to catch him as he fell. The Barren girl covered her face against the sun and cowered in the shade of a withered tree.

Marcus wiped the ash and blood from his face when Numa set him back on his feet. "They took her." He let himself be led from the battlefield; they were the only living things for miles. "I let them take her."

Tiny flames still danced around the crown of his head and at his fingertips. Numa caught them between his thumb and forefinger and gathered them in the palm of his hand. The fire evaporated into faint warmth across his skin. "You allowed nothing, Marcus. This is not your fault, anymore than the fall of Uruk was your fault."

"Not my fault? Are you blind?" Marcus laughed untils his legs trembled and Numa had to hold him before he fell again. "You're a fool for staying with me, Zelindo. A fool above all other fools, because I'll never love you as I love them, no matter how many times you keep me from falling."

"It's been generations since you last called me that, Marcus." Numa's voice was gentle, chiding. "Shall you be Marduk, once more? And will she become Isidore in your eyes- Isidore, leaving you behind, yet again? And can you even remember her name? Let us not speak of fools. I know who I am; can you say the same?"

Marcus leaned on him heavily and closed his eyes. "I am the Destroyer and Keeper of the Last Hour. That is all I shall ever be, all I shall ever need." He went limp in Numa's arms.

Once, he had been a common thief; once, he had been a vererated priest of the Clock- and those were both within one lifetime. Numa couldn't remember much in the generations between himself and Zelindo, but he knew that he would always, no matter the situation, stand by this man, be his name Marcus or Marduk or Abaddon. Some things were determined by forces outside the scope of human comprehension.

Numa carried him back to the edge of the battlefield where Asphodel waited. Her skin glinted in the sun that filtered through the tree branches. She shied away from the heat that rolled off of them in waves and stared at Numa with the sadness of a thousand unfinished lifetimes in her eyes.

Thirteen, Final Fantasy IV: Southside of the Sky

Vaguely Kain/Edge, but not really, because that's seriously just wrong. Kain just likes getting a o_0 reaction out of Edge, that's all. (And he remains, after fourteen years, three official incarnations, and at least two unofficial variations, my favorite character in anything, ever.)
----------------

He met Edge at the bottom of the mountain. When he saw the other man's scowl, he briefly wondered if the bribe Cecil was paying the ninja was truly heinous, or merely ridiculous.

Kain had heard whispers on the wind of a coronation in Eblan; there was no other explanation for the way his former (was there a word for enemies who fought side by side?) friend looked so tired and careworn. Perhaps Cecil hadn't had to bribe him much at all; Edge had probably leapt at the first chance to escape his kingdom.

You never love something so much as when you leave it behind, he thought, and knew he could sympathize with Edge's weariness more than the other man knew.

"You surely took your time, Highwind. The wizards told me you'd reach sea level hours ago." Edge crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in irritation.

Kain flipped his visor open and rested his lance against his shoulder. His grin might have been friendly and easy, if he hadn't spent the better part of the last five years learning to be a dragon. "Still henpecked, I see." He ignored the shorter man's outraged guffaw. "There are no ropes keeping you bound to the earth- nothing to stop you from ascending the mount."

Edge looked away. "I've no time to be climbing mountains. I was told to retrieve you- you've people waiting for you in Baron."

"They've been waiting for years; a few more hours won't do them any harm." He tilted his head in the direction of the mountain. "Race to the top?"

Something like the fire that once burned in the young prince's eyes sparked. "If it will see you on the Devil's Road to Baron by sunset, I'll leave you here to contemplate my backside from a distance."

Kain winked. "It's a much better view from close by, or so I've heard." He flipped his visor shut and was thirty feet in the air before Edge had stopped sputtering.

Twelve, House: Terminal Idiocy

I can't write House at all, but goddamnit, kittens are cute. Horrible OOCness, ho!
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House had come to expect a certain level of stupidity from his team; it kept things entertaining. But this- this was a new high. He peered into the box on the coffee table and shook his head. "I think the best way to respond to this situation is to borrow some words from Chase's people. WTF, mate?"

"It's a kitten," Cameron said, ever helpful. "They were giving them away in Pediatrics."

"And I suppose none of you could resist the prospect of free kittens? Is your pay that bad? Can't you feed yourselves some other, more legal way?"

The kitten in question hooked its paws over the edge of the box and meeped at him. House reached out to it, but Chase- Chase- grabbed it before he could touch it. "Leave her alone!"

"Oh for- I wasn't going to hurt your precious kitty, Chase. What do you think I am, some sort of amoral kicke of small furry animals?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"It wouldn't surprise me." Foreman leaned back in his chair. "It does match your behavioral patterns up to this point."

House glared at them, but they returned his look with complete deadpan expressions. They'd gotten good. He was almost proud of them. He hobbled over to his board and picked up a marker. "Can anyone tell me the diagnostic for terminal idiocy?" He drew a large question mark at the top of the board, and then drew a cartoony cat underneath it.

His staff was ignoring him in favor of the kitten, who was purring contendedly in Chase's arms.

Okay. So maybe it was kind of cute. But it was totally against regulations. Cuddy would throw a fit. "Fine. Just don't let it get cat hair all over everything. If you remember to feed it every day, we can keep it."

Eleven, Naruto: Scars, part 4

So, my new OT3 seems to be Genma/Raidou/Ino. Stop looking at me like that, it makes sense in my head.

These are all really out of order. Somewhere between the last bit and this one, Ino does actually meet Genma and Raidou.
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Ino styles her hair carefully each morning, to hide the burn scars, and wears her hitai-ate as a bandana to hide the bald patches. She's been promoted to tokubetsu jounin; Shikamaru tells her she looks like a pirate and Chouji says she looks like a sexy-no-jutsu Genma.

Genma laughs when she tells him this, and says she's prettier than he'll ever be. She knows that isn't true, but she lets him tease her. In the end, what he says doesn't matter; Raidou brushes her hair away from her face and tells her it gets better over time.

She believes him, because if anyone would know, he would. Shikamaru and Chouji don't understand. They just feel guilty, and she wants them to realize that she would do it again in a heartbeat. They are her team, her family- she could look like Ibiki and she wouldn't care, as long as it meant they were safe.

When Raidou kisses her, she isn't surprised. They're a matched set; this was nothing short of inevitable to her sense of aesthetics. He kisses her like she's made of glass, or perhaps like he is. When Genma kisses her, she accuses him of being a pervert with a scar fetish.

He drapes an arm over Raidou's shoulder and wraps the other around her waist, pulling them close. He kisses them both, and refuses to say anything in his own defense.

Ten, Naruto: Scars, part 3

These are actually really out of order; next bit in the Ino thing, and my continued disapproval of Sasuke/Sakura in general.
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"What about Shikamaru? I wouldn't mind."

Sakura's jaw twitched, and she stabbed a piece of bell pepper with her chopsticks with a little more vehemence than necessary. "No, Ino. I'm not going out with Shikamaru. He isn't interested in me, anyway- and what would we do? Sit and watch clouds? He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."

Ino very carefully didn't mention that Sasuke not only didn't have a romantic bone in his body, he also didn't have a spine, or any bones without traitorous, murderous, or obsessive tendencies. "Neji is cute," she said, instead. "And I think Ten-Ten is a lesbian, so she probably wouldn't mind. Lee would be upset, though. Hey, why won't you go out with Lee?"

The chopsticks snapped into pieces between Sakura's fingers. She set them down beside her bowl very carefully, and stood up from the table. "It was nice talking to you, Ino-chan." She picked up her bag of medical supplies. "Tsunade-shishou needs me back at the hospital now."

Ino's voice stopped her in the doorway of the little restaurant. "You know he isn't going to come back. There are people who care about you here. You could be happy with one of them."

Sakura didn't turn around. "No. I couldn't."

Ino's lip curled as she watched her friend go. She couldn't decide who made her angrier: Sasuke, for leaving Sakura like this, or Sakura, for being such an idiot.

Nine, Final Fantasy VI: From the Dead

Yes, I am the world's only Setzer/Shadow fangirl, and I'm damned proud of it. This is part of the same continuity as Fall, at the very beginning of that epic I never finished.

My Shadow is tired and world-weary and no longer cares about much of anything, including the fact that he suddenly seems to be seeing ghosts; my Setzer is an eternal optimist with a terminal disease, and knows better than to question his luck. They like to snark at each other, when they're both fully conscious.
-----------

The first thing he noticed was that he was not, in fact, dead. He felt like a tower had fallen on top of him (funny thing, that), but he was alive.

This was the fifth time something like this had happened- and the third time it had happened in relation to these people, with their stupid hopes and ideals. He was starting to wonder if he really was just impossible to kill, or if there were other factors at work that he was not privy to.

The second thing he noticed was the subtle vibration in the air, followed by the smell of tobacco and, fainter, of metal and oil.

He was on the airship. That meant someone had noticed he was missing and had gone back for him- someone other than Relm, because Strago would never have allowed it.

That thought stung a little, but he permitted it; he'd lost those rights years ago.

Shadow (it had taken him years to get used to the name, but after a while it stuck, even in his head) opened his eyes. He was in a small bedroom; unlike the rest of the ship, which was a study in cold metal, this room was furnished in warm, expensive wood. It reminded him, disturbingly enough, of certain train cars, half a lifetime ago.

"Good morning, Mister Shadow." Setzer sat (lounged) beside his bed with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep the day away."

Shadow stared at the space behind the gambler's shoulder, where a pale blonde woman in a red dress stood with her own cigarette and wine glass in hand. He realized that she wasn't so much pale as insubstantial; after a moment, she winked at him and faded from view.

Setzer regarded him with a look of cool interest. "It's not every day someone returns from the dead on my airship, you know."

Shadow shrugged. He was still tired and in pain. "Happens more often than you'd think," he murmered, and closed his eyes. Within a few moments, he was asleep again, with the sound of faint female laughter echoing in his ears.

Eight, Bleach: Contingency Plans

(Hopefully by posting these one at a time, they won't spazz out the feed.)

Oh, have I mentioned lately that I love Ikkaku? Because I do. So much. So, so much.
---------

Contingency Plans

Being third seat of the Eleventh Division meant Ikkaku had to plan for certain, almost inevitable eventualities. Things Yachiru couldn't be expected to worry about- the supply depot running out of sake, for instance, or Zaraki-taichou losing his marbles and taking over Seireitei.

In the case of the latter, Ikkaku had worked everything out. First, they would have to take out the Fourth Division. The Fourth was full of wimps, so the Eleventh wouldn't strain anything beating them up, and with them out of commission, the other divisons, wouldn't be able to heal themselves.

Unahana-taichou was kind of scarey, but Ikkaku was sure Zaraki could take her. Reasonably sure, anyway.

They'd have to take out the Twelth after that, because they were too creepy to leave alive for too long. And most of them were as wimpy as the Fourth- they had to be, what with the way they all kept gettin' killed by their own captain.

The Thirteenth would go down easy next- poorly organized and kind of sickly, they wouldn't be a problem. Yachiru was fond of Ukitake, but maybe they wouldn't have to kill him; everyone said he was a nice guy.

The Ninth, Fifth, and Third were all still recovering from that mess with Aizen and the Ryoka, so they'd be no problem. They'd get Shunsui drunk and take out the Eighth; Yumichika would take out the vice captain with one of his super-beautiful-make-over specials.

Matsumoto would get drunk as easily as Shunsui, and Hitsugaya was terrified of Yachiru, so that took care of the Tenth. As for the Seventh- if they could convince Iba to get his dumbass self back to his proper division, they'd just have to let Zaraki and Komamura have at it and wait for the smoke to clear afterwards. Same thing for Renji in the Sixth, and Zaraki-taichou'd been wanting to tear that Kuchiki bastard a new one after that incident with his sister.

Ikkaku personally agreed with his captain on that one. You just didn't do that to family.

He wasn't too sure how they'd take out the First and Second Divisions; Yamamoto was pretty formidable, and even Yachiru was kind of scared of Soi Fong. They'd come up with something. By the time they got through the first ten divisions, the last two would probably just surrender in the face of the Eleventh's awesomeness.

Afterwards, Ikkaku would have to organize the victory party, and that meant making sure there was enough booze for everyone. Maybe whores, too, and food. It was a lot to plan for. Being third seat was a big responsibility in the Eleventh Division, but Ikkaku was determined not to let his captain down.

Seven, Naruto: 20 Truths Kankurou

Kankurou, a la 20 Truths; he's sort of a cross between my Blindsided Kankurou and my Boneharvester Kankurou, not that that will mean anything to anyone who isn't me. (Most of this is pretty meh, because I suck.)

Kankurou/Hinata, Kankurou/Neji, because I honestly still can't decide.

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1 When he was five, he broke a valuable antique vase with a poorly aimed shuriken; he told Uncle Yashamaru it was Gaara's fault. Uncle Yashamaru actually believed him; Kankurou still feels a little guilty about using his brother for a scapegoat, but he values his ribcage too much to ever breathe a word of the truth to anyone. Gaara still doesn't have much of a sense of humor.

2 Kankurou has been ignored in favor of his siblings for most of his life. Temari has always been the better fighter, and Gaara has always been impossible to ignore. Rather than feeling bitter, he feels relieved; it's much easier to get away with things when no one notices you. His ability to fade into the background was what originally drew him to the theater, and it's part of the reason he's become so successful.

3 He does not play with dolls. His puppets are his weapons, and anyone who accuses him of "playing" will receive swift and merciless reeducation.

4 He loves his siblings. Even Temari when she's just finished kicking his ass for the third time that week over some imagined slight or annoyance. Even Gaara when the sand starts playing with his puppets while Gaara gives him that "my imaginary friend could beat up your imaginary friend" look.

5 He no longer remembers what his own face looks like; he knows that the collection of individual features staring back from the mirror are his, but on some level he still believes he's lookng at someone else. He only starts to see himself when that first layer of white foundation is applied; he doesn't truly recognize his own face until he's drawn in the lines around his eyes, completely obscuring his natural face from view.

6 He loves the desert and his village, despite all of his many threats to defect to Konoha, "Where the weather is cool and the women are hot, and only half the citizens are homicidal and insane."

7 He likes working with his hands, be it on his puppets or dolls, or fixing broken things around the house. Wood is scarce in the desert, so he keeps a chunk of sandstone and a file in his pocket to carve when he has a few minutes to kill. He sometimes gives the finished products to Temari or Gaara, or the children who hang around the theater.

8 He can spend hours in his workshop, remodeling his puppets and building new mechanisms and traps. He likes the neatness of clockwork, and the satisfaction of building something with his own hands.

9 Sometimes he spends hours in his workshop building toys that serve no purpose- actual dolls, each exquisitely crafted and modelled after the people he's met.

10 The very first toys he made were supposed to be gifts for his little brother; Gaara grew into a monster, and Kankurou never gave them away. Ever since Gaara became Kazekage, he's left one outside his brother's door in the middle of the night, once a month, to make up for all of those missed birthdays. He still has several years to make up for.

11 He likes to cook, but he's not very good at it. He's usually the one who gets roped into feeding the three of them; Temari is an excellent cook but refuses to so much as set foot in a kitchen. Gaara forgets to eat if he isn't constantly reminded, and wouldn't know what to do with a pack of instant ramen even if you gave him detailed instructions and a microwave. Usually both Gaara and Temari will refuse to eat anything he cooks, anyway, and as a result, he is their family's official Orderer of Take-Out.

12 The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji, he was convinced he'd fallen in love for nearly a week. (The first and only time he fought with Hyuuga Neji was because Kankurou had been half convinced he'd fallen in love with Hinata up until that point.)

13 He doesn't really believe in love, but he's an enormous fan of sex and theatricality, and he thinks Hinata has a sweet smile and an excellent appreciation for theater.

14 She stutterd around him, too; he sent her messages by marionette, and conducted an illicit Victorian romance with her across the walls of the Hyuuga compound.

15 When Neji found out about the notes, he disabled all of Kankurou's chakra pathways and told Kiba and Shino. Once his chakra had recovered enough for him to flee, Kankurou had to avoid Konoha for a few months before tempers cooled. He felt this was particularly unfair since he hadn't actually done anything wrong; all they did was write letters to discuss theater and philosophy and occasionally poetry. He wasn't planning on marrying her and he wasn't planning on sleeping with her.

16 In retribution, he started sending Neji little notes wrapped around the handles of kunai- through the window of Neji's bedroom.

17 It came as a relief to everyone in both villages when the two of them stopped flirting and started fucking.

18 It's true what they say about a puppeteer's hands.

19 He likes to think that he'll get married some day, and have children to carry on the family name. But then he'll look in a mirror and see his father's face staring back at him, and he realizes that their name isn't the best thing to brag about.

20 He's a little too smug to be a truly great actor, but that confidence gains him glory on the battlefield. When he retires as a shinobi, he'll learn a little humility. Gaara and Temari always laugh when he shares this ambition with them, so he doesn't try to explain how much he truly looks forward to retirement. He'd like to try out an ordinary life for a while, just to see what it's like.

Six, Final Fantasy VII: Crystalize

Very incomplete- this kind of wants to be epic, not just detatched narrative. At the very least, I want it to get to the point where he meets Lucrecia and actually does stuff.

Hells, I don't even like Hojo- but there is something horribly fascinating about him.
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He was five years old when he first saw high level materia in use. It was the summer solstice festival, and he sat on his father's shoulders to better watch the fireworks. It wasn't the lights that filled him with awe, though- it was Leviathan, dancing upon the spires of Da Chao at Lady Kisaragi's command. His father told him then that he would be able to weild such power some day.

Magic was in their blood, his father said, passed down from generation to generation- but when he received his first piece of materia at the age of eight, all it did was sparkle prettily in his hands. His classmates called lightning and fire, or filled the air with dancing lights; whatever talents were supposed to be in his blood were curiously absent.

He wasn't the only one, of course- there were always a few late bloomers. But one by one his classmates mastered their materia and his remained dull in his hands. One day, he simply handed the glowing green stone back to his parents. He knew futility when he saw it, after all.

It was a great disappointment to his parents, who were both warriors and artists of the traditional style. He didn't care much for bringing honor to the family name; by that time, he'd found science, and was too busy studying for the entrance exams to Midgar University to pay attention to the hard look in his father's eyes.

He left Wutai when he was fourteen to study chemistry and genetics half a world away.

There was nothing magical in materia, he learned. It was simply crystalized mako, energy in a solid, stable state. "Magic" was nothing of the sort; it was merely the result of a reaction between the materia and the weilder's personal energy field.

He wrote home to his parents about the things he learned, the experiments he conducted; he told them about the machines his peers were making, that could refine raw mako into materia. He told them about his own plans, and his own work in biology and genetics; they stopped responding to his letters.

Eventually, he stopped sending them.

Five, Naruto: Scars, part 2

Obsessive love isn't pretty for anyone involved- or - Why I Can't Read SasuSaku, Reason #1.
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Sakura doesn't get it, and Ino knows she doesn't. Sakura still pines after Sasuke, even though Lee has room enough in his heart for her and her screaming complexes- even though Neji casts rebellious glances at his uncle and stands a few inches too close to her, insinuating things that only another Hyuuga could read. Sakura would have seen it, too, if she weren't too wrapped up in her neat little world of medical diagrams.

The body is healthy when all of its parts are working together in harmony; that's a lesson Ino has learned over and over again, in the shop with flower arrangements and on the battlefield with a man bleeding out at her feet.

She pities Sakura, who hides in the hospital with the dying and waits for the rest of her body to return to her. Team Seven was never healthy to begin with, but the amputation of the diseased limbs merely left the body aching with phantom pain.

Ino doesn't know how to fix her friend; she only hopes that time will heal her eventually. She doesn't know medicine; she only knows the cycles of flowers, and she worries.

The lifespan of a cherry blossom is brief, after all.

Four, Seventh Hour: Turning

UNEDITED ORIGINAL DRIVEL.
(I'm always more interested in what happens after the end of my stories than the actual stories themselves. And I fucked over the characters in Seventh Hour almost as badly as the ones in Stella Matin. They all ought to be dead.)
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In the generations following the last war, the soul known as Tammuz, Endymion, Gilgamesh, and Marcus was reborn three times as a servant girl in the service of a beautiful, angry young lord. Three times, she was beaten and raped to death.

The fourth time the soul known as the Destroyer, the Flame Lord, the Time Keeper, and the Bearer of the Last Hour was reborn after the last and greatest war, he decided he'd had enough of punishing himself, and enough of being punished.

Overnight, the world blossomed into something else, something greater and freer than it had ever been before. In the violence of that change, the soul that had begun it all was reborn three more times, as a politician, a journalist, and a father.

For the first time, he died without violence. When the soul known best as Marcus of the Last Hour was reborn for the eighth time after the last war, the greatest war, the war that changed the placement of the stars, he was himself once more.

The world had moved on; it no longer remembered his names. But he knew himself, and his deeds, and he could still call fire to dance at his fingertips and on the the crown of his head. He could still feel the turning of the earth beneath his feet, and could count the hours with his heartbeat, weak though it was.

He still watched the moon with all the hunger and longing of a drowning man for land- and the moon ignored him, as it had for countless generations, since the begining of time.

When he died, it was in fire; immolated on the pyre of his own epiphanies, the man took back his soul from the moon.

The world moved on, and so did he.

Three, Naruto:

Another quote-piece, because I kind of like Hanabi even though Hinata and Neji bore me excessively. (Augh, overly wordy drivel. I do like the concept, I just fail at finding the words for it.)
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"Hope has two daughters, anger and courage. They are both lovely."
-attributed to St. Augustine
----

Hinata has worn her hitai-ate around her neck since she received it, as is traditional for members of the main house. Neji shadows her footsteps with his head covered when she walks among family. This, too, is tradition: both that she should be escorted and protected, and that she should lead him, literally and figuratively, as the main house leads the lesser members of the clan.

Hanabi walks beside her sister, having earned that right along with the hitai-ate she wears around her bicep. She tailors her stride to match her elder sister's more delicate steps, and she turns her head to better hear her sister's soft voice.

The three of them are rarely seen alone, within the walls of House Hyuuga.

When the elders meet to discuss the future of the clan, Hinata and her sister wait, kneeling outside the meeting room. Hinata keeps her eyes on the ground; Hanabi watches the door. Neji stands behind them, with his head bowed.

When her father beckons Hinata into the room, she goes without a word. She looks him in the eye as she crosses the threshold, and meets the gaze of the clan elders without flinching. The door slides shut behind her almost silently.

Hanabi does not move from her place on the floor, but her hands clench into tiny, deadly fists against her knees. She closes her eyes against the temptation to look behond the closed door. Neji turns his head towards the open window to watch a flock of birds alighting on the roof of an adjoining building.

It is not long before Hinata emerges with her father. She smiles at her sister and her cousin; strips of clean linen bind her forehead, and she is holding her hitai-ate in one hand.

When the elders beckon Hanabi into the room, she looks from her sister to her father, and notes which of them keeps their eyes downcast. She stands and turns her back on her father and the other elders of the clan.

Hinata and Neji follow her to the door. She slides it open with enough force to crack the frame; there is something of Hinata in the grace of her movements, and something of Neji in the pride of her bearing. The anger that burns in her eyes is all her own, however.

The birds scatter, winging over buildings and trees until they disappear, as the three of them emerge.