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year 5, quarter 3
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Uh-oh! A villain's found the Crystalus Divider. Also, I totally stole poetry from Poe. =3
Why should the world exist without me?
[attr="class","itsover"] After over two weeks spent residing in the Metaia Temple, Kuja thought that he had something of a generalized idea of it. It was by no means a comprehensive study, nor had it been particularly productive, but as he wandered this strange new land, his stay had proven exactly as useful as it needed to be. He had examined its many labyrinthine halls, had read the many ancient scrolls which lined its archives, and had even snatched three invaluable artifacts which he planned to study at his own pace. Though all of it spoke only of legends, Kuja left with one priceless understanding.
Great power lurked somewhere deep in the heart of Zephon.
A powerful magic had spawned from the core of the Metaia Temple, but it was hardly alone. If Kuja had to guess, the temple was likely something of an ancient power station which harnessed the planet's natural energy. It was a dangerous technology, to be sure. Without revitalization by a crystal, the planet would slowly wither and die. But then, perhaps that was why the station had fallen to disuse in the first place? Regardless, the temple had spoken of a technology far beyond what currently lied in Serentestra. It spoke of a link to the planet's core and of research into the application of spiritual power. That path was the same which had doomed Terra. It was not an easy path to loose oneself from, and yet, this world had left it behind. Why?
If Kuja was to understand this world which had called him, then he first had to answer that question. With the majority of the Metaia Temple explored, studied, and mentally catalogued, Kuja had moved on to the new object of his attention -- the Crystalus Divider.
Kuja had heard of it from the many religious scholars who frequented the temple. With only a little encouragement, they happily exposited the core tenants of their religion for any man foolish or, indeed, desperate enough to ask. They had spoken of the temple, of course, and of its mysterious magical properties (properties which likely came from a position close to the planet's core, though naturally Kuja never told them). They had also spoken of ridiculous fables about life and death -- about realms of bliss and pain, and of course about gods. But what had most caught Kuja's attention was their mention of a certain gate within the realms of Serentestra. According to legend, the gate was eternally closed by some unknown spiritual force and glowed with the power of the gods. To them, it was a gateway to the Beyond -- the point at which their deities had left this world and would never return. But Kuja had heard this story before. A pathway of souls shimmering with a strange and foreign power, theorized to be a gate to some other plane?
It all seemed far too familiar.
"Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish. Now are visions ne'er to vanish, from thy spirits shall they pass, no more -- like dew drops from the grass."
The scholars had not lied when they had called it a gateway. Kuja craned his neck to see the top of a great stone arch, elegantly crafted and tightly sealed. Light ebbed from between cracks and precipices. An iridescent fog crept in tendrils over tangled mosses.
"The breeze -- the breath of gods -- stay still, and the mist upon the hill, shadowy and yet unbroken, is a symbol and a token. How it hangs upon the trees -- a mystery of mysteries..."
Kuja took a step towards the gate, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with interest. There were others here, of course. Most of them were priests or fanatics, all scrambling about their meditations and their prayers to this place of magic and light. Kuja could feel it in the stone beneath his feet. It buzzed with some kind of other-worldly power -- a connection to the planet or maybe something more. Kuja pushed past solemn-eyed devotees and approached the gate. It stood towering above him in great slabs of stone. He lightly touched its surface -- warm.
There was power beyond this archway. Kuja could feel it in the stirrings of his soul. What kind of power needed such thorough sealing, and why had it been done? The magic here was beyond even his comprehension, and yet Kuja felt something familiar about it as though he had read it once in the great archives of Terra and long-since forgotten it. His nails scraped lavender across polished marble. Perhaps if he could open it...But no. It had been sealed for a reason, and first, he would need to learn the cause.
There was no use in unwittingly releasing destruction upon this strange planet. No, if Kuja was to unleash destruction, he wished to do so by his own volition and with complete understanding of his actions. Still, as he stood beside that gated arch, Kuja could only bask in the tantalizing aura of the power which lied beyond.
I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!" No, it's much better to face these kinds of things With a sense of poise and rationality
[attr="class","vcred"]Kuja - 1010 I may or may not have made that poem up >>;;
[attr="class","vpostb"]
[attr="class","vpostbg"]The snowy wastelands had offered him nothing in the end. He didn’t know what to do with people looking at him like he was some sort of monster—he enjoyed it, almost, but then it stirred something inside of him. Something that made his mouth taste sour and the urge to go on a rampage flare up like a rash. The harsh environment had been another downside, with the constant snow and ice coming down like the heaven was raining vengeance upon the people there. He had decided quite quickly that he was most certainly down with that place, and had left just as he had come; nothing on him but what he had woken up with.
Through the shoulder high snow, ravenous wolves that made for good sport and food, and many twists and turns he’d managed to make it out of there and into a more normal sort of environment.
It didn’t make him any happier. Why? Red still didn’t know where he was on this thrice damned planet.
He’d passed by people, listened and garnered what he could but it didn’t give him anything more than names of places he’d never even heard of. When he’d said as much in a tight lipped voice, the man he’d been speaking to had given him an odd look.
“Another one of them,” he’d said. He’d shaken his head and given Red a look of pity, one he most certainly did not appreciate, and then pointed in a direction saying there was a town, “over yonder.” He’d just have to avoid some place that he said was called the Crystalus Divider—that he needed to go around it. When the traveler had turned his back, Red had given him a nasty look and then continued on his way.
Why should he have to go around? It was probably some weaklings worries—nothing that was a threat to him in the slightest.
So with a direction in mind, Red headed that way, intending to get a look at what had the man so worried about. The trip had taken him about a week, with him taking frequent breaks, in no real hurry to immediately reach his destination.
He wasn’t really all that impressed at first glance, when he reached the Divider. A big gate that, from a distance, looked to serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever. The SOLDIER sat on one of the many broken columns and continued to stare, urging something to pop out of nowhere and initiate a fight. For the longest time there wasn’t anything of the sort. He’d continued to stare and the gate would not let anything out, his posture that of a statue.
The ruins, and large structure intrigued him though. Something hummed to him, his senses telling him that this place wasn’t ordinary. There might not be an immediate sign, like a flash of light or some otherworldly being coming out of there. He felt it as it stirred his blood, making his pulse pick up and his hands tremor. Might this place be it? The answer to his many questions, his amnesia? The only problem was that he didn’t know what to do with whatever was there. No sign telling him, no written directions on how it operated.
The realization made him sigh and let his head fall to the side, bangs falling over his forehead. Another complication in the long list of things that weren’t working for him at the moment. It made him just that more irritable that he was at the moment, and he briefly wondered if he could just blow it up and see if that would make the damn thing work.
That was brash though, and incredibly stupid. From the make of the gate, his flames would only slide off of it like water, and his sword bounce back, and he wasn’t about to go through that humiliation. Should he just leave it, continue on to the city that he had been pointed towards? Come back another day, or never at all. Or search around some?
Then someone came, while he was musing about what to do. From his off position, meters away from whoever had entered the area, he watched. The girly skirt, long hair and overall posture made him mistake them for a woman.
"Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish. Now are visions ne'er to vanish, from thy spirits shall they pass, no more -- like dew drops from the grass. The breeze -- the breath of gods -- stay still, and the mist upon the hill, shadowy and yet unbroken, is a symbol and a token. How it hangs upon the trees -- a mystery of mysteries...”
That voice though—that was no woman’s, no matter how deceiving the looks were. His question had gone from, ‘What is a woman doing here?’ to, ‘What is that?’; either or, he didn’t care. He did, however, want to know why this person was there. Weren’t the normal life stock he’d met so far supposed to be scared of this place? Or was that old man full of it, and had fully intended to waste his time by telling him to go the long way around?
It made him click his tongue and switch his posture, from the rigid straight back to one leg over the other and a hand behind him for support. They didn’t seem to know at once they had an audience, and Red wasn’t about to just sit there and watch them. That was boring and something that he wasn’t good at—and this person seemed to hold some sort of entertainment, from what he could tell. That, and it spoke with something he could understand. Poetry—Red felt it in his mind and he gave the strange looking person a point in his favor. He wasn’t as stupid as the others that he’d come around, so far.
“I pass the man a coin to cross over that great lake. Perchance to dream but perhaps awake, the wind carried many across that lake. What shall we find upon that shore mysteries of life, or death, once more?” He idly looked at his gloved hand, as he spoke. Moving his fingers about, examining them.
Not my best, but I didn't want to stretch this out any more than it needed to be. xD
Why should the world exist without me?
[attr="class","itsover"] “I pass the man a coin to cross over that great lake. Perchance to dream but perhaps awake."
Kuja paused at the voice that sounded behind him. It was male, elegant, and clearly announcing itself for someone (likely him to hear). He let his finger fall down the gate's surface until it rested at his side. The man had spoken in rhyme.
"The wind carried many across that lake. What shall we find upon that shore mysteries of life, or death, once more?”
Kuja smirked -- not with his usual bitterness or deceit, but with something more genuinely amused. Poetry. Someone was quoting poetry.
"But why would one need a ferryman if the wind carries all?" He looked up past the height of that great arch to the sky. The sun was overcast by a sea of gray. Not his preferred weather, but it would do all the same. His heart beat with the exhilaration of magic. "I would far prefer to be swept away by the wind than to place my soul in the hands of another."
Kuja crossed his arms so that his fingertips were obscured by the length of his sleeves. Then he turned to appraise the mysterious poet. At first, Kuja couldn't find the source as he scanned the nearly forsaken pathway from the road to the gate. There were the priests -- three of them in all. Then there were the tourists (or something of the sort) examining the gate in awe. At first, Kuja saw nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no one who had spoken to him. Then he looked up.
The man sat poised at the top of a half-broken column. Kuja first saw a pair of high-heeled boots and crossed leather pants. Then came dual belts, a tight-clinging turtleneck, and the flare of a dark red jacket. The man's hair feathered out in bright auburn streaks that only just revealed a silver earring dangling near his cheek. There was something about his posture -- so casual and theatrically posed -- that struck Kuja as confident, intelligent, and more than a little deceitful. It reminded him of himself -- of crossed arms, strategic smiles, and the disdainful toss of his hair. The man had clearly spoken to him, yet now he merely examined his glove as though Kuja couldn't have interested him less.
It was a tactic Kuja had employed often. It demanded attention while offering none in return, and thus, gave the user a certain leverage in the social hierarchy. Here was a man who was no stranger to declaring the world beneath him. Perhaps his confidence was well-founded or perhaps the man was simply a fool. Kuja tilted his head and smiled back his most perfect of smiles. If the man demanded his attention so, then he would certainly give it.
"And why have you traveled to these forbidden lands? You don't quite seem the type." Kuja gave a disinterested wave towards the priests, bowed in meditation. His eyes remained on the confident stranger. "Are you a grateful traveler or a wanderer of the wind?" Kuja laughed a little behind the back of his hand. "And do tell the source of your poetry. I've been longing for a decent poet for quite some time."
I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!" No, it's much better to face these kinds of things With a sense of poise and rationality
[attr="class","vcred"]Kuja - 500 Genesis is enjoying himself.
[attr="class","vpostb"]
[attr="class","vpostbg"]“But why would one need a ferryman if the wind carries all? I would far prefer to be swept away by the wind that to place my soul in the hands of another.”
Red’s hand dropped in his lap, and he looked down at the other as they turned around. Searching for him, he gathered as his gaze went everywhere other than where he was. Then, he was spotted, and the redhead got a good look at his eyes. Those weren’t the eyes of an innocent.
Those belonged to someone like him. The corners of his lips tilted up, pressed in a thin line in of self-appreciation.
“The ferryman and the wind are one in the same.”
He used the new viewpoint to look him over. Long sleeves hid his hands, billowy and creating an elegant look paired with the skirt that had made him mistake the other for a woman from behind. Belts rested on his hips, crossed much like his but in a different area, holding up the whole lower contraption that he had going. What he wore showed a lot of skin, but he seemed to wear it with such confidence that anyone that was stupid enough to mock him for would warrant their head rolling on the floor.
The stranger was a pretty boy—and from head to toe there was only one thing that struck him. His hair—no matter where he tried to look and focus, his attention would go back to it like a moth to a flame. It was silver, fashioned to draw eyes, and it struck something inside of him. He didn’t know what, but it made the hand behind him dig his nails into the stone pillar beneath him. Red pushed that feeling away and brought back his initial curiosity and sudden playfulness.
“And why have you traveled to these forbidden lands? You don’t quite seem the type.” Red wondered what type he looked to the other. He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his leg and his hand serving as a place for his head to lean against. His legs crossed, and he assumed a thinking pose. “Are you grateful traveler or a wanderer of the wind?” He laughed and Red’s grin widened a fraction. “And do tell the source of your poetry. I’ve been longing for a decent poet for quite some time.”
“I don’t? I suppose you’re right about that. For something so forbidding, you’d think there’d be something here guarding it, lurking around the corner.” He eyed the priests on the ground, kneeled down and then looked back at his entertainment. “There’s something here, but not quite what I was expecting.” Definitely not. It made him release a small sigh and he shrugged his shoulders theatrically.
“The wandering soul knows no rest…” The obvious interest was back, much like a cat with his glowing eyes underneath auburn bangs, eyes that glowed with a promise of something—good or bad, possibly both. “Just that. A wanderer of the wind, with a destination in mind but no commitment to it. As for my source,” He released the position that he’d been holding and tapped his temple. “That one would happen to come from myself.”
[attr="class","itsover"] “The ferryman and the wind are one in the same.”
Kuja smiled then. A real, genuine smile that only came from a sudden appreciation and respect. It was a rare emotion, and he reveled in it. "Ah. But of course," he said. Had he felt the need to guard himself, he would have laughed so as to shield his smile and replace it with mockery. But no. If there were two things in the world he could respect, it was intelligence and poetry.
This man seemed to possess an appreciation for both. That and a kind of slothful self-adoration that Kuja could understand far too well. With every new movement, this man further caught Kuja's attention. The subtle lean forward. The casual examination of his gloves. His crossed legs and lazy support of his cheek in one hand. Kuja's eyes sparked with interest as they flicked from one piece of body language to another. He deciphered the stories they had to tell:
'I am a man who is threatened by no one. I have no need to guard myself from you.'
'I am a man to whom none others compare. I need nothing of your approval or that of anyone else.'
'I am a man who takes pleasure in superiority. I will do anything to prove myself better than you.'
In that fraction of an instant, Kuja was able to decipher it all. And in that moment, he decided: This is the one I've been waiting for. This is someone finally worthy of my attention.
Kuja was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the man's answer to his question. Yet once he had brought his mind back to the matter at hand, Kuja devoured every word.
“I don’t? I suppose you’re right about that. For something so forbidding, you’d think there’d be something here guarding it, lurking around the corner.” The man's eyes flicked to the three priests beneath him, a tinge of either annoyance or disgust coloring his expression before he returned his gaze to Kuja. “There’s something here, but not quite what I was expecting.” The man gave a long, dramatic sigh -- the kind Kuja was so fond of. “The wandering soul knows no rest…”
"Did you expect rampaging beasts? Hostile enemies? Or perhaps the opened gates of Hell?" Kuja gave a vague wave in the direction of great archway, a smirk touching at his lips. "They call this the Crystalus Divider. They say it is the gate through which the gods abandoned this world to its ultimate demise. Perhaps it leads to another plane, to the afterlife, or nowhere at all." Kuja looked back to the man. He was feeling playful again and had to cover his emerging laughter with the back of his hand. "It might even lead to another world. Perhaps a planet strung along by a pathway of the damned. Or perhaps it would lead us home..."Home. It was such a bitter concept, and yet, Kuja found himself using it almost unironically. After his talk with that cliched paladin, Kuja could think of Gaia in no other light. It was where he belonged -- his story -- and whether for well or ill, he would return to it. He had a role to play, after all.
The man's interest grew at Kuja's musings. He called himself a wanderer of the wind. A man "with a destination in mind but no commitment to it." The man gave a self-interested smirk and tapped pointedly at his own head. "As for the source, that one would happen to come from myself."
"You?" Kuja repeated. His laughter touched lightly at the air like wind chimes. "Then you are quite the poet. I have met precious few others so well-versed in words." Kuja swept his hair back over the edge of his pauldrons. Their waves touched softly at the arch of his back. "Tell me. Did you stem from this meager world or...?" Kuja shook his head. "No. You are like me, aren't you? Another snatched by fate's cruel hand? Another 'wandering soul' who shall never know rest?" Kuja looked up to the man, and his eyes burned with focus. "Do your memories cry out to you as a light through an impenetrable fog? Do you gaze upon odd symbols and know that they once meant the world, but have since crumbled like idols to a lost god?" Kuja took a step towards the man, head tilted and fingers lightly brushing his cheek. "You are restless. You wish to wander and find meaning where it has been lost." Then he stopped. His eyes lowered slightly and he was smirking again.
"But perhaps I shouldn't get ahead of myself. I know nothing of you, after all." Kuja crossed his arms again. His nails trailed across his wrists in streaks. "Let me start again. I am Kuja, a mage of sorts, or if you'd prefer -- a sorcerer." He tilted his head up to meet the man's strange eyes -- blue with a hint of iridescent green like the core of Gaia. "And you are...?"
I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!" No, it's much better to face these kinds of things With a sense of poise and rationality
[attr="class","vcred"]Kuja - 950 This is going very well. Feel the shipping vibes, they be intense.
[attr="class","vpostb"]
[attr="class","vpostbg"]“Did you expect rampaging beasts? Hostile enemies? Or perhaps the opened gates of Hell?” Red thought that it was only fair to expect all three. What’s one without the other? Boring, that’s what. Only something of that scale could make the blood in his veins pump with the thrill of a challenge on the level of the Gods themselves. “They call this the Crystalus divider. They say it is the gate through which the gods abandoned this world to its ultimate demise. Perhaps it leads to another plane, to the afterlife, or nowhere at all.” There was a pause, and as their eyes locked Red felt something akin to a spark of hope.
“It might even lead to another world. Perhaps a planet strung along by a pathway of the damned. Or perhaps it would lead us home…” It felt like so much was attached to so small a word. Home. How it made his heart ache, and his hands tremor. Home was where one belonged. Red looked down to his hand, opening it up and looking at the gloved palm that stared back at him.
Did someone—no, did a monster, as those people called him, have such a place?
It felt like he did—as if there was something that he was meant to do and that he wouldn’t be able to do it here, because this wasn’t the right stage. Or maybe, the right players weren’t here?
“You?” His eyes fell away from his hand and back to the silverette down below. “Then you are quite the poet. I have met precious few others so well-versed in words.” With more of his darker musings put to the side for the glowing warmth of attention, he absorbed the praise given to him with a lopsided grin. “Tell me. Did you stem from this meager world or…?” He stopped, changing his mind and Red was glad that he did. Red didn’t want to consider him one of many among all of the brainless swine that wandered this place, oh no. That was an insult to his pride. “No. you are like me, aren’t you? Another snatched by fate’s cruel hand? Another ‘wandering soul’ who shall never know rest?” The way he continued called for more of Red’s attention, and his body was calling for him to leap down and face the other, eye to eye and demand what he was going on about.
“Do your memories cry out to you as a light through an impenetrable fog? Do you gaze upon odd symbols and know that they once meant the world, but have since crumbled like idols to a lost god? You are restless. You wish to wander and find meaning where it has been lost.” His guesses had hit dead and center, and Red’s eyes narrowed in thought. How did he know? That his mind was empty, aside from words of a treasured, revered poem and nothing else.
His tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth and he found that he was a little frustrated. He had said, ‘Like him?’ Did that mean that this stranger was just in the same situation that he had woken up in? Memories a mess—or gone? Wandering around and looking for where he belonged? He had stopped there and red was wanting him to continue, elaborate further and fill him in on everything that he knew of what was going on.
“But perhaps I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I know nothing of you, after all.” That made two of them. “Let me start again. I am Kuja, a mage of sorts, or if you’d prefer – a sorcerer. And you are…?”
Red let himself fall forward, off of the pillar and he descended. The wind rushed about his coat, and after a few seconds he had landed with a slight bend of his knees as his went with the motion. A flick to his sleeve, and he turned to face the other. Windswept hair and that impish smile on his face, his arm crossed over his middle in a sweeping motion and he gave Kuja a bow. “I’m….”
Red. He mentally twisted his lip in a snarl—that was a color and hardly his real name, but the man didn’t—his mind wouldn’t give it to him. His eyes darted to the side, before back to others. “… quite impressed, myself. I haven’t met any so far that were quite as eloquent as yourself, either. You’d think that half of the people that filled this land were walking sacks of flesh with hardly anything between their ears.”
A hand went up to his bangs and he pushed them back in a flicking motion. It reflected a slight tremor in his mood, annoyance, but as quickly as it surfaced it disappeared, “Impenetrable and vast, most unfortunately.” He lifted his arms up and shrugged his shoulders as he took a few steps forward, his gaze wandering towards the gate’s direction. “I awoke far in the north, and came down to find… anything. To, ‘find meaning where it has been lost,’ to put it into words.” His head rolled to the side, and he looked up to the sky as he spoke, his hands going behind his back as he held them in a tight embrace.
“As for…” His brows scrunched up and he sighed, “… my name, it’s…”
Genesis!
A deep voice called out to him within the confines of his memory, and the faint echo of metal clashing against metal followed it like bells. His face smoothed and his grin found its way back to his face. “Genesis, a wandering poet. Monster, warrior, knight, whatever you’d prefer to think of me as. Those are what the people here have taken to calling me, when I've had the displeasure of running across them.” Getting into fights around them. Barbecuing them. Blowing heads off--he'd earned those a numerous amount of ways. Most of them had been unpleasant for them, and quite fun for him.
The man's eyes sparked with interest, and then he was falling down. It seemed that Kuja had finally earned the right to face this man on even ground, or perhaps the man also sensed the change in power. Feigned disinterest could only take one so far when the other held much-desired information. For his part, the man took his degradation in stride with a dramatic flick of his wrist a subtle flip of his windswept hair. The man appraised him and then gave a sweep of his hand.
And bowed. Kuja blinked in surprise that was soon replaced by a smirk. This man was just full of surprises...
"I'm..." the man started, but then paused halfway through his bow. He glanced away before continuing, "...Quite impressed myself. I haven’t met any so far that were quite as eloquent as yourself, either." Kuja smiled in response. "You’d think that half of the people that filled this land were walking sacks of flesh with hardly anything between their ears.”
Had Kuja been so amused by anyone else on the planet? Usually, he took his amusement at the expense of others -- mockery, sarcasm, subtle signs of disdain, and the satisfaction of his own treachery. But Kuja found himself agreeing with this man. Had he not mocked the stupidity of this planet's inhabitants countless times before? Why, they were all so foolish that not one of them had considered him a threat! There were soldiers slaughtering innocents, suspicious characters wandering on the wind, and he'd never hidden his own estrangement from this world. Yet, just as on Gaia, the civilian populace could never see past his beauty and a misleading perception of fragility. They were idiots. All of them.
The man slid his fingers through the bangs of his hair. "Impenetrable and vast, most unfortunately," he said and then flicked the strands away. Kuja laughed again. This man was quite amusing indeed...
"As vast as the night sky, and far emptier," Kuja agreed. "Though I can't say the conditions were much better where I came from. The world is filled with fodder barely deserving of life. They march towards their deaths without purpose and believe whatever pleasant lies whispered to them from a snake's forked tongue."
Kuja watched as the man took a step forward, arms raised dramatically and shoulders thoughtfully shrugged as he gazed upon the gate before him. “I awoke far in the north, and came down to find… anything. To, ‘find meaning where it has been lost,’ to put it into words.” The man glanced lazily to the sky. His next words came slowly -- almost labored. "As for...my name, it's..." Kuja's mouth tilted into the slightest of frowns.
Had this man truly forgotten everything? Was he like that Warrior of Light, destined to wander without only vague inklings of a past and without even a name to grasp onto? The idea chilled something deep within Kuja's soul.
If Kuja had awoken differently, could he have lost everything as well? His identity? The core of his being? The idea pricked at the back of his mind and drew his lips a little tighter. It was foolish to consider. Kuja had lost nothing of value, after all.
Or had he?
“Genesis, a wandering poet. Monster, warrior, knight, whatever you’d prefer to think of me as. Those are what the people here have taken to calling me, when I've had the displeasure of running across them.”
"Genesis?" Kuja tilted his head, lips upturning. "'The Beginning'...?" But there was far more to unravel here than just a name. The man referred to himself as a 'monster.' Kuja laughed again, though more bitterly this time. He cast his eyes up to the sun. "I find the term 'monster' to be quite subjective, actually. The weak-minded throw it about as carelessly as they would 'evil' or 'hate.' There are proper usages, of course, but over-use weakens their true intentions."
Kuja lifted a hand and eyed the lacquer of his nails. "For instance, most coined as 'monsters' prove only tragically flawed and perhaps a little sadistic." Kuja smirked coolly. "Evil surely does exist -- I have seen it -- but the title should be reserved for only the worst of atrocities committed without passion. And as for hate, well, most barely know the meaning of the word. It is something to be nurtured until it reaches fruition."
Kuja sent a glance towards Genesis. "And what would you call yourself, Genesis? Monster, warrior, or knight?" He paused and then laughed softly. "But no, I would not say that any of those suit you properly. If I had to choose, I would you call you the first -- a poet." Kuja lowered his hand and turned to look at Genesis fully, his usual smile playing ever so slightly at his lips. "After all, I've found that words are the most formidable of weapons. Wouldn't you agree?"
I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!" No, it's much better to face these kinds of things With a sense of poise and rationality
[attr="class","vcred"]Kuja - 650? Might not be good but I got it out. Not feeling too hot, sorry.
[attr="class","vpostb"]
[attr="class","vpostbg"]“Genesis? ‘The Beginning’…?” He didn’t see much about him at the moment that gave his name any real meaning, other than it being a word. But, he supposed that it fit him, now that he cast his mind searching about. A beginning—this was one, wasn’t it? Like a newborn world, a clean slate that had hardly been marked upon by others. His own canvas that he had, so far, colored a furious scarlet. He was brought up out of his name searching by laughter.
“I find the term ‘monster’ to be quite subjective, actually. The weak-minded throw it about as carelessly as they would ‘evil’ or ‘hate’. There are proper usages, of course, but over-use weakens their true intentions.” Genesis listened as Kuja sank into a stage of what felt like he was performing surgery on the very word. He arms crossed and one hand braced his chin in a hold.
"For instance, most coined as 'monsters' prove only tragically flawed and perhaps a little sadistic." Genesis was sure that he fit the sadistic part, he had enjoyed what he’d done immensely. Tragically flawed though? He most certainly wasn’t. He had to agree, though, with what the other said. You go and watch a play, read a poem and the monster was always the one that, in the end, met a tragic end.
"And what would you call yourself, Genesis? Monster, warrior, or knight?" His question brought him back from his slight reprieve of blocking out noise, and his head tilted up to look at the others back with his head tilted a fraction. His hand dropped, jaw released so that he could speak once more.
"But no, I would not say that any of those suit you properly. If I had to choose, I would you call you the first -- a poet." Genesis began to laugh faintly, underneath his hand and his head turned to the side. "After all, I've found that words are the most formidable of weapons. Wouldn't you agree?" He nodded, then, laughter ceasing.
“I must, for they have done many a great thing across the turns of time with many a person. Many choose to not see their true gift, and miss much that is laid underneath the spoken, true meanings lost and the language stripped barer by day as they continue to toss it about like little children. The ‘weapons’ of most are weak, but ours? Sharp and deadly compared to the bluntness of theirs. Most formidable indeed, when so simple a word can change everything. Not a person from this place could manage to talk their way out of a paper bag.” This man was intelligent, very much so, and the way he seemed to pick apart things was making him wary, but, there was not anything left of him to do that with.
Truth be told, all of Genesis had been laid out on the table, what he knew and some of what he felt and really couldn’t put any evidence forward for. His name, and what he was, what he enjoyed. So simple, but then, there was more. Maybe not now, maybe not ever, will he know what was behind him, and that was daunting.
But this place… As Genesis looked to the gate once more, then back at Kuja, he knew that there might be a way to get it back, what he had lost. Already had he gained one thing, his memory, and that was more than all that he had discovered of himself thus far. “So, I shall stay with Genesis the Wandering Poet, then.” Not at all scary, or intimidating, to those that wouldn’t really understand, or those that don’t care, but he liked how it sounded. It fit quite nicely.
“What has earned you the title of mage, or sorcerer?” Was it by using whatever it was that he did? The skills that produced flames? “Magic? Miracle making?” A topic change, off of himself. It was obvious—he meant for it to be, because any more questions that the other would ask about him, he’d have to make up something or try to search his head once more. And he didn’t quite like the second.
“You must be quite skilled with the art,” If how he was comparing him to himself was anything to go by. So far they had a lot in common—poetry and mannerisms wise, and he was curious to see if Kuja could back-up all of it with ability.
You don’t go around picking fights and belittling others if you can’t shut them down in the event they rise up to bite your ankles, after all.
The word choice near the end wasn't intentional until it totally was.
Why should the world exist without me?
Genesis laughed at Kuja's chosen title for him. It was a small laugh, unassuming and quiet with a hand placed over his mouth for modesty. It was the kind of laugh that Kuja had given many times over -- only as mysterious as it was enticing. But it ended as soon as Kuja continued the conversation.
Genesis agreed with his sentiment. He mused for great length on the power of words and language. Kuja only waited, watching him with his arms crossed, eyes peering bright like diamonds. "The ‘weapons’ of most are weak, but ours? Sharp and deadly compared to the bluntness of theirs. Most formidable indeed, when so simple a word can change everything." Kuja had thought much the same since he'd discovered the power of suggestion somewhere in his second year on Gaia. Of course, he had learned to lie long before that, but Garland had never been particularly susceptible to deception. The general public, however? They might as well have been blind for all the notice they took of Kuja's true nature. In truth, Kuja had hardly needed magic to devastate that planet. He had only needed words, patience, and an actor's touch.
Power -- true power, that was -- came only from the mind.
"Not a person from this place could manage to talk their way out of a paper bag.”
Kuja laughed at the sudden bitterness to his tone. Genesis had an aptitude for biting criticisms that might have rivaled even Kuja's -- at least, on his weaker of days. "You are far too kind, Genesis. When the people here do communicate, it is more the bleating of sheep than any proper language." Kuja readjusted his crossed arms. He was all too aware of the priests in nearby earshot, but hardly cared for them. They had shown no signs of hostility before now, and KUja doubted they would rise to his bait. If they did, then perhaps he would finally have a reason to interrogate them. “So, I shall stay with Genesis the Wandering Poet, then.”
"Hm." Kuja glanced at Genesis. The man was so easily read, and yet also something of an enigma. Kuja couldn't place it entirely, but he felt that there must be something more behind this poet -- this monster -- that he had not yet uncovered. Genesis was intelligent, and yet unprying. He was snide, and yet lacked any real focus behind his fire. He was, well, wandering to say the least, and yet Kuja wouldn't have placed him as the type. Here was a man who should have been driven by some higher goal, if only to fuel his own self-praise. Yet he seemed to have none.
Kuja supposed that he could hardly judge. With the latter half of his memories erased, he had searched for meaning in artifacts, records, and old ruins that might prove curious. Then there was that familiar, and yet all-too-unknowable knight. What had he meant by an endless war...?
“What has earned you the title of mage, or sorcerer? Magic? Miracle making?”
"Hm?" Kuja tossed his gaze in the poet's direction. He fought the sarcasm rising past his throat, 'Magic? My, but I never would have expected that of a mage.' His smile soured to a smirk. He reminded himself that there was no need to think less of this man for his repeition. After all, it was entirely possible that magic didn't even exist in his world, or perhaps it came in some different form. What was it that idiot hero had told him upon his arrival in Torensten? "I'm pretty sure your power doesn't stem from demonic supernatural monsters branding you." Magic, it seemed, was not universal. Sometimes it came in more ridiculous and altogether horrifying forms than Kuja would have ever thought possible.
Still, Kuja had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his wit in check. 'And I thought you were a poet.' "Yes. You could say something of the sort." Kuja gave a vague wave of his hand. 'Magic is only the root of the word.'
“You must be quite skilled with the art,” Genesis continued, and finally Kuja was able to answer without any hint of derision.
"Naturally." Kuja gave a short bow, complete with a sweep of his hand. "It is how I once supported myself. I am a caster of enchantments and a craftsman of charms. Among other things." Kuja straightened and recrossed his arms. He eyed the tips of his nails. "I have also played the role of inventor, nobleman, weapons' dealer, and adviser -- if you wish to choose a title." He left several entries out, most notably traitor, murderer, and harbinger of war. He had the feeling that this poet did not walk so straight a moral line, but Kuja had never been the kind to draw attention to his own wrong-doing. "Perhaps I shall regale you with tales of my life on some other occasion. If you would stay so long as to hear them."
Kuja met Genesis' eye -- so vibrant and striking -- and smiled. "But that is not what you wish to hear, is it? No, you wish to hear what I can tell you of yourself. Or at least, what is in my power." Kuja ran a hand through the soft silver of his hair. His fingers were tickled by down-feathers. "I found myself here some three months ago. I awoke to the heat of desert sands. There were no footsteps behind me and I had no recollection of my arrival. It was as though I had simply fallen from the sky." His lips hardened into a smirk. That desert had been his own personal hell, and yet it was nothing compared to what had followed. After his memories had taken the liberty of stirring red-hot in the back of his mind. "I wandered this land much like yourself, without aim or direction. That was, until I met a man who claimed to know me. He spoke nonsense mostly -- of endless wars driven by angry gods -- but he also spoke some reason. He said that these 'wars' he remembered had meant the selection of soldiers for either side, and that these soldiers were taken from their proper places and brought to a common ground. He said that the process often muddled their memories." Kuja tilted his head up to the sky. Speaking it aloud, he knew well that he sounded ridiculous. And yet...
"The man was clearly insane, yet I seemed to know him from somewhere I couldn't remember. And I have met many others not unlike the two of us. Wanderers who do not belong in this world." Kuja glanced at Genesis, gauging his expression for any response. "I wonder, then, if each of us do not have some special strength. If we were not summoned here for more than wandering, but then, perhaps I'm only speaking nonsense." Kuja's gave a short flip of his hair. "I don't suppose that you would have any reason to call yourself a soldier?"
I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!" No, it's much better to face these kinds of things With a sense of poise and rationality
[attr="class","vcred"]Kuja - 1500 DANG IT GEN, get out of my head you beautiful prick.
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[attr="class","vpostbg"]Out of sorts.
Genesis felt misplaced, when he knew where he was and who he was talking to. It was like someone had slipped a silk clothe over his face and he couldn’t move it away. What was he looking at? His attention drifted, not obvious if you weren’t watching his eyes, how the pupils got smaller and he entered a trance. It had begun with his name and now he was just feeling uncomfortable, wearing it on his chest because he didn’t feel like the collar fit on him.
Because the collar was too tight. It felt like it was suffocating him, the not knowing and he didn’t know what to do about it. Didn’t know if he wanted to do anything about it because there was a dark drop in front of him and all he had to do was stick a toe over and something would grab him.
Then down he’d go. Down he was going, in fact.
The voice, a timber tone that felt so familiar, made his shoulders relax and brought a sweet smell to his nose. Like an ichor, sticky and relentless it stayed and set his mind on a roller coaster because this voice, he knew it like the pages of his favorite book, but that was also something he couldn’t name.
Frustration built up under the surface and he realized that Kuja had continued to reply to his inquiry, one he hadn’t really expected anything to and had, in the end, gotten nothing from but words and wind. Lots of wind. He seemed to have lost a bit of interest, the strange sorcerer and he couldn’t blame him with that sorry, pathetic chopped up bit of whatever he could pull out of his ass.
What had he heard said before, while in the dull company of Sonora citizens? Zero cares given. If that was enough to make him look like a dullard to him then Genesis didn’t care for his opinion anymore. He could stand and listen but he wasn’t about to let someone talk down to him. With that in mind, he set his mind in some sort of state to where he could continue on, and learn what he could. He was offering something—maybe. With that look, if he wasn’t who he was, he’d smile back and just go along with whatever he said, and eat it up like a dog taking scraps from the floor.
Instead he gazed back, the picture of calm on the surface with a raging storm in his eyes, far in the distance and approaching. “But that is not what you want to hear, is it?” However could he tell? “No,, you wish to hear what I can tell you of yourself. Or at least, what is in my power.”
And then he was answering him, not a direct what happened and what is this, but told him what had happened thus far since he had arrived, with much less details. Those, he could live without—they made the mission much easier. "I wandered this land much like yourself, without aim or direction.” He had? How peculiar. “That was, until I met a man who claimed to know me. He spoke nonsense mostly -- of endless wars driven by angry gods -- but he also spoke some reason.”
Genesis tilted his eyebrow, the thin red line arching and his head slanting in a way as he turned to look at Kuja that said, ‘Oh did he now?’
“He said that these 'wars' he remembered had meant the selection of soldiers for either side, and that these soldiers were taken from their proper places and brought to a common ground. He said that the process often muddled their memories." People being selected for side like a game, and then they had their head messed with. If that happened to be the case, whatever god that had done this, better hope that they were far away enough from him. Because if he did manage to get his hands on one…
It wouldn’t be very good for them. Genesis looked to the gate briefly, not interrupting or adding in anything while the other was speaking. Maybe that was what kept them apart? He wondered if that was so, because if it was then they did have a pretty good speed bump between them and him. He’d have to find out how to open it, if the day came that he was going on a God hunt.
But then again, the whole of what Kuja was spouting could be utter nonsense.
Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun to do, anyways. A darker part of his mind whispered, and he agreed.
“The man was clearly insane, yet I seemed to know him from somewhere I couldn't remember. And I have met many others not unlike the two of us. Wanderers who do not belong in this world." Kuja glanced at Genesis, gauging his expression for any response.
Half facing him, half the gate, Genesis looked at Kuja from the corner of his eye at the last bit. More of them? People like the two of them, maybe not specifically, but somewhat. Messed up heads and falling through the sky—although Genesis couldn’t quite remember that part.
"I wonder, then, if each of us do not have some special strength. If we were not summoned here for more than wandering, but then, perhaps I'm only speaking nonsense.”
“Was it a vision, or a waking dream?” His arms crossed, Genesis looked away from the gate slowly, continuing as he did so, “Fled is that music—do I wake, or sleep?” Absent minded was he know, the short lines recited softly under his breath like wind brushing against the grass, hard to miss but obviously there as his lips moved.
“I don’t suppose you have any reason to call yourself a soldier?” Asked flippantly; he almost laughed once more but he found that he couldn’t move because of a word.
A single one—Soldier.
A pain dug into his shoulder and his arm hastily moved up and gripped the leather of his coat, the left arm falling to his side. He squeezed it, and it felt like there was a wound—
The sword broke, shattered in halves and pieces and the larger, pointed end flew at him, cutting into his skin and a surprised cry left his lips as practically flew through, and his sword left his hands as he fell down to one knee. A spell crackled and exploded, releasing a flash of light that shadowed over everything, making it darker than it was before.
“Genesis!” The image of a sunset disappeared, and in front of him were two pairs of boots. The same color, but different in size and make. One was more rugged than the other, the familiar timber coming from there, and the other remained silent, but the greatest focus of his mind’s eye at the moment. He couldn’t look away from them, in his position on the ground.
“Just a scrape.” But he was panting, he could feel it in his lungs that whatever he had been doing had been beyond words, beyond anything that he had done here in this world. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” It was said with emotion he didn’t know he had, until he heard it from his mouth in the memory. That person, whoever they were, was important to him and he knew that. He just wished that he knew more.
Memory-Genesis stood, sword back in hand and started walking after he had said his small piece to shadow number one. He passed by number two, not looking at them because he felt… angry, for some reason. At himself, at everyone around him. That Genesis had a bitterness inside of him, and he didn’t know why.
“Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.”
It had been mere seconds, the flash of sensory overload and then the pain was just a dull throb. His hand dropped and he was moving in autopilot for a moment, a grin spreading across his face and the redhead shrugged. “Soldier? I’m hardly soldier material. Me, fighting for someone else, for something that has nothing to do with me?” He paused and waved his hand. “Hardly. If what this insane man of yours said is true, and gods are fighting with each other once more in some sort of cycle, and they decided to bring me into to it?”
He left it there, a silent promise of something that he wasn’t going to elaborate one because if this Kuja was who he thought he was, and as smart as he pranced around to be, then he’d get the meaning.
“If they want me to do something for them, they should have thought better of messing with my head and tossing me in here without promising me something out of all this nonsense.” He sounded bitter, but with what had just literally flashed before his eyes, Genesis felt that he had more than enough reason to be. With or without his memory, though, his answer wouldn't have been any different. Maybe a little smoother in its delivery, a calmer tone--but the content would have stayed the same.
