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paixaorpg2006-12-11 11:36 am
runicknightx.livejournal.com) wrote in paixaorpg2006-12-11 11:36 am
Entry tags:
If This is Someone's Idea of a Joke..
Character(s): Celes
Content: Usual entry stuff.
Setting: Niflheim Gate
Time: Early Morning
Warnings: None
Fire, fire everywhere. Red tongues went forth from the mouth of a great serpent, consuming all in its path. Hollow screams rose and fell in the distance -- drowning, drowned out by the infernal hissing of the flames. The sky was black. The scorched earth trembled beneath an enormous weight.
It was a funeral march. Tears were replaced by laughter, a...familiar laughter. Fire, fire everywhere.
Shattered—the remnants of the dream were torn asunder by the clawed hand of consciousness. No sooner had the latter stirred the senses did the woman’s grasp upon the falchion tighten. A brief roll over unfamiliar terrain brought the young general to her feet and the world before her into focus. Prior realizations were then affirmed.
The sun’s position in the sky informed her that it was well past dawn. There was not a trace of the camp, leading one to question whether it had ever even been there to begin with. Her experience with the terrain lent weight to the prior suggestion. This was not the area at which she had designated the camp be set, nor was this place anywhere remotely near Maranda. How she had come to be there, wherever “there” happened to be, was beyond her, as was the location of her troops and the reason for her seizure.
“This place…”
In the distance, she could see a gate composed of what appeared to be silver ice. It was the only structure her trained vision could find in this…wasteland. The hint of a vertical line, somewhat scattered in the placement of its composing particles, seemed to indicate humans of some kind. She drew in a slow breath and closed her eyes, her grip prompting her knuckles to turn a ghastly white as she considered the strange circumstances in which she now found herself.
Maranda. She had received orders to take her troops and rendezvous with her colleagues, Leo Cristophe and Kefka Palazzo, at a camp near the aforementioned target. There, she was to receive information detailing their mission. After deployment, she had dutifully led her troops towards the rendezvous point, allowing a night’s rest due to the onset of a thick fog. They were to march at dawn and arrive at the rendezvous before noon. The last thing she remembered was retiring for the night after securing the morale of her men.
Had the camp been assaulted, she surely would have been called and would have a visual, or at least an audible, memory of the ensuing fight. Perhaps she had been kidnapped? It was highly unlikely, but it was not so fantastical that it could be ruled out. Her position as one of the three topmost generals answering directly to the Emperor Gestahl ensured her a number of enemies within and outside of the Empire. Her men were incapable of pulling off such a skilled seizure of persons; that, and they were her troops. She had trained them to be loyal to the Empire, but also to their commanding officer.
Man was not beyond treachery, but…the chance of such a flame being sparked among her troops was virtually nil. She guarded them as a shepherd guards his flock. Still, there were others…one person in particular came to mind, bringing with him the flame of anger tinged with disgust. To be overtaken by that fiend…
Her eyes fluttered open. The falchion was sheathed as she took off towards the gate. She could contemplate who-and-how after she found out where she was. Upon arriving at the line’s end, she found herself with ample time to contemplate her situation and observe her surroundings. She had not seen a place such as this before. The architecture was…beautiful, but strange, different in ways that…were beyond her.
“Next.”
She stepped forward, ignoring the rude pause she noted as the man looked up from his clipboard. For some reason, it prompted restless irritation to rise again.
“My face,” she said calmly, motioning stiffly, “is up here, sir.”
He coughed into his hand. “Name.”
“Oh come ON already!” Someone in the back of the line shouted.
“Name.” The man repeated.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, the young general restrained a sigh and issued a carefully considered answer. “Celes Chere.”
“Great!” Enthusiasm rushed into the man’s features as he handed her a peculiar device, then shoved a large amount of brochures into her hands. “Welcome to Paixao! NEXT.”
“H-hey!”
“NEXT!”
It was so ridiculous that it tempted her temper, but she refrained from drawing the falchion, assuring herself that, surely, she could find someone knowledgeable, less rude, and more polite. The place—or rather, the people—certainly had Palazzo’s touch.
Bolstered by her resolve, she stepped through the gate and into this “Paixao”.
Content: Usual entry stuff.
Setting: Niflheim Gate
Time: Early Morning
Warnings: None
Fire, fire everywhere. Red tongues went forth from the mouth of a great serpent, consuming all in its path. Hollow screams rose and fell in the distance -- drowning, drowned out by the infernal hissing of the flames. The sky was black. The scorched earth trembled beneath an enormous weight.
It was a funeral march. Tears were replaced by laughter, a...familiar laughter. Fire, fire everywhere.
Shattered—the remnants of the dream were torn asunder by the clawed hand of consciousness. No sooner had the latter stirred the senses did the woman’s grasp upon the falchion tighten. A brief roll over unfamiliar terrain brought the young general to her feet and the world before her into focus. Prior realizations were then affirmed.
The sun’s position in the sky informed her that it was well past dawn. There was not a trace of the camp, leading one to question whether it had ever even been there to begin with. Her experience with the terrain lent weight to the prior suggestion. This was not the area at which she had designated the camp be set, nor was this place anywhere remotely near Maranda. How she had come to be there, wherever “there” happened to be, was beyond her, as was the location of her troops and the reason for her seizure.
“This place…”
In the distance, she could see a gate composed of what appeared to be silver ice. It was the only structure her trained vision could find in this…wasteland. The hint of a vertical line, somewhat scattered in the placement of its composing particles, seemed to indicate humans of some kind. She drew in a slow breath and closed her eyes, her grip prompting her knuckles to turn a ghastly white as she considered the strange circumstances in which she now found herself.
Maranda. She had received orders to take her troops and rendezvous with her colleagues, Leo Cristophe and Kefka Palazzo, at a camp near the aforementioned target. There, she was to receive information detailing their mission. After deployment, she had dutifully led her troops towards the rendezvous point, allowing a night’s rest due to the onset of a thick fog. They were to march at dawn and arrive at the rendezvous before noon. The last thing she remembered was retiring for the night after securing the morale of her men.
Had the camp been assaulted, she surely would have been called and would have a visual, or at least an audible, memory of the ensuing fight. Perhaps she had been kidnapped? It was highly unlikely, but it was not so fantastical that it could be ruled out. Her position as one of the three topmost generals answering directly to the Emperor Gestahl ensured her a number of enemies within and outside of the Empire. Her men were incapable of pulling off such a skilled seizure of persons; that, and they were her troops. She had trained them to be loyal to the Empire, but also to their commanding officer.
Man was not beyond treachery, but…the chance of such a flame being sparked among her troops was virtually nil. She guarded them as a shepherd guards his flock. Still, there were others…one person in particular came to mind, bringing with him the flame of anger tinged with disgust. To be overtaken by that fiend…
Her eyes fluttered open. The falchion was sheathed as she took off towards the gate. She could contemplate who-and-how after she found out where she was. Upon arriving at the line’s end, she found herself with ample time to contemplate her situation and observe her surroundings. She had not seen a place such as this before. The architecture was…beautiful, but strange, different in ways that…were beyond her.
“Next.”
She stepped forward, ignoring the rude pause she noted as the man looked up from his clipboard. For some reason, it prompted restless irritation to rise again.
“My face,” she said calmly, motioning stiffly, “is up here, sir.”
He coughed into his hand. “Name.”
“Oh come ON already!” Someone in the back of the line shouted.
“Name.” The man repeated.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, the young general restrained a sigh and issued a carefully considered answer. “Celes Chere.”
“Great!” Enthusiasm rushed into the man’s features as he handed her a peculiar device, then shoved a large amount of brochures into her hands. “Welcome to Paixao! NEXT.”
“H-hey!”
“NEXT!”
It was so ridiculous that it tempted her temper, but she refrained from drawing the falchion, assuring herself that, surely, she could find someone knowledgeable, less rude, and more polite. The place—or rather, the people—certainly had Palazzo’s touch.
Bolstered by her resolve, she stepped through the gate and into this “Paixao”.