#unknown!verse

@nerowasheredanteisaloser:

Nero grumbles, looking over the man like he’s just said the dumbest thing in the world. “Yeah? So what? You got white hair, that ain’t normal.” Of course, he has white hair too, so maybe he really shouldn’t be starting out with that.

Sephiroth was just lucid enough to know that he should have offered another apology.  A very honest one, which it would have been, and simply admit to the fact that he’d lost track of the hours he’d been awake, excuse himself, and be certain to cause no more damage through sheer idiocy.

Various Starters | open but slow af as always (…not usually this slow)

The sound he made was much more of a sharp exhale than a laugh, though he supposed it served as both.  “You’re saying it’s the intent of the one wielding the weapon, then.”  He got that, he understood.  He agreed, for the most part, however…

@pandora-box-chronicles:

Torron swung his feet off of the couch, eyes constantly on the figure in the middle of his apartment surrounded by the boxes he had yet to unpack – because he generally didn’t unless he needed something from a specific box.

The man didn’t appear to be an apparent danger, but he was ready to unveil his basilisk eyes if necessary – though it was also tempting to just lay back in the receding sun because he hated missing out on curling up in warm sunlight.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “What would be appropriate. What are you doing in my apartment? And how?”

He made sure his voice, even when clearing his throat, was soft but pronounced in hopes to not shock or startle the person in his floor. He didn’t want them all of sudden attack him because he startled them too bad. But he still wanted answers.

He couldn’t exactly help but jump with the voice, even though he didn’t fully expect to be alone.  Not turning, he grasped for an answer with several breaths, sure that it was there, on the tip of his tongue and the edge of his consciousness...

Except.  It wasn’t.  Nothing short of a name he thought was his.  “I’m afraid that I... don’t know.”  Which sounded, even to him, like the most ludicrous answer he could have given.  “All I remember is... f-fire and... green light.”  And a great discomfort in being at the mercy of anyone else, however he recognized immediately that he had little choice in the matter.

Swallowing, urging useless, helpless panic down, Sephiroth (that felt like his name) turned slowly toward his... host?  Captor?  Best not to think about it.  Not that it was possible to think at all when he saw features that he might almost recognize; hair and eyes but not--

@ask-the-lady-knight:

And yet there she was. The lone knight armed only with her sword and her wits. She cautiously looked to either side, careful not to disturb the sleeping wildlife.

A snapping branch behind her triggered a reflex, and she threw a dagger from under her cloak towards the noise. What she did not expect, however, was the form of a silverr haired man to fall from the trees and at her feet. In the moonlight, she could see blood oozing from what appeared to be a large, pitch black wing on his back.

Luckily he heard rather than felt the dagger fly past him, though it seemed a near thing.  There may have been a few feathers trimmed; it was as difficult to tell at that moment as it was to care for such small things, the man half-collapsed and gasping from the pain of a shuddering wing breaking free more than the impact with the ground.

Various Starters | accepting 

“I’m–”  The utter vehemence of that since word, half-hissed and half-shouted, simply ended abruptly.  Part of him wants to deny it, the other part embrace.  That is what he is, what he has always been, what he will always be–

But that wasn’t true, either.  He wasn’t… a weapon, but he… also was.  A thinking weapon.  Wasn’t he?  Capable of making choices, of being not a weapon.

Despite the mild shake in his voice, Sephiroth swallowed thickly and spoke.  “I know… every pressure point.  Major artery.  I know when, how deep, to stop a blade so that it kills without requiring wasted energy to remove for another deathblow.  I could kill, efficiently, with my bare hands.”

A nearly rattling, unsteady breath was taken.  “I don’t want to make use of this knowledge.  I don’t want anyone else to make use of it, either.  I want.  I don’t want.”

Send “Inventory Add: _____” And give My Muse an Item for them to put in their Inventory and use later on in a RP, send whatever you want and see how they react to it | accepting

It–

It was.  A head.

A rather peculiar looking head, not… definitely not human.  Hopefully not alive.

The main concern with that being, Sephiroth couldn’t tell.  And he really didn’t want to look at it too long because while he wasn’t one to easily give into “eerie feelings”…

The cold-hot prickle of uncomfortable disquiet running through his spine and pooling at the back of his skull was too obvious to ignore.  That was definitely going to need to be wrapped in something.  Put in a box.  And in another box, and maybe a freezer somewhere.  Before being buried.  Within a cement structure designed to be impenetrable if at all possible.

[Explanation: it was cleaning and laundry day and I wrote this just before dinner so I was tired and hungry and in need of caffeine.  Sure, yeah, we’ll blame all of those factors for what happened here.  Bad end.]

It wasn’t a feeling, not exactly.  There wasn’t some grand indication, some signal to tell him he was slipping again.  It was instinct, the subtle pluck at a nerve that was only partly his own.  Pieces sliding into place with such ease that he didn’t feel them move at all.

Or it seemed that way.  Hindsight was a marvel.  Living through it, over and over again in different ways and different places–

He’d served again, once.  Willingly, that time, with intention.  Thought it only fair; to defend a new home, a new country, new family and friends.  Ultimately he’d wound up clearing both sides of the battlefield with fire in his veins.

A healer then, perhaps?  That lasted longer.  He was respected, celebrated.  Eventually reviled with envy.  They came for him in the night, and he fought back.  He defended himself and still… too far.  Not as many fell to him, but too many.  Too much.

The life of a hermit was not safe, either.  Even when he wasn’t discovered despite his best efforts, didn’t fall to the trap of thinking he might be fine to simply watch a civilization rather than participate in it, when he kept to himself and became devoured by loneliness…

Something heavy and cold slid beneath his skin and clasped what passed for his heart from one beat to the next.

He became the devourer.

Was it always going to end this way?