[ooc] oo1; three-two-one-START (TEMPOPAZZO)
+ M U N I N F O +
Name: Dream
Contact info: AIM - DWhispererL, email - dreamwhisperer [at] gmail [dot] com
Personal LJ: evocates
+ C H A R A C T E R I N F O +
Name: Hibari Kyouya
Younger/Main/Older/Arcobaleno: Older/age 30, pretty much AU
+ W R I T I N G S A M P L E S +
First Person:
Hey. All of you herbivores.
Tell me what happened here.
*
Third Person:
There’s something to be said about the serenity of his gardens at dawn.
Hibari sits at the wooden bench, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His fingers are curled around a porcelain cup of tea, sweet-smelling steam still wafting upwards. Kusakabe sits on the ground a little distance away, knees tucked inwards properly on the stones, his fingers dipping into the pond, drawing meaningless shapes and enticing the koi to follow him. His eyes slide shut.
Machiavelli, in its original Italian, sits beside him, a reminder that smells of old paper and ink amongst the scents of the forest and tea. Hibari curls his fingers in, traces the pads of his fingertips over the printed word without opening his eyes. The curves and whorls of the letters are still strange, still unfamiliar, entirely unlike the Japanese alphabets that he knows as well as the feel of tonfas in his hand.
Hibari takes a sip of his tea, and opens his eyes.
There’s danger in the end even amidst the tranquillity, he knows. Byakuran is making his move soon; Sawada Tsunayoshi is leaving the sanctuary of the Vongola base to meet him in Rome. Hibari might not be one of those herbivores that dog his heels and hang onto his every word, but he still keeps track, nonetheless.
Knowledge is power; Hibari will never allow himself to remain ignorant.
And that is, essentially, the reason for his crusade now. Hibari moves a hand, his sleeve trailing in the air and he feels the boxes hidden inside, nearly weightless. Those tiny things hold so much power, so versatile in their use; they are the weapons of this new encroaching war (and yes, there will be a war - the smell of death and blood is clear and sharp in the air). Yet virtually nothing is known about them. There are only rumours, formless and unsubstantiated, each new one contradicting the old.
No one knows the truth anymore.
It reminds Hibari far too much of illusions, of myths and mists and the very thought causes a frown to appear between his brow. He hates not knowing, hates letting someone else holds the card in his hands. There is too much at stake here for him - for anyone - to overlook even the smallest detail because that might lead to death, to the noose being tightened around their throats and cutting off their air.
Hibari knows this - he is an old hand at this game of war. It’s about territory, about power, about dominance and being the alpha. This is a battlefield where he knows the rules; where he has acknowledged the rules worth recognizing and remade the others into his own. Even if the Vongola crashes and burns, Hibari knows that he will survive. Because he won’t let himself die.
Red streaks the grey horizon in front of him and Hibari shakes his head slowly, dismissing those thoughts. All those words are well and good, but the sun is rising and Hibari has always enjoyed the spectacle of it; enjoyed the feel of the spreading heat and the lifting of the fog. If he is the sort, he will think that this is almost symbolic, but he doesn’t.
So he simply leans backwards and watches the sunrise, his cup of tea pressed against his lips as he swallows.
(This is canon!Hibari.)
OR
Fire.
He wakes up to fire, burning bright in front of him. The smell of charred bodies hit him, and he sees smoke, thick and heavy, pressing against his skin. There is the soft sound of crackling, like fire peeling skin away from muscles, like heat making bones crack open.
Blood - his blood - drips down onto the floor. Hibari presses a hand dispassionately against the wound on his shoulder - so close to the heart - and stands up, surveying what used to be an Italian mansion with the eyes of a fallen king.
He can see bodies.
Yamamoto Takeshi is still recognizable - pristine black suit suit and tie, forest green shirt tucked untidily beneath that stained by blood. There is a line of red from his mouth to his chin, accentuating the scar, and a gaping hole in the middle of his chest like someone had ripped his heart out with their bare hands (not far from the truth). He is curled inwards on the floor, and fire licks at his heels as if he is Freyja’s own.
He is one of the luckier ones. Hibari’s lips curve up into a smile, dark and ironic and mirthless.
(Dino Cavallone lies a distance away from Hibari’s feet, and the only reason Hibari can recognize his is the whip still held by a hand, and the fact that Hibari had watched him fall. Had watched as the bullets tore into him, ripping skin and muscles and even bone away from his body.)
Hibari opens his eyes.
He stands, breathing still regular, and walks over to the window of his room. Outside, Namimori yawns as the sun rises over the town, painting it orange and red like the aftereffects of a bloodbath.
His tonfas lie under his pillow.
Hibari’s smile mirrors the one he had in his dream- no, not a dream. Hibari Kyouya, after all, does not dream.
He merely has memories.
(This is the world this 30-year-old one comes from.)
Name: Dream
Contact info: AIM - DWhispererL, email - dreamwhisperer [at] gmail [dot] com
Personal LJ: evocates
+ C H A R A C T E R I N F O +
Name: Hibari Kyouya
Younger/Main/Older/Arcobaleno: Older/age 30, pretty much AU
+ W R I T I N G S A M P L E S +
First Person:
Hey. All of you herbivores.
Tell me what happened here.
*
Third Person:
There’s something to be said about the serenity of his gardens at dawn.
Hibari sits at the wooden bench, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His fingers are curled around a porcelain cup of tea, sweet-smelling steam still wafting upwards. Kusakabe sits on the ground a little distance away, knees tucked inwards properly on the stones, his fingers dipping into the pond, drawing meaningless shapes and enticing the koi to follow him. His eyes slide shut.
Machiavelli, in its original Italian, sits beside him, a reminder that smells of old paper and ink amongst the scents of the forest and tea. Hibari curls his fingers in, traces the pads of his fingertips over the printed word without opening his eyes. The curves and whorls of the letters are still strange, still unfamiliar, entirely unlike the Japanese alphabets that he knows as well as the feel of tonfas in his hand.
Hibari takes a sip of his tea, and opens his eyes.
There’s danger in the end even amidst the tranquillity, he knows. Byakuran is making his move soon; Sawada Tsunayoshi is leaving the sanctuary of the Vongola base to meet him in Rome. Hibari might not be one of those herbivores that dog his heels and hang onto his every word, but he still keeps track, nonetheless.
Knowledge is power; Hibari will never allow himself to remain ignorant.
And that is, essentially, the reason for his crusade now. Hibari moves a hand, his sleeve trailing in the air and he feels the boxes hidden inside, nearly weightless. Those tiny things hold so much power, so versatile in their use; they are the weapons of this new encroaching war (and yes, there will be a war - the smell of death and blood is clear and sharp in the air). Yet virtually nothing is known about them. There are only rumours, formless and unsubstantiated, each new one contradicting the old.
No one knows the truth anymore.
It reminds Hibari far too much of illusions, of myths and mists and the very thought causes a frown to appear between his brow. He hates not knowing, hates letting someone else holds the card in his hands. There is too much at stake here for him - for anyone - to overlook even the smallest detail because that might lead to death, to the noose being tightened around their throats and cutting off their air.
Hibari knows this - he is an old hand at this game of war. It’s about territory, about power, about dominance and being the alpha. This is a battlefield where he knows the rules; where he has acknowledged the rules worth recognizing and remade the others into his own. Even if the Vongola crashes and burns, Hibari knows that he will survive. Because he won’t let himself die.
Red streaks the grey horizon in front of him and Hibari shakes his head slowly, dismissing those thoughts. All those words are well and good, but the sun is rising and Hibari has always enjoyed the spectacle of it; enjoyed the feel of the spreading heat and the lifting of the fog. If he is the sort, he will think that this is almost symbolic, but he doesn’t.
So he simply leans backwards and watches the sunrise, his cup of tea pressed against his lips as he swallows.
(This is canon!Hibari.)
OR
Fire.
He wakes up to fire, burning bright in front of him. The smell of charred bodies hit him, and he sees smoke, thick and heavy, pressing against his skin. There is the soft sound of crackling, like fire peeling skin away from muscles, like heat making bones crack open.
Blood - his blood - drips down onto the floor. Hibari presses a hand dispassionately against the wound on his shoulder - so close to the heart - and stands up, surveying what used to be an Italian mansion with the eyes of a fallen king.
He can see bodies.
Yamamoto Takeshi is still recognizable - pristine black suit suit and tie, forest green shirt tucked untidily beneath that stained by blood. There is a line of red from his mouth to his chin, accentuating the scar, and a gaping hole in the middle of his chest like someone had ripped his heart out with their bare hands (not far from the truth). He is curled inwards on the floor, and fire licks at his heels as if he is Freyja’s own.
He is one of the luckier ones. Hibari’s lips curve up into a smile, dark and ironic and mirthless.
(Dino Cavallone lies a distance away from Hibari’s feet, and the only reason Hibari can recognize his is the whip still held by a hand, and the fact that Hibari had watched him fall. Had watched as the bullets tore into him, ripping skin and muscles and even bone away from his body.)
Hibari opens his eyes.
He stands, breathing still regular, and walks over to the window of his room. Outside, Namimori yawns as the sun rises over the town, painting it orange and red like the aftereffects of a bloodbath.
His tonfas lie under his pillow.
Hibari’s smile mirrors the one he had in his dream- no, not a dream. Hibari Kyouya, after all, does not dream.
He merely has memories.
(This is the world this 30-year-old one comes from.)