INCOMPLETE
Who: Warren dark-hierophant and Kairi lucis-fatum
When: Sometime today
Where: Warren's house
Rating: Shouldn't be more than PG, PG-13 at most.
Warnings: Sparring violence?
Summary: Kairi's off to Warren's house to let him examine the Keyblade and try to ascertain its power.
Warren had been renowned for patience in his own world. Why, then, did his foot tap anxiously and his heart beat faster waiting for the arrival of his pupil and that item? He crossed his arms, silently musing to himself, crafting theories and suppositions about its power and origin. The weapon, from all descriptions, was too weak to have been forged by gods. So... mortal craft, then? There were a few Keyblade users from Kairi's words. There was herself, of course, her lover Riku, the boy Sora, and that strange boy, XIII... Warren had made a mental note to himself to add the boy to a list of potential threats, a list that was, irritatingly, growing longer by the day. His lip curled into a snarl at that thought, and the ancient aasimar allowed himself the moment to dwell on it, to formulate solutions to it.
The grandest threat, by his view, were the Organization XIII members. He had spoken with both Superiors, and while the first one was wise, learning and evolving, the second one was doing the exact same things he did in his past, from Xemnas' own words. Warren wanted no part of this, to be sure, but since he had given them the list of his companions, he had been pulled into this quandary. Fuming, the priest raised a fist to bring it crashing down upon his desk, scattering papers and quills. The dishonorable wretches. They were fools to earn Warren's ire and wrath, and he would demonstrate this. After all, he was an evil priest, he had been pulled into Purgatorium the first time for pride. The wrath and anger were all acceptable, by the gods' light, for Warren was not held to the same standards of morality as much of the rest of Purgatorium.
That other boor, Wesker, also had some level of threat and menace to him. Warren considered him. Other than a taste for experimentation ala the late Professor Hojo (Warren silently mouthed a prayer wishing Hojo well on his afterlife), Wesker seemed merely arrogant. Warren, too, still suffered from that, but not so much that he did not consider Wesker a viable danger and risk. He made a mental addendum, placing Wesker up above several of the Organization members. Wesker, as Warren understood, had powers underived from magic, and so retained... much of them. Warren could only be grateful that he now had Hope's End in addition to his limited non-magical powers from being an Aasimar. Darkvision, some minor physical superiority, they were small gifts, but they were still gifts he yet possessed, and for that he was grateful.
Finally, sadly, Warren noted his greatest threat: Hope's End herself. The blade had controlled him once in the past, and controlled Max before as well. Who was to say that the sword would not do so again? Yet the blade's heart had seemed... penitent, after he had drawn it from the statue of his corpse. What a surreal experience that had been. However, all of that was secondary to the feeling of exultation as he had pulled the blade from its stone prison, and feeling at least some of Meder's power fill him once again. He didn't regret his actions, really, though he had told Max he would get rid of the blade for her. He would have, had she demanded it, and had been prepared to, but he didn't regret drawing Hope's End.
The blade's powers were tied by the soul to Warren, something he had never told Max. He idly wondered if he would be more powerful than he was if he simply took his piece of soul housed in Hope's End and reclaimed it. As soon as he thought of it, he dismissed the idea. Meder Herself had crafted Hope's End. He would not even attempt to destroy the sword. Not like that. Not unless he had to.
Stepping away from the desk, the tall, otherworldly man began to clean up, picking up the scattered writing implements and loose papers, arranging them on his desk and leaving his study. Calloused fingers brushed over wooden handle and grasped, granting Warren a weapon, laughable as it might be to the naked eye. Warren held full confidence in the wooden weapons he had crafted, at least against likewise normal weapons. The psionics involved had made them hard as steel, and given them an edge to rival even the elven blades of Luworien. He smiled, waiting for Kairi.
Kairi would bring him the Keyblade to examine. They would see if, perhaps, Warren could be a Keyblade wielder. The most important thing, however, would be Warren learning if he could forge his own Keyblade, given time, and spells. Yet first he needed the Keyblade here, in his hands, to study and view and swing and see in action. The priest's smile grew wider. He had quite the schedule ahead of him, it would seem.
When: Sometime today
Where: Warren's house
Rating: Shouldn't be more than PG, PG-13 at most.
Warnings: Sparring violence?
Summary: Kairi's off to Warren's house to let him examine the Keyblade and try to ascertain its power.
Warren had been renowned for patience in his own world. Why, then, did his foot tap anxiously and his heart beat faster waiting for the arrival of his pupil and that item? He crossed his arms, silently musing to himself, crafting theories and suppositions about its power and origin. The weapon, from all descriptions, was too weak to have been forged by gods. So... mortal craft, then? There were a few Keyblade users from Kairi's words. There was herself, of course, her lover Riku, the boy Sora, and that strange boy, XIII... Warren had made a mental note to himself to add the boy to a list of potential threats, a list that was, irritatingly, growing longer by the day. His lip curled into a snarl at that thought, and the ancient aasimar allowed himself the moment to dwell on it, to formulate solutions to it.
The grandest threat, by his view, were the Organization XIII members. He had spoken with both Superiors, and while the first one was wise, learning and evolving, the second one was doing the exact same things he did in his past, from Xemnas' own words. Warren wanted no part of this, to be sure, but since he had given them the list of his companions, he had been pulled into this quandary. Fuming, the priest raised a fist to bring it crashing down upon his desk, scattering papers and quills. The dishonorable wretches. They were fools to earn Warren's ire and wrath, and he would demonstrate this. After all, he was an evil priest, he had been pulled into Purgatorium the first time for pride. The wrath and anger were all acceptable, by the gods' light, for Warren was not held to the same standards of morality as much of the rest of Purgatorium.
That other boor, Wesker, also had some level of threat and menace to him. Warren considered him. Other than a taste for experimentation ala the late Professor Hojo (Warren silently mouthed a prayer wishing Hojo well on his afterlife), Wesker seemed merely arrogant. Warren, too, still suffered from that, but not so much that he did not consider Wesker a viable danger and risk. He made a mental addendum, placing Wesker up above several of the Organization members. Wesker, as Warren understood, had powers underived from magic, and so retained... much of them. Warren could only be grateful that he now had Hope's End in addition to his limited non-magical powers from being an Aasimar. Darkvision, some minor physical superiority, they were small gifts, but they were still gifts he yet possessed, and for that he was grateful.
Finally, sadly, Warren noted his greatest threat: Hope's End herself. The blade had controlled him once in the past, and controlled Max before as well. Who was to say that the sword would not do so again? Yet the blade's heart had seemed... penitent, after he had drawn it from the statue of his corpse. What a surreal experience that had been. However, all of that was secondary to the feeling of exultation as he had pulled the blade from its stone prison, and feeling at least some of Meder's power fill him once again. He didn't regret his actions, really, though he had told Max he would get rid of the blade for her. He would have, had she demanded it, and had been prepared to, but he didn't regret drawing Hope's End.
The blade's powers were tied by the soul to Warren, something he had never told Max. He idly wondered if he would be more powerful than he was if he simply took his piece of soul housed in Hope's End and reclaimed it. As soon as he thought of it, he dismissed the idea. Meder Herself had crafted Hope's End. He would not even attempt to destroy the sword. Not like that. Not unless he had to.
Stepping away from the desk, the tall, otherworldly man began to clean up, picking up the scattered writing implements and loose papers, arranging them on his desk and leaving his study. Calloused fingers brushed over wooden handle and grasped, granting Warren a weapon, laughable as it might be to the naked eye. Warren held full confidence in the wooden weapons he had crafted, at least against likewise normal weapons. The psionics involved had made them hard as steel, and given them an edge to rival even the elven blades of Luworien. He smiled, waiting for Kairi.
Kairi would bring him the Keyblade to examine. They would see if, perhaps, Warren could be a Keyblade wielder. The most important thing, however, would be Warren learning if he could forge his own Keyblade, given time, and spells. Yet first he needed the Keyblade here, in his hands, to study and view and swing and see in action. The priest's smile grew wider. He had quite the schedule ahead of him, it would seem.