(no subject)
In a twist of oddity, a rather strange Cloud who resembles Sephiroth more than he does himself is sitting against the Sign today.
He doesn't look very good, even at a passing glance. Blood is matted into spiked silver hair, trailing down the side of his face and neck in still-fresh slithers of red, he's coated in a fine layer of dust and grime and god only knows what else, and he's so quiet - just sitting, leant back against the Sign, knees up and legs apart and a large-bladed sword at his feet as he silently observes the Nexusites going by through blank, slit-pupilled eyes. He looks like he's been broken, thoroughly shattered, with no one but himself to put his own splintered pieces back together, but the look fits him somehow and makes it so, so hard to imagine him with any other appearance, and he seems comfortable enough with existing the way he does though he knows how far he's fallen.
And falling proves to be related to the question he asks in a voice with no emotion, no tone, no sign of life.
"Would you consider it wrong to be content with your lifestyle, and with who you are, when you're well aware you're at a nadir and there is no lower point for you to reach?"
He shifts, something shifts behind him, and a few oily, dusty feathers darker than night blot out a small area of the Sign as he makes himself more comfortable with his trembling wing for a cushion.
((mun here off and on, will tag when able.))
He doesn't look very good, even at a passing glance. Blood is matted into spiked silver hair, trailing down the side of his face and neck in still-fresh slithers of red, he's coated in a fine layer of dust and grime and god only knows what else, and he's so quiet - just sitting, leant back against the Sign, knees up and legs apart and a large-bladed sword at his feet as he silently observes the Nexusites going by through blank, slit-pupilled eyes. He looks like he's been broken, thoroughly shattered, with no one but himself to put his own splintered pieces back together, but the look fits him somehow and makes it so, so hard to imagine him with any other appearance, and he seems comfortable enough with existing the way he does though he knows how far he's fallen.
And falling proves to be related to the question he asks in a voice with no emotion, no tone, no sign of life.
"Would you consider it wrong to be content with your lifestyle, and with who you are, when you're well aware you're at a nadir and there is no lower point for you to reach?"
He shifts, something shifts behind him, and a few oily, dusty feathers darker than night blot out a small area of the Sign as he makes himself more comfortable with his trembling wing for a cushion.
((mun here off and on, will tag when able.))