[Day 2 | Late Afternoon | Retying Strings]
Who: Sephiroth and Human sheathe Cloud. Others are welcome, but they might end up rather ignored by the heart-wrenchingly beautiful reunion.
Where: Somewhere in the far reaches of space around Central.
What: Searching for the favoured puppet.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Humans being used as sheathes again. Fighting, possibly. Nastiness.
Even a fool would find this place easily navigatable. It was to the detriment of humans, in Sephiroth's opinion, that absolutely everything had to be so simplified for them. They had no concept of the subtle complexities of the mind, but then, he supposed with the sort of mild amusement that came with his usual scorn, who could understand that as exquisitely as himself, whose being was one with Mother's?
Strife was close. His presence was now a tangible tingle in the air, instantly familiar and addicting in how Sephiroth remembered that most useful of puppets; how he'd so often sought freedom, and always failed. He'd been malleable and easily controlled, yet not without a challenge. And Sephiroth relished challenges. They were always so easily won.
There was a difference to it, however. Instantly recognizable though it was, so too were the differences. As though Cloud had somehow changed himself. Perhaps he'd finally been shattered, the destruction of Gaia and all he held dear finally crushing him.
It did not feel like that. No, if anything Sephiroth would say that Cloud had found himself a backbone. But how?
Regardless, he would be easily brought down, bent to Mother's will and his own or cast aside and cut down as a casualty that now would have no one to weep for him.
Regrettable. The knife edged smile danced across Sephiroth's lips and in mad eyes, his hunter's prowl leading him to where he had sought out. Nondescript, as stoic as Cloud tried to make himself.
Just as expected.
"Well, well," he said smoothly, silk and steel, "Cloud Strife. What an honour."
For him, of course.
Where: Somewhere in the far reaches of space around Central.
What: Searching for the favoured puppet.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Humans being used as sheathes again. Fighting, possibly. Nastiness.
Even a fool would find this place easily navigatable. It was to the detriment of humans, in Sephiroth's opinion, that absolutely everything had to be so simplified for them. They had no concept of the subtle complexities of the mind, but then, he supposed with the sort of mild amusement that came with his usual scorn, who could understand that as exquisitely as himself, whose being was one with Mother's?
Strife was close. His presence was now a tangible tingle in the air, instantly familiar and addicting in how Sephiroth remembered that most useful of puppets; how he'd so often sought freedom, and always failed. He'd been malleable and easily controlled, yet not without a challenge. And Sephiroth relished challenges. They were always so easily won.
There was a difference to it, however. Instantly recognizable though it was, so too were the differences. As though Cloud had somehow changed himself. Perhaps he'd finally been shattered, the destruction of Gaia and all he held dear finally crushing him.
It did not feel like that. No, if anything Sephiroth would say that Cloud had found himself a backbone. But how?
Regardless, he would be easily brought down, bent to Mother's will and his own or cast aside and cut down as a casualty that now would have no one to weep for him.
Regrettable. The knife edged smile danced across Sephiroth's lips and in mad eyes, his hunter's prowl leading him to where he had sought out. Nondescript, as stoic as Cloud tried to make himself.
Just as expected.
"Well, well," he said smoothly, silk and steel, "Cloud Strife. What an honour."
For him, of course.