No surprises this time on his reappearance, with the bond intact. One minute nothing beyond the vaguest 'starball is still there' sense, the next sharp startlement.
And then sudden seething fury. Not the hatred of pending genocide but the whole hearted uncontrolled indignant rage of a small child denied a piece of candy they'd really wanted, a temper tantrum made volatile and dangerous only by the fact that it is not a small child feeling it but someone well capable of doing significant harm with breathtaking ease. The obsessive want lingers. There's something slightly ... off, with that feeling. Like a discordant hum in the back of the mind. Like a haze of cloying smoke, or a mirage in a desert.
Denied. Denied, when the very next morning they would have set out to retrieve his sword from that decrepit old man, only a handful of hours before it would finally be back in his hands and instead he was here.
He'd gone willingly enough when the fox came to retrieve him, but in retrospect it's INFURIATING. Why did he capitulate so easy? Why didn't he ask her to just wait a little while??
Sephiroth is aware on immediate analysis of where he is, the view out the window is familiar, and though there's more THINGS now than there were before, it still has the smell and feel of Vincent to it all. And Vincent himself is absent, the cabin cooling but not yet bitterly cold.
A safe enough place away from prying eyes to pace and growl and seethe in stymied fury, though with the sense of approaching Turk after several minutes of angry pacing around the small cabin throws himself onto a chair, wings manifesting with an effortless thought to set himself to agitated preening; it's something that could occasionally help soothe his nerves, something he hadn't done even once outside Folkmore where anyone might see and worse Russ might catch on tape, but here there's no reason not to. He's still molting, doesn't think about where all the white had gone, replaced with charcoal and black, but the same amount of underfluff and loose coverts are easy to pull out and toss aside and smooth down feathers that were healthy and alive and remaining.
It helps a little bit, ratcheting roiling rage to simmering displeasure instead.
Something had happened. Something is off. In the fifteen or so minutes it takes the gunman to get back to the cabin, Vincent has time to sort through the initial concern over the burst of rage which comes with the emotional outburst.
Denied, infuriated at that denial. The frustration one would expect to burst out from a teenager rather than a grown adult and at first? Vincent considers this might be a sign that Sephiroth had been denied the chance to strike Hojo down. Or a sterling opportunity to strike against Jenova had been slipped from his grasp.
There is an unease that this is not all, but Vincent doesn't yet have the experience to compare that particular wrongness to anything he's felt over the bond since the beginning of this.
On the other end of this connection, Vincent's approach seems to begin with surprise, even alarm before it becomes an intense, focused calm. It can't be denied there are emotions underneath, but they seem at first near absent. The man has set his mind to a focus of what he might find when he arrives.
There is grief, there is concern. But these only come to the fore after realization. Calm, slowly becoming relief and allowing the undercurrent of emotion more room.
Because he can afford to.
That's the familiar sound of a chocobo outside, changed midstride to armored boots hitting the deck and the door opening.
Molted clouds of charcoal feathers huff up in a dramatic swirl of the draft. Black feathers. For a second, a flutter of that alarm comes back and ruby eyes widen.
Not a grown man, at least. Not the taint of madness and hatred. The shape sitting on the chair determinedly smoothing out dark feathers and vivid green eyespots is still small for his age, but enough resentment lingers where he's not being as careful as he should be with removing some of the more irritating loose feathers he should have been taking care of days ago.
Couldn't. Not with the camera watching.
Sephiroth has no negative association with black wings, couldn't know, didn't know a single dark wing could one day be a hallmark of everything wrong with his future. It's strange that they've all gone dark, though he thinks by some angles on one of the feathers dislodged he can still see the barring pattern across it that had been there since he'd arrived in Folkmore. Birds changed colors when they grew up, didn't they? Maybe he was finally not being seen as a child by even Thirteen.
Knowing Vincent's coming means he has time to collect himself, settle back into place iron control and outside calm; appearances do matter. As the door is opened and the sharp bite of outside's bitter cold clashes with the vague warmth of indoors and kicks up a sudden draft and with it a swirl of feathers, he doesn't understand the alarm, but he's already annoyed and it annoys him further.
Not all the feathers swirling about are his own, and one is snatched out of the air by black-gloved hands as it passes. No subtle barring mars its surface.
"I'm not pulling out any live ones." The irritation refocuses, back to the sword that eluded him. It could be months now, months before Thirteen sees fit to send him back, and if she'd just waited a little longer, he wouldn't have to stew in frustrated helplessness, the sword would be his-- he'd have to pay Lore of course to have it brought here alongside him but that was fine, it would be worth it, and while he could do that NOW it wouldn't be the same, just imitating a prize out of reach instead of replicating something hard won. Something he deserved.
As if to put lie to his previous words, a covert is yanked out before it's quite ready to go, the sting of pain ignored, as it and the captured feather is studied for a moment in a half-interested way. "They look alike, don't they? This one's yours. No stripes."
After a second or two, Vincent closes the door behind him. Surprise did have him hesitate but not so much does it erase the awareness of where they are. And it's clear Sephiroth hasn't started the fire since he arrived.
... No.
... It's too easy.
... Let's move on then shall we?
Like Sephiroth hadn't known of the connection to black wings, it would probably never have occurred to Vincent Valentine that there might be a connection to the color of the wings, his own feathers and the bond they shared had it not been for the youth's observant comment. Though the most egregious signs of his moulting had been blessedly confined to a mostly hidden tail, Vincent remembers the annoyance. And thankfully, he had plenty of hair mixed in with his crown feathers.
Or even that may be overreaching; this could be a matter of a fledgling's growth to adulthood. Though that is cold comfort from a gift bestowed by the Fox with all her symbols and stories.
...Apparently he hadn't gotten found all the feathers while cleaning up. Vincent, on watching Sephiroth intentionally pull out a feather immediately after saying he wasn't, lets out a sigh that sounds borderline exasperated.
"Admit I wasn't expecting the black wings. Until you were older." That too had been a possibility, hadn't it? That the wings would inevitably become black simply because that is what Sephiroth manifests. It wasn't some symbolic thing of light or dark.
The boy was still a Legend. Still... himself. Though that odd distracted irritation directed at some other issue still sends a wave of uneasiness through Vincent as if heralding it as nearly alien. Something whispering to him. It isn't right. It doesn't belong. The boards on the floor creak and more feathers idly swirl with the sweep of his cloak as the man moves forward. He starts to pass by Sephiroth before pausing.
Here, he looks at the feathers closely before offering to take his own and, perhaps if he'll allow it, the one that was plucked.
"...Same hue. Except the stripe." ...It's almost comforting. How different had those wings been in black hue, from Vincent's remembered past? But even if those were the same as well, there's a sense of comfort. Maybe a trace of confusing emotion. Vincent certainly doesn't know how to process the possibility of it being more than coincidence.
Then he moves on. His intention is to light the fire. It's easy enough; everything's in place including the kindling and tinder. He only needs to strike a match or spark and make sure it catches.
"It's been three days. How long have you been gone on your end?"
The fireplace will, at some point, be lit; Sephiroth didn't like the cold and while he could tolerate it quite well for long periods of time, preferred it to be much hotter. Right now.. there were other priorities. Like soothing his agitation and maintaining at least the illusion of control and calm.
It's not working as well as hoped. There's nothing to be done about it now, he'd just .. have to get over it.
Easier said than done. "I'd assumed it would take a full molt, owls don't shed everything out all at once. But this will do as well." Until he was older. Maybe he's old enough. Maybe it's something other than that, alarm is a different feeling than just surprise, and that had been alarm. Though it takes him a moment, this bit of distraction at least turning his thoughts from his missing sword for a few minutes, the feather is turned over.
Bird feathers are a lot alike no matter what. Now it's closer in color at least, though Vincent would ever lack the soft fuzzy edges of owl-shaped feathers. "...Longer."
He sets back to preening with all visible calm and beneath it the ongoing tide of indignation. "Not long enough. I don't know why she couldn't have waited just a couple more hours."
Vincent almost mutters the response over his shoulder while setting about his business. A few lights are turned on; it's still daytime but cloudy skies will make it darker early. Besides, it adds some illusion of warmth to the cabin while the actual heat is less swift to come.
He should probably arrange for a ceiling fan sometime.
A doubtful eye is cast to the other chair in the room. Of course it's covered in downy bits. Another sigh falls; he won't try to dust them off and will sort that out later. Instead he just settles down.
"...Missed your chance at Hojo? Or Jenova?" Those would be his first assumptions, based on the rage, the irritation. How could he guess the reality?
"We can trade. You can drop feathers everywhere whenever you move and I'll deal with a tail." He didn't mind being a Legend, aside from its connotations. Wings.. felt right. Like he should have them, like he always had.
The black would help with being able to use them in his own time. At night, perhaps exclusively, where he might be mistaken for a flying monster.. was a flying monster, but not Shinra's posterboy.
Mention of Hojo does draw a slight flinch and the burn of self-recrimmination but it fades under the immediate refocus on the sword just out of reach. "No." Well, yes, but also, not his focus. "I missed my chance at an ideal weapon." He'd never been interested in any specific blade before, aside from Mizu's. "A Cetra-forged sword of surpassing beauty and craftsmanship. Once the dawn came we were going to pursue the wretched thing currently keeping it from me." Another feather is pulled out, htough this without the sting of pain, it was about loose anyway. It's going to leave his secondaries patchy and make flying a bit clumsier. "Instead, I'm here."
The haze of want wasn't so much that he would head to find Thirteen and make demands, but .. he was tempted to.
Vincent isn't really sure what to make of tail feathers; it's not like he hasn't a tail before. But... it still feels awkward.
There is a pause. While it's not unusual for Sephiroth to display more than a passing interest in swords. It didn't feel... quite right. Hojo was all but brushed off. Jenova, not mentioned at all. The gunman's brow creases a little.
...Not impossible, given the nature of the blade that was described. A blade of Cetra origin? Vincent is sure Sephiroth would have more than a passing interest. But he was also concerned about the way the youth was speaking about it. Wretched thing. It's being kept from me. He was generally far more particular about the way he spoke, as though he wished to be exact.
To hide emotions like envy and greed and hatred. Monsters would not usually earn such contemptuous epitet. Sephiroth is taking this personally. And the bond was echoing how that was taking form. Carefully, Vincent tests the waters by trying to guide the conversation away from the sword. A moment.
"Seems you get sent back to the point you were taken from. So it should be waiting for you. Did you have time to put your other plans into action?" Age makes it clear that not much time has passed. But there was enough time and the boy would have known not to waste it.
Other plans. It's not hard to guess what plans those were, and they were important, but not ... as important. Still, he'll address it, it isn't as if Vincent didn't have a stake in it too. "I was unable to locate information on where to find my alien mother before being deployed. The Professor yet lives."
He'd hesitated. It gave just enough time to evade a killing blow. "If I'd had this weapon he would not. A few inches is meaningless versus its reach, and mere steel doors will offer no protection." The focus remains, stymied of his new vital goal, but the undercurrent of bitter self-recrimination sharpens. It was his error, his inability to take the offered opportunity, but that sword would have made up for the fractional distance effortlessly.
Next time that distance wouldn't matter. He'd see to it. He would not fail again.
For a moment Vincent frowns and it feels like he's startled. He's sure he's mentioned Jenova's location in Nibelheim's reactor. But it would be a good idea to know for certain and whether things changed.
"They'd have hidden that information. But I don't know where else they would store it other than Mt. Nibel. ...Deepground, perhaps." The former Turk's eyes narrow with thought, though this is interrupted as Sephiroth once again brings up that sword.
For a moment there's a more focused concern. Vincent's sure now that there is something wrong. Setting aside the miss on Professor Hojo's life- which certainly will have its problems in the future- the former Turk turns his attention on to what the youth is saying about the sword.
Its reach. How it would ignore steel doors even if they were in the blade's way. He'd be a fool indeed not to think of the blade which was the silver haired general's signature weapon.
"A blade taller than a grown man's body. Angled like a katana but meant for a two hand form, sharp enough in the right hands to cut through almost any alloy known to man." His tone suggests a man who has seen it with his own eyes.
How long Jenova's been in the reactor is another question. Was she already interred there, a decade or more before anyone might stumble upon it looking for answers? He didn't know, and finding out would be .. difficult until he had free reign. "I'll find out, sooner or later."
Which he did not, as yet.
There's something that radiates displeasure in the teen's bearing even as he sets to the vanes of his primary feathers, the metallic green eyespots flashing in what little light there is. Dealing with Jenova would be easier when he was properly armed. Alissa was right, he deserved a better weapon.
A pause follows Vincent's description, but it doesn't seem Sephiroth has any concern that the Turk might covet it; not only did Vincent not use swords, he's sure he'd feel any hint of greed through their bond. "It doesn't have one, as far as Alissa was able to retell. Its craftsman, however, is a Cetran smith named Masamune." His tone sours by degrees, a low rumble of some unpleasant emotion. "The old man is little more than a withered specter after so long; if ever he was worthy of that sword he hasn't been for centuries."
"Alissa?" The name is repeated. It's clear Vincent doesn't recognize it but it's also not addressed with any alarm. There's several decades of Sephiroth's life that he missed. Zack wouldn't have been around at that point and Cloud definitely wasn't. His interest is in retaining just one more piece of useful info to fill in the void.
"I see." It's recognized and without any surprise. He had thought as much. Though with the return of the youth's soured emotions and clear vitriol for the swordsmith bearing it... Vincent frowns in thought.
"A sword that ties its creator... or its wielder to this realm. I never realized the blade had such unpleasant origins." But he looks up and admits. "Whatever happens... I can only tell you that as an adult in my time, you were famous for that particular sword. And it was called Masamune."
Was it simply right to do so or had there been some reason to honor the swordsmith despite the clear disdain? Vincent is unsure.
"...Alissa Goldie, a Second-class SOLDIER that's one of the missing I was sent to find and retrieve. She's.." He leans back a little, frowning. "...I don't know if SOLDIER's developing an archaeology wing, but it seems to be her interest." It's leaving out a lot. A LOT. Everything going on in the Forbidden Zone is just strange by anyone's account.
That she 'can't fight' with just a hurt arm and still claims to be an active-type is not something Sephiroth's spent any time thinking about. "...She looks exactly like her, though." His gaze shifts, to the portrait on the wall. Lucrecia.
Exactly. So much so that it had been a shock, but now he found a little bit of comfort in it. Even if it was false, it was nice to look over and see, and imagine..
The thought is put aside. "Mm. It's worse yet. We've only begun to uncover what happened. Mass murder, a village in flames.." Those sharp blue-green eyes narrow. "Sort of a familiar story except the other one wasn't touched off by greedy villagers trying to steal things they had no rights to possess, as far as I know."
Alissa Goldie, SOLDIER. ...but archaeology wing? This Alissa might be interested in it as a hobby. But the idea that they would finance a unit of SOLDIER archaeologists is far-fetched even to Vincent's passive knowledge about that era of the organization.
...But more importantly it should be something Sephiroth is aware of as being odd. The former Turk narrows his eyes a trace, only to widen and cast a sharp look back at the youth when, on following that gaze, ruby eyes also come to rest on Lucrecia's portrait.
"..What?" Vincent is shocked. Disturbed by that notion. Exactly like Lucrecia? "...That's not..." Possible he wants to say. But he bites it back. There's more to this story and... troubling. The parallels do not go unnoticed.
"...No. But it was done by a man who wielded what seems to be that very sword you're focused on." Obsessively so. Could it be coincidence? Or does history simply repeat itself in the wake of this... no. Vincent refocuses his attention; handle one topic at a time, Valentine.
"Something's not right." A lot of things are not right. And Vincent is beginning to realize that nagging feeling of wrongness over the bond was unnatural yet perhaps related to this situation.
"...Alissa Goldie." There's deep suspicion as he speaks her name. "...Her voice. What did she sound like?"
Something being someone's interest doesn't necessarily make it an official rank or designation in any form, Sephiroth's guessing. Who sends SOLDIERs on a survey mission anyway? And yet Shinra had, and four of them at that. That's more than had been assigned to Rhadore at first.
"I'd put more to it beyond a particularly cruel coincidence were my future self's impressions of our species been correct. Then you could draw parallels between two different Cetra with similar fates, and on and on." But Sephiroth's neither Cetra nor swordsmith, and an entire village hadn't tried to rob him of his creation. It was different.
As Vincent asks a question that may make sense to him, the look the teen gives him is incredulous. "That's a stupid question," he says flatly. "I can't describe a voice in a way that will mean anything to you. She's a soprano, she has a touch of a Kalm accent."
It could be reasoned that given the hostilities between Wutai and Shinra as well as the danger of the location, the assets were seen as a necessity for the mission. Particularly if they knew in the beginning it involved something of Cetran make.
By comparison, sending a disposable team to Rhadore on a mission to find a spot for a new mako reactor may as well have been an effort to bait out the remaining resistance there. Its instability and low success chance other factors. A good testing ground to send in their prototype active SOLDIER and test subject for cleanup.
Sephiroth's point on the coincidence is well made. The village on fire and Masamune wielded to kill did not a compelling cycle make other than to suggest the weapon has a reputation for the deaths that follow in its wake.
Vincent tells himself to never bring it up in Cloud's presence however. That it was enough to bring him a feeling of unease bodes ill for how the blond would react.
Is there a trace of something like embarrassment in the wake of the teen telling him that his question is stupid? Perhaps the emotional equivalent of clearing his throat awkwardly. But as Sephiroth obliges with an attempt anyway, the gunman closes his eyes and lets his memories drift back... not too far is necessary as several times before coming to Folkmore he'd heard her voice again. As a recording or a memory of the woman, but as clear as it had been long ago. Sporano, a touch of a Kalm accent. Vincent opens his eyes again.
"Lucrecia... had a similar voice." A mix of emotions. Poignant. But also a muted anger and suspicion. "...Of course I can't say it's not a coincidence. But if Alissa Goldie looked like her as well... I think something's off. When you go back. You need to be careful. Whatever's happening there... I think there's more than you realize."
Vincent can't say with any certainty what it is. But he dislikes the theories.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2025-03-09 03:35 pm (UTC)And then sudden seething fury. Not the hatred of pending genocide but the whole hearted uncontrolled indignant rage of a small child denied a piece of candy they'd really wanted, a temper tantrum made volatile and dangerous only by the fact that it is not a small child feeling it but someone well capable of doing significant harm with breathtaking ease. The obsessive want lingers. There's something slightly ... off, with that feeling. Like a discordant hum in the back of the mind. Like a haze of cloying smoke, or a mirage in a desert.
Denied. Denied, when the very next morning they would have set out to retrieve his sword from that decrepit old man, only a handful of hours before it would finally be back in his hands and instead he was here.
He'd gone willingly enough when the fox came to retrieve him, but in retrospect it's INFURIATING. Why did he capitulate so easy? Why didn't he ask her to just wait a little while??
Sephiroth is aware on immediate analysis of where he is, the view out the window is familiar, and though there's more THINGS now than there were before, it still has the smell and feel of Vincent to it all. And Vincent himself is absent, the cabin cooling but not yet bitterly cold.
A safe enough place away from prying eyes to pace and growl and seethe in stymied fury, though with the sense of approaching Turk after several minutes of angry pacing around the small cabin throws himself onto a chair, wings manifesting with an effortless thought to set himself to agitated preening; it's something that could occasionally help soothe his nerves, something he hadn't done even once outside Folkmore where anyone might see and worse Russ might catch on tape, but here there's no reason not to. He's still molting, doesn't think about where all the white had gone, replaced with charcoal and black, but the same amount of underfluff and loose coverts are easy to pull out and toss aside and smooth down feathers that were healthy and alive and remaining.
It helps a little bit, ratcheting roiling rage to simmering displeasure instead.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 05:01 pm (UTC)Denied, infuriated at that denial. The frustration one would expect to burst out from a teenager rather than a grown adult and at first? Vincent considers this might be a sign that Sephiroth had been denied the chance to strike Hojo down. Or a sterling opportunity to strike against Jenova had been slipped from his grasp.
There is an unease that this is not all, but Vincent doesn't yet have the experience to compare that particular wrongness to anything he's felt over the bond since the beginning of this.
On the other end of this connection, Vincent's approach seems to begin with surprise, even alarm before it becomes an intense, focused calm. It can't be denied there are emotions underneath, but they seem at first near absent. The man has set his mind to a focus of what he might find when he arrives.
There is grief, there is concern. But these only come to the fore after realization. Calm, slowly becoming relief and allowing the undercurrent of emotion more room.
Because he can afford to.
That's the familiar sound of a chocobo outside, changed midstride to armored boots hitting the deck and the door opening.
Molted clouds of charcoal feathers huff up in a dramatic swirl of the draft. Black feathers. For a second, a flutter of that alarm comes back and ruby eyes widen.
"Sephiroth!"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 05:17 pm (UTC)Couldn't. Not with the camera watching.
Sephiroth has no negative association with black wings, couldn't know, didn't know a single dark wing could one day be a hallmark of everything wrong with his future. It's strange that they've all gone dark, though he thinks by some angles on one of the feathers dislodged he can still see the barring pattern across it that had been there since he'd arrived in Folkmore. Birds changed colors when they grew up, didn't they? Maybe he was finally not being seen as a child by even Thirteen.
Knowing Vincent's coming means he has time to collect himself, settle back into place iron control and outside calm; appearances do matter. As the door is opened and the sharp bite of outside's bitter cold clashes with the vague warmth of indoors and kicks up a sudden draft and with it a swirl of feathers, he doesn't understand the alarm, but he's already annoyed and it annoys him further.
Not all the feathers swirling about are his own, and one is snatched out of the air by black-gloved hands as it passes. No subtle barring mars its surface.
"I'm not pulling out any live ones." The irritation refocuses, back to the sword that eluded him. It could be months now, months before Thirteen sees fit to send him back, and if she'd just waited a little longer, he wouldn't have to stew in frustrated helplessness, the sword would be his-- he'd have to pay Lore of course to have it brought here alongside him but that was fine, it would be worth it, and while he could do that NOW it wouldn't be the same, just imitating a prize out of reach instead of replicating something hard won. Something he deserved.
As if to put lie to his previous words, a covert is yanked out before it's quite ready to go, the sting of pain ignored, as it and the captured feather is studied for a moment in a half-interested way. "They look alike, don't they? This one's yours. No stripes."
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 06:22 pm (UTC)... No.
... It's too easy.
... Let's move on then shall we?
Like Sephiroth hadn't known of the connection to black wings, it would probably never have occurred to Vincent Valentine that there might be a connection to the color of the wings, his own feathers and the bond they shared had it not been for the youth's observant comment. Though the most egregious signs of his moulting had been blessedly confined to a mostly hidden tail, Vincent remembers the annoyance. And thankfully, he had plenty of hair mixed in with his crown feathers.
Or even that may be overreaching; this could be a matter of a fledgling's growth to adulthood. Though that is cold comfort from a gift bestowed by the Fox with all her symbols and stories.
...Apparently he hadn't gotten found all the feathers while cleaning up. Vincent, on watching Sephiroth intentionally pull out a feather immediately after saying he wasn't, lets out a sigh that sounds borderline exasperated.
"Admit I wasn't expecting the black wings. Until you were older." That too had been a possibility, hadn't it? That the wings would inevitably become black simply because that is what Sephiroth manifests. It wasn't some symbolic thing of light or dark.
The boy was still a Legend. Still... himself. Though that odd distracted irritation directed at some other issue still sends a wave of uneasiness through Vincent as if heralding it as nearly alien. Something whispering to him. It isn't right. It doesn't belong. The boards on the floor creak and more feathers idly swirl with the sweep of his cloak as the man moves forward. He starts to pass by Sephiroth before pausing.
Here, he looks at the feathers closely before offering to take his own and, perhaps if he'll allow it, the one that was plucked.
"...Same hue. Except the stripe." ...It's almost comforting. How different had those wings been in black hue, from Vincent's remembered past? But even if those were the same as well, there's a sense of comfort. Maybe a trace of confusing emotion. Vincent certainly doesn't know how to process the possibility of it being more than coincidence.
Then he moves on. His intention is to light the fire. It's easy enough; everything's in place including the kindling and tinder. He only needs to strike a match or spark and make sure it catches.
"It's been three days. How long have you been gone on your end?"
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 06:39 pm (UTC)It's not working as well as hoped. There's nothing to be done about it now, he'd just .. have to get over it.
Easier said than done. "I'd assumed it would take a full molt, owls don't shed everything out all at once. But this will do as well." Until he was older. Maybe he's old enough. Maybe it's something other than that, alarm is a different feeling than just surprise, and that had been alarm. Though it takes him a moment, this bit of distraction at least turning his thoughts from his missing sword for a few minutes, the feather is turned over.
Bird feathers are a lot alike no matter what. Now it's closer in color at least, though Vincent would ever lack the soft fuzzy edges of owl-shaped feathers. "...Longer."
He sets back to preening with all visible calm and beneath it the ongoing tide of indignation. "Not long enough. I don't know why she couldn't have waited just a couple more hours."
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 06:47 pm (UTC)Vincent almost mutters the response over his shoulder while setting about his business. A few lights are turned on; it's still daytime but cloudy skies will make it darker early. Besides, it adds some illusion of warmth to the cabin while the actual heat is less swift to come.
He should probably arrange for a ceiling fan sometime.
A doubtful eye is cast to the other chair in the room. Of course it's covered in downy bits. Another sigh falls; he won't try to dust them off and will sort that out later. Instead he just settles down.
"...Missed your chance at Hojo? Or Jenova?" Those would be his first assumptions, based on the rage, the irritation. How could he guess the reality?
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 07:03 pm (UTC)The black would help with being able to use them in his own time. At night, perhaps exclusively, where he might be mistaken for a flying monster.. was a flying monster, but not Shinra's posterboy.
Mention of Hojo does draw a slight flinch and the burn of self-recrimmination but it fades under the immediate refocus on the sword just out of reach. "No." Well, yes, but also, not his focus. "I missed my chance at an ideal weapon." He'd never been interested in any specific blade before, aside from Mizu's. "A Cetra-forged sword of surpassing beauty and craftsmanship. Once the dawn came we were going to pursue the wretched thing currently keeping it from me." Another feather is pulled out, htough this without the sting of pain, it was about loose anyway. It's going to leave his secondaries patchy and make flying a bit clumsier. "Instead, I'm here."
The haze of want wasn't so much that he would head to find Thirteen and make demands, but .. he was tempted to.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-09 11:52 pm (UTC)There is a pause. While it's not unusual for Sephiroth to display more than a passing interest in swords. It didn't feel... quite right. Hojo was all but brushed off. Jenova, not mentioned at all. The gunman's brow creases a little.
...Not impossible, given the nature of the blade that was described. A blade of Cetra origin? Vincent is sure Sephiroth would have more than a passing interest. But he was also concerned about the way the youth was speaking about it. Wretched thing. It's being kept from me. He was generally far more particular about the way he spoke, as though he wished to be exact.
To hide emotions like envy and greed and hatred. Monsters would not usually earn such contemptuous epitet. Sephiroth is taking this personally. And the bond was echoing how that was taking form. Carefully, Vincent tests the waters by trying to guide the conversation away from the sword. A moment.
"Seems you get sent back to the point you were taken from. So it should be waiting for you. Did you have time to put your other plans into action?" Age makes it clear that not much time has passed. But there was enough time and the boy would have known not to waste it.
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Date: 2025-03-10 12:38 am (UTC)He'd hesitated. It gave just enough time to evade a killing blow. "If I'd had this weapon he would not. A few inches is meaningless versus its reach, and mere steel doors will offer no protection." The focus remains, stymied of his new vital goal, but the undercurrent of bitter self-recrimination sharpens. It was his error, his inability to take the offered opportunity, but that sword would have made up for the fractional distance effortlessly.
Next time that distance wouldn't matter. He'd see to it. He would not fail again.
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Date: 2025-03-13 11:37 pm (UTC)"They'd have hidden that information. But I don't know where else they would store it other than Mt. Nibel. ...Deepground, perhaps." The former Turk's eyes narrow with thought, though this is interrupted as Sephiroth once again brings up that sword.
For a moment there's a more focused concern. Vincent's sure now that there is something wrong. Setting aside the miss on Professor Hojo's life- which certainly will have its problems in the future- the former Turk turns his attention on to what the youth is saying about the sword.
Its reach. How it would ignore steel doors even if they were in the blade's way. He'd be a fool indeed not to think of the blade which was the silver haired general's signature weapon.
"A blade taller than a grown man's body. Angled like a katana but meant for a two hand form, sharp enough in the right hands to cut through almost any alloy known to man." His tone suggests a man who has seen it with his own eyes.
Though there is no sense that he covets it.
"The blade you saw. Did you catch its name?"
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Date: 2025-03-14 12:02 am (UTC)Which he did not, as yet.
There's something that radiates displeasure in the teen's bearing even as he sets to the vanes of his primary feathers, the metallic green eyespots flashing in what little light there is. Dealing with Jenova would be easier when he was properly armed. Alissa was right, he deserved a better weapon.
A pause follows Vincent's description, but it doesn't seem Sephiroth has any concern that the Turk might covet it; not only did Vincent not use swords, he's sure he'd feel any hint of greed through their bond. "It doesn't have one, as far as Alissa was able to retell. Its craftsman, however, is a Cetran smith named Masamune." His tone sours by degrees, a low rumble of some unpleasant emotion. "The old man is little more than a withered specter after so long; if ever he was worthy of that sword he hasn't been for centuries."
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Date: 2025-03-14 12:19 am (UTC)"I see." It's recognized and without any surprise. He had thought as much. Though with the return of the youth's soured emotions and clear vitriol for the swordsmith bearing it... Vincent frowns in thought.
"A sword that ties its creator... or its wielder to this realm. I never realized the blade had such unpleasant origins." But he looks up and admits. "Whatever happens... I can only tell you that as an adult in my time, you were famous for that particular sword. And it was called Masamune."
Was it simply right to do so or had there been some reason to honor the swordsmith despite the clear disdain? Vincent is unsure.
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Date: 2025-03-14 12:33 am (UTC)That she 'can't fight' with just a hurt arm and still claims to be an active-type is not something Sephiroth's spent any time thinking about. "...She looks exactly like her, though." His gaze shifts, to the portrait on the wall. Lucrecia.
Exactly. So much so that it had been a shock, but now he found a little bit of comfort in it. Even if it was false, it was nice to look over and see, and imagine..
The thought is put aside. "Mm. It's worse yet. We've only begun to uncover what happened. Mass murder, a village in flames.." Those sharp blue-green eyes narrow. "Sort of a familiar story except the other one wasn't touched off by greedy villagers trying to steal things they had no rights to possess, as far as I know."
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Date: 2025-03-14 03:15 am (UTC)...But more importantly it should be something Sephiroth is aware of as being odd. The former Turk narrows his eyes a trace, only to widen and cast a sharp look back at the youth when, on following that gaze, ruby eyes also come to rest on Lucrecia's portrait.
"..What?" Vincent is shocked. Disturbed by that notion. Exactly like Lucrecia? "...That's not..." Possible he wants to say. But he bites it back. There's more to this story and... troubling. The parallels do not go unnoticed.
"...No. But it was done by a man who wielded what seems to be that very sword you're focused on." Obsessively so. Could it be coincidence? Or does history simply repeat itself in the wake of this... no. Vincent refocuses his attention; handle one topic at a time, Valentine.
"Something's not right." A lot of things are not right. And Vincent is beginning to realize that nagging feeling of wrongness over the bond was unnatural yet perhaps related to this situation.
"...Alissa Goldie." There's deep suspicion as he speaks her name. "...Her voice. What did she sound like?"
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Date: 2025-03-14 10:06 pm (UTC)"I'd put more to it beyond a particularly cruel coincidence were my future self's impressions of our species been correct. Then you could draw parallels between two different Cetra with similar fates, and on and on." But Sephiroth's neither Cetra nor swordsmith, and an entire village hadn't tried to rob him of his creation. It was different.
As Vincent asks a question that may make sense to him, the look the teen gives him is incredulous. "That's a stupid question," he says flatly. "I can't describe a voice in a way that will mean anything to you. She's a soprano, she has a touch of a Kalm accent."
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Date: 2025-03-15 12:01 am (UTC)By comparison, sending a disposable team to Rhadore on a mission to find a spot for a new mako reactor may as well have been an effort to bait out the remaining resistance there. Its instability and low success chance other factors. A good testing ground to send in their prototype active SOLDIER and test subject for cleanup.
Sephiroth's point on the coincidence is well made. The village on fire and Masamune wielded to kill did not a compelling cycle make other than to suggest the weapon has a reputation for the deaths that follow in its wake.
Vincent tells himself to never bring it up in Cloud's presence however. That it was enough to bring him a feeling of unease bodes ill for how the blond would react.
Is there a trace of something like embarrassment in the wake of the teen telling him that his question is stupid? Perhaps the emotional equivalent of clearing his throat awkwardly. But as Sephiroth obliges with an attempt anyway, the gunman closes his eyes and lets his memories drift back... not too far is necessary as several times before coming to Folkmore he'd heard her voice again. As a recording or a memory of the woman, but as clear as it had been long ago. Sporano, a touch of a Kalm accent. Vincent opens his eyes again.
"Lucrecia... had a similar voice." A mix of emotions. Poignant. But also a muted anger and suspicion. "...Of course I can't say it's not a coincidence. But if Alissa Goldie looked like her as well... I think something's off. When you go back. You need to be careful. Whatever's happening there... I think there's more than you realize."
Vincent can't say with any certainty what it is. But he dislikes the theories.