Flex of ghosts 3/?
Apr. 8th, 2010 11:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
green_animationTitle: The flex of ghosts (3/?)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier
Rating: T to be safe.
Hey all, I know I said I'd get this done in three parts but it now is running away with me, so there could be one or five more parts to come; I'm not sure. Not quite happy with some of the wording, so feel free to pick at at. This is all from me, so story.
Ffamran had other brothers; all gone now and probable to loom out of the cloying Mist – Balthier, however, refuses to pander to the whims of the dead and instead follows the ground, eyes squinted so that nothing catches at the edges of his peripheral vision.
No stir in the air, none enough to provoke his interest enough to gaze beyond the foot or so of terrain in front of him. So harshly does he concentrate on the ground that when finally, finally, he is found by a large portion of his group Vaan attempts to esuna him, overeager and so wasteful, as he has ever been. As the harshness of white erases itself from his vision and Balthier’s (farce of) indignant splutters and sharp-tongued recriminations have finished he notes that their party is still down by two.
Ashe and Vaan have known him not nearly long enough to notice the question that appears in his stance, the crook of his neck a little too twisted to be at ease. Fran answers the unvoiced question regardless; “We all separated. The mist is hungry for wandering.”
This she intones, carefully, but she stands too solidly placed to be well – where she stalks and weaves her way through most paths, the dance of the wood strong in her blood, here she plants herself; does not trust herself with motion. Ashe and Vaan evidently were not separated from each other, but Fran’s steady voice is a pace too slow, a crotchet too high and Balthier aches to address this – to say something. He will say nothing until she asks it of him as she never will.
They walk on, the unsubdued prattle of the two Dalmascans buzzing between them unquieted, for once, by Balthier’s harsh remarks. A mile or more in from where they met a noise stirs them. Balthier prays that all of the fireside stories and old wives tales are true; that ghosts only latch onto you when you are alone. They brace for impact, shields and weapons raised in equal measure.
It is no monster but Basch, no monster save for the one inside of the man, that will not touch them for favour of gnawing the man hollow. Basch moves towards them with hints of noise, unusually, through the growth and the mist – his thick shoulders tense with unease. He, like Fran, says little – Basch mutters a sparse greeting before he seals his mouth to a thin line in his face; a parallel to the scar on his brow. When their Captain risks a glance towards the denseness of the mist, only the two pirates note the bumps at the back of his neck – tiny wheat-gold hair erect and straining away from his body, as if to pull him away from the phenomenon before him.
If Balthier had not received a visitation of his own, he might have passed comment on the lack of silence in Basch’s normally undetectable movements. As it is, Balthier refrains from comment – it is not that he does not dare, for a dare is as good a starting point as anything, but he will not taunt a man with the monster of his past hollowing out his eyes. Balthier knows he has neither will nor right to breach the subject. He can see Basch deliberately choose not to think; to follow years of militant mindset drilled into the muscles of brain and body by barking out a headcount. One Landisi, one viera, one secret Archadian and two Dalmascans noted later and Basch notices for the first time that they are short a woman. One Dalmascan still wanders; she may have the ability to handle herself, but from the set faces of those who had paced the wood alone the sooner they could fully regroup themselves the better.
Balthier knows not what would haunt Penelo, not in so many finite details, however a slum girl from a conquered city surely would have skeletons enough in her armoire that, given time enough, could transcend the barrier of death to become corporeal in the mist and drag her down to the level of their graves with dry fingers, until soil choked her gullet fully breathless. Balthier thinks of her buried face down in decayed leaves, like the end of a storytale his mother once warned him with as a child. His fingers itch for a trigger, a tangible target much more satisfying than choking out the spiritual nuances of himself. Balthier will not leave her to that fate; the hungry earth in this place can starve for a little longer – he will snatch its meal.
In another, clearer, terrain they would have split, but here division is danger, even in pairs or trios they won’t attempt it. Fran stands, shoulders delicately rigid, as she attempts to locate anything that might lead them to Penelo. Her ears move, in slow deliberate flicks; as she listens her ears monitor the movement of the air to a degree – tiny thermals teasing the short fur. Fran senses little, and nothing that will lead them to their wandering member. As she acknowledges this to the group Balthier, unknowing, puckers but a half of his mouth and bites an edge of his thin lip in.
They carry on, visibility much limited, with Basch and Fran in the lead; the two most able for tracking. They seek any slight indentation in the soil that could have come from a softly rounded boot.
---
Hey guys, I’ve edited this according to the lovely fluid_static’s suggestions, so huge props to her for the help!
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier
Rating: T to be safe.
Hey all, I know I said I'd get this done in three parts but it now is running away with me, so there could be one or five more parts to come; I'm not sure. Not quite happy with some of the wording, so feel free to pick at at. This is all from me, so story.
Ffamran had other brothers; all gone now and probable to loom out of the cloying Mist – Balthier, however, refuses to pander to the whims of the dead and instead follows the ground, eyes squinted so that nothing catches at the edges of his peripheral vision.
No stir in the air, none enough to provoke his interest enough to gaze beyond the foot or so of terrain in front of him. So harshly does he concentrate on the ground that when finally, finally, he is found by a large portion of his group Vaan attempts to esuna him, overeager and so wasteful, as he has ever been. As the harshness of white erases itself from his vision and Balthier’s (farce of) indignant splutters and sharp-tongued recriminations have finished he notes that their party is still down by two.
Ashe and Vaan have known him not nearly long enough to notice the question that appears in his stance, the crook of his neck a little too twisted to be at ease. Fran answers the unvoiced question regardless; “We all separated. The mist is hungry for wandering.”
This she intones, carefully, but she stands too solidly placed to be well – where she stalks and weaves her way through most paths, the dance of the wood strong in her blood, here she plants herself; does not trust herself with motion. Ashe and Vaan evidently were not separated from each other, but Fran’s steady voice is a pace too slow, a crotchet too high and Balthier aches to address this – to say something. He will say nothing until she asks it of him as she never will.
They walk on, the unsubdued prattle of the two Dalmascans buzzing between them unquieted, for once, by Balthier’s harsh remarks. A mile or more in from where they met a noise stirs them. Balthier prays that all of the fireside stories and old wives tales are true; that ghosts only latch onto you when you are alone. They brace for impact, shields and weapons raised in equal measure.
It is no monster but Basch, no monster save for the one inside of the man, that will not touch them for favour of gnawing the man hollow. Basch moves towards them with hints of noise, unusually, through the growth and the mist – his thick shoulders tense with unease. He, like Fran, says little – Basch mutters a sparse greeting before he seals his mouth to a thin line in his face; a parallel to the scar on his brow. When their Captain risks a glance towards the denseness of the mist, only the two pirates note the bumps at the back of his neck – tiny wheat-gold hair erect and straining away from his body, as if to pull him away from the phenomenon before him.
If Balthier had not received a visitation of his own, he might have passed comment on the lack of silence in Basch’s normally undetectable movements. As it is, Balthier refrains from comment – it is not that he does not dare, for a dare is as good a starting point as anything, but he will not taunt a man with the monster of his past hollowing out his eyes. Balthier knows he has neither will nor right to breach the subject. He can see Basch deliberately choose not to think; to follow years of militant mindset drilled into the muscles of brain and body by barking out a headcount. One Landisi, one viera, one secret Archadian and two Dalmascans noted later and Basch notices for the first time that they are short a woman. One Dalmascan still wanders; she may have the ability to handle herself, but from the set faces of those who had paced the wood alone the sooner they could fully regroup themselves the better.
Balthier knows not what would haunt Penelo, not in so many finite details, however a slum girl from a conquered city surely would have skeletons enough in her armoire that, given time enough, could transcend the barrier of death to become corporeal in the mist and drag her down to the level of their graves with dry fingers, until soil choked her gullet fully breathless. Balthier thinks of her buried face down in decayed leaves, like the end of a storytale his mother once warned him with as a child. His fingers itch for a trigger, a tangible target much more satisfying than choking out the spiritual nuances of himself. Balthier will not leave her to that fate; the hungry earth in this place can starve for a little longer – he will snatch its meal.
In another, clearer, terrain they would have split, but here division is danger, even in pairs or trios they won’t attempt it. Fran stands, shoulders delicately rigid, as she attempts to locate anything that might lead them to Penelo. Her ears move, in slow deliberate flicks; as she listens her ears monitor the movement of the air to a degree – tiny thermals teasing the short fur. Fran senses little, and nothing that will lead them to their wandering member. As she acknowledges this to the group Balthier, unknowing, puckers but a half of his mouth and bites an edge of his thin lip in.
They carry on, visibility much limited, with Basch and Fran in the lead; the two most able for tracking. They seek any slight indentation in the soil that could have come from a softly rounded boot.
---
Hey guys, I’ve edited this according to the lovely fluid_static’s suggestions, so huge props to her for the help!
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-08 08:03 pm (UTC)Paragraph 2 kind of bumps along; it's not clear what Vaan is doing because Balthier's so busy lamenting. 'Vaan, overeager and so wasteful, as he has ever been,' runs a little long before getting to the word "esuna." Keep all the concepts (eagerness, waste, constancy), but maybe you should switch around the wording so that what's actually happening reads straight off.
One phrase in Paragraph 4 keep ssticking sideways in my head, talking about Fran's speech - "Too solidly placed to be well." you establish that something's wrong with this phrase, but it reads awkwardly.
Paragraphs 5 and 6 are awesome. I couldn't help but hum sympathy - poor Basch. But in the middle of paragraph 7 the flow you've picked up falters a little, with this line: 'Balthier knows he would not have the right, or the drive, to start that conversation.' I might streamline it: 'He has neither will nor right to breach the subject.'
The last three paragraphs are solid gold, and gave me goosebumps. The thought of Penelo half buried facedown in the forest gives me the wibblies. (it's a techincal term, you know.) and the last three words - 'softly rounded boot' - totally throw penelo's vulnerability into focus.
*shivers again* Delicious. Please continue!
no subject
Date: 2010-04-09 10:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-10 10:34 am (UTC)