A flex of ghosts chapter four
Apr. 30th, 2010 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
green_animationSeries: The flex of ghosts (4/?)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier, Penelo.
Rating: T to be safe
And a little look into Penelo’s wandering, the beginning of her past. As well as some backstory for The Mist.
---
A leather jumpsuit is poor choice of attire for the humidity of this forest: but Penelo is glad that her boots are made of the same material; though her feet swelter in their casing, they cause her no pain. The leather is so old ; bought third hand in the market; for cheapness and sturdiness both. Quality ensures that her steps are unhindered by blisters or blood, still her shins ache as she picks her way through the thickness of the mist.
A desert child has little awareness of what is needed to move through to wood so her motion is stilted by sucking mud at her heels, and branches spitefully flinging back in her face – the antithesis of an enchanted fairytale wood that any little girl grows up with. Nevertheless, Penelo tries the best as she is able to find her way back to anyone she has lost – and, oh, but she’ll curse the ambiguity of that statement in hours to come.
Drops of water dampen the grass and stubbly undergrowth ; Penelo wonders briefly if it is dew, and therefore dawn already, for the sky cannot be seen through the canopy. The wetness of the terrain proves to be too much for even her dancer’s balance and she skids, unable to save herself – as usual, she half smiles bitterly to herself, as fucking usual.
She lands on her back, awkward and winded. She breathes heavily, as deeply as she can, even as the stiff wings on the back of her jumpsuit dig into her shoulders. Penelo lays still for a while or two, to regain breath and function; she catalogues the grievances her body brings her to pass the time till she rises.
Old bruises are rediscovered and they grumble, new bruises whine and what feels like a slash on the back of her calf (a vindictive fuck you from some slighted shrubbery on the way down, perhaps) yelps sharply; they all contest for her attention.
Her leg wins out and she runs a small hand over it; bringing the hand to her face she notes it sticky and distant. One could mistake it for a child’s hand, by the size and pallor alone. Except, Penelo thinks, for the blood and the callous – to say nothing of the fact that she hasn’t been a child for years.
Penelo rocks herself to her feet, not quite lithe enough to spring upright the way she has seen Basch do, efficiently, and the way she has seen Balthier do; arrogantly. Balthier; the one man gypsy show; the dice cheat, a man made wholly, it seemed sometimes, of the flamboyancy of cloth and word and action – as well as tiny knives strapped to his wrist under his silk sleeves. Penelo thinks of his uneconomical use of movement and gesture, as opposed to Basch’s, to whom even a flicker of a finger was for a purpose (although in the end every movement led to offend or defend, to return them to Rabanastre; the sum of his purpose and movements was to, in the ultimate end, aid Ashelia.).
When she thinks of their difference, it helps her to muffle the pain. Though, of course, she has had worse; so much worse, it feels much the same as every other cut – every jolt of pain feels like the first pain she had ever had invade the sanctity of her flesh. The memory of so many other scrapes and bruises do nothing to immunize her against these new wounds.
As she rises she concentrates; straightening fully she braces and relaxes her shoulders to try and dissipate the blood pooling beneath her skin the best she can, to minimize the probable bruising. As she moves she places her hand on a tree to move on. Move on, she does, instantly disregarding the palm-print of blood gleaming dully, like red oil on the bark. Penelo presses forth, does not think of old wives tales in which your blood would grant your ghosts the power to speech.
The Feywood is dangerous, this even Penelo, a born and bred desert girl, knows. Fran had told her, when first they came here. Penelo heard the warning, and thought it true, but in a group that made her haven she did not understand the particular taste of the danger in the Feywood; it is a hollowness that stalks itself for satiation; a great aching maw of something unfulfilled.
In the back of her mind Penelo might have been able to hear it; feel the spark of empathy at the bitter emptiness, but the mist would offer her no respite, despite perceived similarities – that they were the same in that they were always left behind, curled in on themselves waiting for something to stay.
The Feywood once, it had been said, behind hands, curved around mouths to retain some semblance of secrecy, these woods were where once the Fey themselves had walked, creating the mist with every exhalation of breath they produced, magick leaking from their bodies as sweat or breath might be drawn from a Hume.
With time the magick in their breath became the mist; somehow partially sentient, and it stayed in the Feywood long after the Fey moved on to other haunts. Or at least that is the sweeter version that they talk of nearer to the wood. In darker rooms, far from the boundaries of the Feywood, they whisper that the mist was the only corporeal trace of a curse left behind by the Fey themselves. Either way, both tales agreed that it was a thing of great power, though there were no defining directions as to whether it was malignant or not.
The legends reach over most of Ivalice, as much of Ivalice is green and wooded, so they might take a little seriousness at least from them. However the stories do not quite reach to the doorstep of Rabanastre; few forest tales can follow through the barrier of heat and sand that Rabanastre was formed from. So, as unwary as anyone may be who wanders an unknown place, Penelo walks on.
But she does grow cautious as she goes further, following a formation of rocks to, she hopes, any form of non threatening sentiency. Here, she is little more than useless as she cannot orientate in this damp and green place. However, even she can feel the air pressure changing; like an environmental bruise the breeze around her almost aches, throbs.
Penelo is sure that this is wrong. The shadows seem to be inches from where they should be, and random light flickers snatch her attention every which way but that of the path she had left behind her. Thus, she does not note what armored figure closes the distance betwixt it and she. This is, perhaps, the Mist's intent.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier, Penelo.
Rating: T to be safe
And a little look into Penelo’s wandering, the beginning of her past. As well as some backstory for The Mist.
---
A leather jumpsuit is poor choice of attire for the humidity of this forest: but Penelo is glad that her boots are made of the same material; though her feet swelter in their casing, they cause her no pain. The leather is so old ; bought third hand in the market; for cheapness and sturdiness both. Quality ensures that her steps are unhindered by blisters or blood, still her shins ache as she picks her way through the thickness of the mist.
A desert child has little awareness of what is needed to move through to wood so her motion is stilted by sucking mud at her heels, and branches spitefully flinging back in her face – the antithesis of an enchanted fairytale wood that any little girl grows up with. Nevertheless, Penelo tries the best as she is able to find her way back to anyone she has lost – and, oh, but she’ll curse the ambiguity of that statement in hours to come.
Drops of water dampen the grass and stubbly undergrowth ; Penelo wonders briefly if it is dew, and therefore dawn already, for the sky cannot be seen through the canopy. The wetness of the terrain proves to be too much for even her dancer’s balance and she skids, unable to save herself – as usual, she half smiles bitterly to herself, as fucking usual.
She lands on her back, awkward and winded. She breathes heavily, as deeply as she can, even as the stiff wings on the back of her jumpsuit dig into her shoulders. Penelo lays still for a while or two, to regain breath and function; she catalogues the grievances her body brings her to pass the time till she rises.
Old bruises are rediscovered and they grumble, new bruises whine and what feels like a slash on the back of her calf (a vindictive fuck you from some slighted shrubbery on the way down, perhaps) yelps sharply; they all contest for her attention.
Her leg wins out and she runs a small hand over it; bringing the hand to her face she notes it sticky and distant. One could mistake it for a child’s hand, by the size and pallor alone. Except, Penelo thinks, for the blood and the callous – to say nothing of the fact that she hasn’t been a child for years.
Penelo rocks herself to her feet, not quite lithe enough to spring upright the way she has seen Basch do, efficiently, and the way she has seen Balthier do; arrogantly. Balthier; the one man gypsy show; the dice cheat, a man made wholly, it seemed sometimes, of the flamboyancy of cloth and word and action – as well as tiny knives strapped to his wrist under his silk sleeves. Penelo thinks of his uneconomical use of movement and gesture, as opposed to Basch’s, to whom even a flicker of a finger was for a purpose (although in the end every movement led to offend or defend, to return them to Rabanastre; the sum of his purpose and movements was to, in the ultimate end, aid Ashelia.).
When she thinks of their difference, it helps her to muffle the pain. Though, of course, she has had worse; so much worse, it feels much the same as every other cut – every jolt of pain feels like the first pain she had ever had invade the sanctity of her flesh. The memory of so many other scrapes and bruises do nothing to immunize her against these new wounds.
As she rises she concentrates; straightening fully she braces and relaxes her shoulders to try and dissipate the blood pooling beneath her skin the best she can, to minimize the probable bruising. As she moves she places her hand on a tree to move on. Move on, she does, instantly disregarding the palm-print of blood gleaming dully, like red oil on the bark. Penelo presses forth, does not think of old wives tales in which your blood would grant your ghosts the power to speech.
The Feywood is dangerous, this even Penelo, a born and bred desert girl, knows. Fran had told her, when first they came here. Penelo heard the warning, and thought it true, but in a group that made her haven she did not understand the particular taste of the danger in the Feywood; it is a hollowness that stalks itself for satiation; a great aching maw of something unfulfilled.
In the back of her mind Penelo might have been able to hear it; feel the spark of empathy at the bitter emptiness, but the mist would offer her no respite, despite perceived similarities – that they were the same in that they were always left behind, curled in on themselves waiting for something to stay.
The Feywood once, it had been said, behind hands, curved around mouths to retain some semblance of secrecy, these woods were where once the Fey themselves had walked, creating the mist with every exhalation of breath they produced, magick leaking from their bodies as sweat or breath might be drawn from a Hume.
With time the magick in their breath became the mist; somehow partially sentient, and it stayed in the Feywood long after the Fey moved on to other haunts. Or at least that is the sweeter version that they talk of nearer to the wood. In darker rooms, far from the boundaries of the Feywood, they whisper that the mist was the only corporeal trace of a curse left behind by the Fey themselves. Either way, both tales agreed that it was a thing of great power, though there were no defining directions as to whether it was malignant or not.
The legends reach over most of Ivalice, as much of Ivalice is green and wooded, so they might take a little seriousness at least from them. However the stories do not quite reach to the doorstep of Rabanastre; few forest tales can follow through the barrier of heat and sand that Rabanastre was formed from. So, as unwary as anyone may be who wanders an unknown place, Penelo walks on.
But she does grow cautious as she goes further, following a formation of rocks to, she hopes, any form of non threatening sentiency. Here, she is little more than useless as she cannot orientate in this damp and green place. However, even she can feel the air pressure changing; like an environmental bruise the breeze around her almost aches, throbs.
Penelo is sure that this is wrong. The shadows seem to be inches from where they should be, and random light flickers snatch her attention every which way but that of the path she had left behind her. Thus, she does not note what armored figure closes the distance betwixt it and she. This is, perhaps, the Mist's intent.
