How lovely is the full moon this summer night as it hangs brightly in the twinkling, starry black; milky white pouring upon the great oriental capital of Wutai amidst celebration of her annual festival. A sticky humidity permeates air perfumed with the slightest scent of smoke and jasmine incense carried by refreshing zephyrs; collected in a halo fog wrapping a sea of white-robed denizens standing in the central square awash in rosy glow of hanging lanterns crisscrossing above. Solemn silence is the practice of these kimono-clad folk who've gathered before a massive, miniature pagoda; an almost watery glow seeps from its not-quite-see-thru windows: ripples and spots curiously playful while they flash and fade continually. Then the [b]boom[/b] of the drums. A musical pulse; a steady heartbeat building for a gong's bong, together a prelude to the somber strings of violin in a mellifluously melancholic variant of Wutai's signature anthem. Louder and louder into climactic crescendo, beckoning the event they've come to witness as the tiny temple's aurora frenzies from what's roused within. Hence all the instruments hush and the windows are opened to free a blizzard of what must be ten thousand flickering fireflies welcomed by gasps of awe and admiration for the multitude dispersing in all directions: some to fly far, some to flit close to faces for a friendly kiss; others hover and bounce, others swirl and pirouette, but all move with a personal hypnotism. So majestic; so mesmerizing; so easy to become lost in their sweeping shimmer... ...that is, were it not for the ripping roar of razing on the horizon. In seconds the true pagoda, the honor of Wutai, is swallowed in a bright blaze of terrible, chapping heat. Its childrens' joy melt into horror in a heartbeat and it must be wondered from where their champion watches: one white rose named Yufi Kisaragi... ...as for her father... Inside its top floor he stands centered in authoritative black robes with arms astride and unblinking eyes locked to the closed double doors while smoke stings his nostrils and throat, congregating in a bubbling mass above as everything burns with hungry crackles; a sword slung at his side he stands still, patient for the arrival of what can be heard downstairs: what comes heralded by the [i]screams[/i] of his subordinates, the so-called legendary four protectors of the oriental capital; all of them food for the famished, all of them weak, so like trash they are each thrown out of the towering structure with a pretentious [i]crash[/i]. The first bounce of one who falls for stone steps releases the crispest of [i]cracks[/i]; their body made to spin on downward course and strike the unforgiving stairs in a second bone-breaking [i]crunch[/i]; and another, a [b]pop[/b] of dislocation; again and again, a human-turned ragdoll until they roll to a stop at the bottom. Now a man-turned pretzel: a tender, bloody mess of meat, white-eyes, gaping mouth and hanging tongue whose throat has been ripped out. Already their destroyer has learned so much from the sanguine buffet: each drop a bestowal of precious memories, all of them now lost to the owners, swept away in delicious death. And when they reach the final steps before the inevitable ingress of the infamous warlord, they slow, savoring the sweet seconds until the pair of sliding doors, seemingly immune until now, are also devoured by tongues of insatiable fire before bursting to empower the flames all around them. Now Lord Godo may behold the longhaired dame of his demise whose icy azure stare nails him into place: a lithe female smiler with a dripping, bloody beard; lustrous black locks and glittery black kimono; comely facial curves framed by silken strands hanging down her drooping face. She grins a fanged set of too many teeth, all of them glistery scarlet daggers which would make even Dracula covetous. But she is no vampire and she is not finished; indeed, far from it. He is handsome in royal black, silver-hemmed robes with his chiseled, face and goatee; his focused brow and spiky ponytail plume of black. His eyes are intense and fierce but when they look into hers they soften; the man perhaps bewitched, she strides to him in powerful, prideful steps of snapping sandals atop tatami; he's unflustered as if to play nice will deliver him from recompense. He is obedient, allowing her to stand less than a foot from him; rigid, stiff so he may look down upon her crown of hair. Then she lifts her face with a lustful leer and unchanged, glittery grin, canting her head left and right to let loose strands fall in alternating licks of her face. Soon the sway spreads down her spine in a bemused wobble of frame as if dancing to a soundless song only she knows. Whether or not the missing kunoichi, now so vividly imprinted into her mind at behest of The Four, should appear, the movement is as sudden as a cobra strike. Into the soft flesh of his throat those teeth enter, sinking the bottom row thru the carotid artery so she may [b]slurp[/b] the coppery ambrosia of life and learn of unknown events since her slumber was shattered: first his greatest regret... [b][i]Sluuurp![/i][/b] A peaceful evening, a different one within the center of a similar but larger and far more lavish room: gentle, glowy and presumably safe as the Four stand in each corner amidst wallpaper of black-on-white calligraphy scrolls offering insight into the man's many musings. Behind him is a towering, winged and winding seaserpent of glimmering gold who hangs over Godo protectively: Leviathan, god of Wutai. Still it's an evening not unlike tonight, she'll find. Even in presence of The Four the silence is stifling; he should feel so powerful yet is so very nervous. One must wonder [i]why[/i] it is he who trembles; why it is [i]he[/i] who, at a muffled but scintillating [i]scream[/i] from outside the room's large conjoined doors, gulps anxiously with a fast-drying mouth and throat… There is no formal knock by the intruder; no, instead a [i]shinging[/i]series of slices across the ingress precedes an inward burst by a shrilling silver-black blur; so graceful, so quick, they're across the room in moments. It's only after cold steel painfully pierces his collarbone, clean thru, and pins him to the wall by a preposterously long blade that the wincing Godo may behold them: [i]And oh, how [b]beautiful[/b] you are to behold…[/i] His silvery head sunken and veiled by likewise long locks; his metal pauldrons and black leather agleam in that [i]Kasumi-no-Kamae[/i] form -- a lefty -- and then he slowly lifts that face framed by those [i]long[/i] bangs to reveal spellbinding feline eyes of tourmaline, a [i]long[/i], narrow nose and the most kissable, smirking lips. And that [i]voice[/i]… That deep, flinty voice… her heart cannot help but heat and flutter... "I've come for your surrender… [i]Godo Kisaragi…[/i]" Blood has encircled the wound and the snarling simpleton replies, "I was hoping we could discuss that…" That [i]voice[/i] has humor."[i]I propose...[/i]" They lift their face higher and cant it leftward, pushing [i]that sword[/i] to cut in further. "[i]Yield[/i]… or [i]die[/i]." "You're an impressive negotiator." A throaty chuckle. "Very well. I hereby surrender the war to the Shinra organization… leave with no more bloodshed…" A bemused [i]hmph[/i] and a single nod; "I accept your surrender…" A pull of [i]that sword[/i] and it's free; Godo falls and palms his injury, watching the black-cloaked figure as they finish with a stern, "Farewell." They turn to the exit and [i]that sword[/i] rings because it is [i]so long[/i]; his back covered in so much hair. Then they [i]walk[/i] in a lengthy, prideful gait and disappear around the corner, out of her life bittersweetly... Godo exhales sweet relief, still staring at the open door thereafter occupied by a peeking child in colorful, flowery kimono; half her frame seen but her emotions fully felt: teary-eyed anger; a quivering glower of sadness and shame. Yufi's tears streak free and moves away, vanishing just like [i]him[/i] to smash Godo's heart like glass; just like [b]him[/b]: the man whose name befits a god and is at last [i]hers[/i]. [i]Sephiroth...[/i] [b][i]Sluuurp![/i][/b] Next, his proudest moment: A hazy reverie sluggishly sharpens into focus; a de-pixelization revealing a certain Wutainese warrioress standing over his defeated, belly-grounded being with a helping hand extended for him. Yufi, her grinning face scuffed and dirty; hair unkempt; dark eyes wet in tearful joy cutting lines down grimy cheeks. She giggles, her voice high in youthful timbre as she says, "Looks like I didn't hafta kill you after all…" A tilt of her head. "...did I, Dad?" She winks. A bit of silence; then the pinnacle of parental pride melts his confusion from loss into chuckling jubilation at his daughter's victory. Then a celebration! A feminine [i]woo-hoo![/i] multi-toned cheers and claps of praise from the edge of the room where a curious band of eight spectate; each as unique as their appearance and dress infer: "[i]Yufi! Congratulations![/i]" The green-eyed, beaming brunette waves as bracelets gleam and jingle before hands hide abaft; she is gorgeous with her protruding bangs and curls; her black choker and red leather jacket over a sugar-pink button-up dress flowing down legs tipped by brown boots. [i]Aerith…[/i] To the right is another lass of long black locks; lean, bosomy and less-dressed in her white tanktop strapped to an obsidian miniskirt while she stands in simple shoes; a single arm bent to rest gloved knuckles against her hip. Their brown eyes convey unspoken words, as if to say, '[i]never had a doubt[/i]'. [i]Tifa…[/i] "Nice job, kid." says another scruffy voice. A blonde man in blue denim, white shirt sporting aviator goggles; he's rugged, as if older than the rest. [i]Cid...[/i] "Well done," a cooler, raspier male chimes in. He is tall, pale; dressed in black and a tattered crimson cape; a flowing mess of darkest hair, a gold claw and a devilish ruby stare which would make lesser women shudder. [i]Vincent…[/i] "Not bad for a daddy's girl…" adds a rough, robust tone as deep as their skin is dark. A tattooed monolith of vested muscle whose gentle chocolate hues are betrayed by intimidating, camo-panted stature and let's not forget the [b]gun[/b] replacing one of his arms… [i]Barret…[/i] Add in a dancing cat atop an overweight moogle, an orange-red dog laying watchfully with a whiplike fire hazard of a tail -- [i]Cait Sith and Red XIII[/i] -- and who is left but the spiky-blonde in blue standing in wide military posture with arms folded at his chest; wielder of a behemoth brand at his back whose bluer eyes are unnatural but whose smile is genuinely warm -- proud of the victorious materia hunter as he gives her an affirming nod. [i]Cloud...[/i] All of them friends; all of them dangerous; all of them no doubt future foes during this maiden's midnight massacre. [i]Until then...[/i] [b][i]Sluuurp![/i][/b] A finale of fear: Thereafter is a vision of calamity beheld from the pagoda balcony: a sky-melting fireball of apocalyptic proportions roaring in burning glee while it intrudes upon some far off continent. A dazzling doom bound for earth but clearly destined to fail, and in witness of such a spectacle only one name is upon its onlooker's tongue: "Yufi…" Like one snapping themselves out of a nightmare she blinks back into reality and continues to hold up the husk of a warlord only by her bite. A new wave of scorching heat slams them with want for water but there is no oasis to be found tonight which will not be mixed with blood. Now three questions smolder as hotly as the structure around them: where is [i]Sephiroth[/i], [i]where[/i] are those comrades and most importantly: [b]where[/b] is [i]Yufi Kisaragi?[/i]