Today the hot summer sun leers down upon an unsightly barren blemish in otherwise lush verdancy; a suitable clearing to pitch a tent, assemble a toasty bonfire and enjoy roasted beef or sweet, melted marshmallows with friends and family. It's no doubt seen many gatherings come and go; what with all the disgusting litter strewn about. For this is the distasteful apathy of people toward the very creation which birthed them; a tiny telling of their appetite for filth.

No tree or bush for a bird to roost and tweet compliments these grounds; neither the buzz of bugs bless this messy dereliction with the charm of their music. Stale zephyrs are the only comfort to the soul and now they bequeath a burly, antisocial bard with their swirling cool; this pitiful but peaceful place is his choice venue for acoustic guitar practice but his terse, untuned strums are far from dulcet: simply a boingy, off-key mess in lieu of his next hit single.

However, despite cracks in the musician’s temperance, they play on and, after a few tightening twists and inquiry of fingertips, what began as off-putting becomes a mellifluous Blues pleasantry rich in pulling, melancholic vocals: the cries of the wronged and the poor aching for ascension of status and fortune; shaking their fist at the oppressor but not with sword or firearm. Theirs is an arian arsenal but worth little else than to stir drunkards, impress a wench and earn a gil.

Yet today the bard will play for an audience entirely different. Today his song of sorrow will be performed in honor of a dark harbinger whom fate and desire have directed to appear there.

A scintillating [i]shing[/i] slices the air fifteen feet before him to create a long, diagonal amethyst slit hanging midair to an electric hum and a faint aroma of burning. It's docile for only a moment before it, parallel to the guitarist's line of vision, tears its hungry maw wide open to inhale the refuse peppering the area from astride; paper, plastic, metal and glass discards swept up in great winds by a cosmic vacuum until the campground is cleansed for the occasion.

Soon it settles, sated; quiet save for its whirring effervescence; indeed respectful of the one to arrive. Then the tip of the slender, silvery steel moves leftwardly into view: inch by inch and foot by foot until its preposterous length manifests at nine feet from its square, golden guard; the navy hilt clasped by the same shimmery black stretching down the leather of his flapping belted cloak and muted boot; up the rigid arms to the silver pauldrons capping his shoulders and the long platinum locks asway as they veil his right-turned face and pour down his back. Three broad and effortless steps forward free him from the insatiable fissure which closes, sewn shut in calming air and fading glitter to leave the 6'1" swordsman alone to scan the scenery and take in a full, refreshing but dry breath.

A clearing framed in the distance by mountains, hills and trees; with a sinister smile his gaze sweeps center at more of the same and then left upon the newly discovered songwriter: the target of his piercing, tourmaline cat-eyed leer; they narrow in sharpened focus and scrutiny as turns to face them, feet squared with his shoulders, revealing his own broad, crossed chest. A leftward turn of the wrist faces the legendary [i]Masamune[/i] at an outward angle amid its malevolent, ghostly ring.

There he stands without a word or a blink or a worry; only the expression of bemusement and contemplation over what the bard will do in his presence. They, the similarly tall persona reluctant to flee as all the animals surely already have; the wildlife far more wise than to remain nearby while they leave the sweet stillness of silence in honor of arrival.

Sephiroth has come.