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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 shing 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 Masamune 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.
How enraptured the antiquated capital of Wutai finds herself on the eve of its most beloved summer festival; her far-east architecture of sloped tile roofs and curvy lips a-twinkle in the rosy pink glow of innumerable paper lanterns decking a matrix of overhung strings; the below permeates a soft ambience and is made abustle by the lively kimono-clad denizens filling her cobblestone arteries with chatter amidst street vendors of every sentimental trinket, hot item as well as culinary rarities and hometown hallmarks alike.

Soon the streets will empty as they altogether gather in the square to pay tribute before a monolithic, majestic avatar of their reverence: the fabled water serpent, Leviathan; to honor them for supposed protection and peace lest their wrath bestow a calamity.

Feeling no push to rush, however, is a woman still at home adorning glinty kimono of her own; knelt atop a soft cot before the corner wall's lustrous, rectangular, waist-high oak chest of drawers in the dim, gently gamely candle flicker of their bedroom. Atop it: twin glass cylinders set astride holding tiny dancing flames permeate pungent vanilla perfume. Above: an ovaline mirror circumferenced in shiny gold which embraces the beholden in its black backdrop.

Therein: a fetching face framed by right-swept bangs and longer locks; slim eyes agleam like opals; tiny ears, a cute button nose and thin lips smile in contentment; a slender jaw and roundly pointed chin; her thin neck wrapped by the doubly folded collar of glow-kissed scarlet sewn with varyingly cut white hibiscus outlines. This is the standard of ancient Asian beauty known to many only by movies, anime, media and parody; tonight's gathering a magical spectacle likewise experienced by few overseas.

She is a striking canvas upon which to apply the finishing touches to achieve a doll's beauty and must admit: most women of Wutai are of natural appeal and this one is no exception. A pity they, Tomoyo Handa, never gave it thought; the cosmetics are merely keepsakes to remember their late mother; not unlike the kimono she now wears for the first time.

But on this night Tomoyo has found relief from pain and melancholy after too many months. Her stare sinks to look at the black-wood box containing more memorial things; both hands used to remove the lid and then retrieve its treasures with a pallid grip. She manifests a box smaller than her palm: a golden hexagon of swirly character bejeweled by rubies whose flat lid displays the kanji of their family name in black; lucky, for tonight’s rebirth and ceremonial transformation are simply incomplete without some form of music. Opened, it commences a slow, chimey and somewhat haunting jingle which compliments her every action like she's no more than a lonely marionette made to move.

This she sets down and takes several artistic items in dainty hand--blush, mascara and eye-shadow-- with which she powders and swirls her cheeks and every facet of her face to rid of glaring and miss-able imperfections alike until the skin is radiant, smooth and flawless like listful plastic; then, a series of methodical rolling brush plucks make her lashes more black, more pronounced, more attractive; then she darkens the edges of her stare in noticeable outlines for maximum allure and attention because all of these things are what compose beauty to them.

Alas, seductive charms are incomplete without drawing lust per glossy, kissable lips and so her slender digits retrieve the applicator and lift it into focus; twisting it to reveal light pink character admired for moments before its smooth glide across her soft mouth in wet-like glitter that's pursed and puckered into fullness before the lipstick is set aside with rest.

What's next is yet another maternal trinket: a shiny golden hairpin with tiny hanging black beads of dull gleam. This she slides into her bangs to become less ordinary than before; one appealing accoutrement to compliment her hanging, slenderly arching hair.

Finally, a live, clip-on lily of powder blue-white to be placed at the back of her crown, off-center: one of many precious and elusive treasures found only upon Wutai's Da-Chao mountains; this is so they'll keep staring after she's passed by and perchance even chase in pursuit of superficial carnal pleasures.

Now ravishing, she rests her palms upon her lap in bubbly admiration; canting and turning her face to behold every curve and shadowy shade. Satisfied, she re-centers and grins porcelain; tilts her face with a risen, turning clap of hands and gleeful giggle as the doll theme hushes.

All left is perfume to make salacious hearts wild and, if nothing else, leave no complaint for redolence.

This is procured also from the box: a tiny wooden vial and finger-tipped for application on her thin wrists and neck. She breathes the lovely floral fragrance of freesia mixed with vanilla; swaying in a brief, closed-eyed trance and made adrift in mysterious mental musing. Hence the ensemble is complete just as the rhythmic, muffled boom of drums somewhere outside open eyes with flutters. It's time to go; time to abandon the life of a grief-stricken shut-in and embrace societal expectation; time to discard the old dress of gloom for the newness, growth and discoveries of moving on.

She wonders: won't they be surprised--her father especially--to see the reclusive Tomoyo outdoors at long last; and how beautiful no one knew she was! All she required was abandonment of loss's shackles, fine silk and just over a half hour of makeup! Now, after a few more reveling mirror moments of flitting hair and coveting a beautician award she'll never receive, she slaps her skirted knees and elevates without poise; she turns her face to behold the dark, shadowy door at her dexter with jubilation. Then she skips in frolic with arms asway and a clap of sandals on white tatami.

When she arrives at the egress she halts, inching the door open to a chiry cricket welcome and clearer but still distant sound and a gong’s loud crash; her eye peeks around the rose-tinted periphery like a sneaky child breaking curfew with darting glances left and right and left-right again.

The coasts are clear and the door is slid ajar with a woody whisper so she may step into the stickily humid night; shut from behind before she takes a second, sweeping look at herself with arms up perpendicular to watch its red shimmer swirl across flower imprints.

A happy, hopping and pirouette as sleeves sail carries her into the center of the stony street; alone now that everyone who's anyone resides in the town square for the ceremony; she stills only to be spellbound at the above: a host of glowy lanterns dangling from criss-crossed ropes whose spaces are a celestial navy; normally gemmy stars now faint, overpowered by the ambient, prismy web.

A hot, almost chapping wind blows jingly chimes; her face recoils in discomfort but the air isn't without all the tantalizing, beckoning scents of celebration which bewitch afresh. Oh, to inhale deeply the robust, mouth-watering aromas of roasted meats and fish compel eyes closed; tangy orange chicken with stir-fried rice and steamed, saucy vegetables among Tomoyo's favorites.

How strong her hunger pangs even after a makeshift dinner… a craving for something different from the familiarly flavorful flesh, however; salivation is for a delicacy never to be sold here despite the diversity of its bountiful buffet.

That's not to say it can't be found if one knows how and who to hunt for it…

Ah, now slow strings join boomy drums in an almost romantic duet of hard plucking and soft lullaby...

The urge to move tickles her feet to tap, turn and scuff to the pulse before trickling up her skirt in warm electricity which makes legs to bend; makes hips jerk and waist sway to that deep, rhythmic heartbeat. She shifts from one side, then another while the tingle sweeps upward, slowly pulling her limber arms overhead as billowy sleeves fall to the gong’s crash, revealing the glow of pale skin . She moves in short, sexy sequences; nudged to steady drum, pronounced koto and grim violin her gait widens and becomes serpentine: moving here and moving there within the glow; so seductively she could sell per minute to men hungrier than her for merely a teasing taste of what's beneath those folds.

Despite minute time to spare before annual formalities she spends it here in solitaire dance; a step-by-step in-rhythm venture toward the city square’s festivity with no intent to accelerate or normalize herself unless noticed. After all, it's been months since Tomoyo has seen the sun let alone cut a rug; only some unseen interruption will break this spell.

As if on cue it comes but not so rudely as expected: girly laughter is what entices her ears and eyes toward a prancing, ponytailed pair of little ones in white; no older than seven years chasing one another in zigzags: a giggly game of Tag which leads them toward her and shifts the stance into neutral.

Round and round they circle their impromptu obstacle in similarly musical laughs and she becomes the pillar in playful Hide and Peek; indeed an all-but-noticed but beamingly compliant accessory who lets out her own chuckle with shifting stares upon them. They run, stop, shift and weave as their oppositely sideways tails whip in the wind; one outstretched hand so close to touch their sibling only to be smoothly evaded. But they are persistent in pursuit and endure what must be more than a minute devoid of accomplishment.

However she, assumed only a spectator, isn’t idle for long; compelled to interject and aid the underdog in their victory; she studies the fleeing one, lithe and graceful as their hair floats behind, predicting their velocity before her eyes narrow and she smirks in a competitive ‘Gotcha!’ expression. Then a sudden swoop at them, savoring their wide, green-eyed gasp before she catches the preteen damsel at the waist from the fore; they giggle and twirl together as she lifts her in both hands as high as able, cherishing the beautiful features of their face: those rare peepers colored like lush, vibrant grass and finely curving tresses; perfect symmetry of ears and nose and oh my, what a white, heartwarming grin! How can she not return so beaming a favor in kind and does broadly while pining for their name: Akane; identical twin of the observing Ayane if not for their opposing ponytails.

The twirling concludes as she cradles the girl in her right arm as they wrap their arms around her neck. The sister becomes the new object of her stare and she speaks in high, youthful lilt, as playfully as possible, confirming an assist to their win. “It looks like you win, Ayane,” she says with a wink while she watches the child bubble with energy; jogging in place before holding out her arms in a triumphant V with a gleeful shout.

“No fair!” Akane objects so joyfully she seizes attention. “You cheated!”

She pokes that tiny nose. “Guilty as charged!”

Ayane finally notices all the hard work she’s put into her getup and marvels. “You’re so pretty!”

She looks at them with a grin full of affectionate appreciation “Why, thank you…” They beam in return, compelling the sinistral hand to move and be extended, beckoning the girl with a single curling digit, saying, “Let’s go back… we don’t want to miss this!”

“The fireworks!” Akane loudly declares into her wincy ear.

A flat response. “That’s right...”

So with child in tow and that hand warmly clasped the trio trek toward the music and festival lights united; on to join the others in communion to magnify a monolithic, pretentious watersnake statue of a god that won't save them and listen to a variant of the same sententious speech drone on year after year.

The cure to so droll an anniversary may be administered once she slips away and slithers unperturbed; that she and all of them together may transform this perfectly solemn yet inevitably forgettable night into one Wutai and hers; mayhap even Gaia herself can never forget...
And somehow I did it again...
Somehow I double-posted. I'll ask a mod to remove this...
Think of the devil...

One impunctual daughter is heard and felt; joining the motionless murderess in this sweltering, razing, crackling room as if the question summoned them. Oh, the ache of hunger at another heaping helping of fresh, flavory life...

She doesn't know it's Kisaragi... but who else would dare brave the blaze? Who would forsake all safety and ascend into hell to hunt a demon?

Yes, they must be Wutai's hopeful heroine: the White Rose unknowingly come to attend her own shattering in witnessing the lacerating loss of the man who matters most! What a poetic prelude to their own fateful death; a destiny at work long before Yufi set foot within the smoldering walls and a climax to a horror patient in its pacing.

A cool, shivery sweat; the rushing high of adrenaline; prickly goosebumps! How tantalizing a prospect it is to drink the youthful Yufi! They will surely lead her to Cloud Strife and his merry band… to the tall, dark and dashing Sephiroth!

What heartfelt heat from that name and the thought of making him smile...

She grins with all those sparkly teeth, blinking blissfully betwixt her smoked spell of internal, contemplative romance as thoughts swim:

Oh, Sephiroth...

To be near you… at your side; to behold--to witness--your majesty and grace with words and with style and with that sword; to breathe your manly, robust, heavenly cologne: a scent worthy of my champion to apply as redolence…

To hear that voice...

To listen to the poetry of your story: your parents and your upbringing and your motives and your loves and your likes and your peeves and your hates and your regrets and your wishes; your turn-ons and offs and whatever else machinates in that mysterious mind!

Until then… and before we meet…

I will kill Yufi Kisaragi.

She loosens her jaw and with it her prize; Godo sloughs off her sinister shoulder, grazing the arm in frontal sprawl with a heavy, dead thud.

Her unseen tongue extends to lick those fangs clean, overwriting them with smaller, perfect pearly whites worthy of a toothpaste commercial before retracting so she may close widely smiling lips.

Then she thinks:

How, I wonder, would you reveal your face to a newly made nemesis? How would you say all you needed without words yet fuel their fire? How would you give despair before you envelope them in hungry flames which devour into ashes?

Or do I read you wrong and within your mystique is kindness and mercy... Would I not still complement your compassion with wrath or would you find me mistaken... wretched... even pitiful?

My dear Yufi, please... Tell me more....

Resolved, she turns her head to internal sound of laughter; recollective residue from a father's favorites: girly giggles and throaty bellows while she inches her portrait leftward into better view; one side revealed and affixing that lit, devilish stare upon the pissed-off princess amidst the loudening, cackling cacophony.

It fades slowly into the ambiance while she studies the ireful kunoichi; how she crumbles and withholds the teary need to wail and weep. Alas, not so easily broken, for Yufi is of strength and must balm her burns by felling her family's butcher.

Almost butchered, that is…

Now their father groans dryly and claws at the smooth tatami for grip, lifting his pale, ghoulish and white-eyed face at his beloved; soon pushing himself to a slouch of suspenseful seconds before he sprints at her in a craze of starvation, having his own mouthful of razory teeth.

Not unlike The Four, minus one, who also stir outside: ravenous and hungry for any human flesh in their midst; a trio hunting any and all they may find. The bringers of a horrible Halloween party whose bite will hastily transform their victims into brethren.

How Yufi is puppeteered to arrive at so agonizing an impasse: ignorant of and unable to help those outside yet desperate to destroy the damsel within...

She need only cleave down her own father to pursue insatiable vengeance...
At my partner's behest I've modified my initial post following extreme satisfaction at its content and quality due to rushing the work. I hope it is now reflective of my initial desire despite a slight increase in length.

Nothing therein should affect my partner's post.

Thank you, Mr. All-Player. My next one is proceeding smoothly.
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 boom 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... 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 screams 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 crash.

The first bounce of one who falls for stone steps releases the crispest of cracks; their body made to spin on downward course and strike the unforgiving stairs in a second bone-breaking crunch; and another, a pop 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 slurp the coppery ambrosia of life and learn of unknown events since her slumber was shattered: first his greatest regret...


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 why it is he who trembles; why it is he who, at a muffled but scintillating scream 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 shingingseries 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:

And oh, how beautiful you are to behold…

His silvery head sunken and veiled by likewise long locks; his metal pauldrons and black leather agleam in that Kasumi-no-Kamae form -- a lefty -- and then he slowly lifts that face framed by those long bangs to reveal spellbinding feline eyes of tourmaline, a long, narrow nose and the most kissable, smirking lips.

And that voice… That deep, flinty voice… her heart cannot help but heat and flutter...

"I've come for your surrender… Godo Kisaragi…"

Blood has encircled the wound and the snarling simpleton replies, "I was hoping we could discuss that…"

That voice has humor."I propose..." They lift their face higher and cant it leftward, pushing that sword to cut in further. "Yield… or die."

"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 hmph and a single nod; "I accept your surrender…" A pull of that sword 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 that sword rings because it is so long; his back covered in so much hair. Then they walk 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 him to smash Godo's heart like glass; just like him: the man whose name befits a god and is at last hers.



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 woo-hoo! 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:

"Yufi! Congratulations!"

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.


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, 'never had a doubt'.


"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.


"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.


"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 gun replacing one of his arms…


Add in a dancing cat atop an overweight moogle, an orange-red dog laying watchfully with a whiplike fire hazard of a tail -- Cait Sith and Red XIII -- 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.


All of them friends; all of them dangerous; all of them no doubt future foes during this maiden's midnight massacre.

Until then...


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:


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 Sephiroth, where are those comrades and most importantly: where is Yufi Kisaragi?
Dumb is me... Posted in the proper place...

Physical Characteristics

Name: Yamazaki Shiori

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Nationality: Japanese

Birth Date: May 5th, 1819

Age: 28

Height: 5’7’’

Weight: 120 lbs

Eye Color: Dark Brown

Hair Color: Auburn


Early life was unkind to Shiori and her younger sister, Miaka. A violence-ridden Japan was no stranger to creating orphans and these two were no exceptions to the tragedy; having lost their parents to bandits at age five and four, respectively, they made due thru thievery, cons and taking up residence in farmhouses or otherwise abandoned property.

This changed when they met their last mark for dishonest deeds, a woman named Kiyomi; wiser than the rest, she saw thru their ploy but did not turn them in. Instead she offered more worthwhile results and a future among her family of fellow orphans. Unbeknownst to them Kiyomi had fostered many children and fashioned them into arguably better individuals.

So the pair was taken in and taught the ways of honor, appropriate speech, writing, the arts and all other things befitting self-reliant people; that is, save for the clandestine operations beneath the roof.

In truth the orphanage is means to satisfy her obsession for sons and daughters as well as cover for Kiyomi to facilitate her family's organization of professional killers; however their duty was not to take trivial bounties but locate and eradicate the truly despicable from the earth, those worthy of death no other would touch. The two girls quickly embraced this new life and mission but of all members none took the pledge more seriously than Shiori.

Forsaking the simpler fancies, Shiori buried herself in martial arts, meditation and spiritual training; from eight years old she spent the next two decades practicing the sword as her religion, fully dedicated to her duty and ability to protect her family from any threat.

So obsessed was she that no amount of unfavorable weather would disturb her daily rituals and while sword training in a rainstorm she was struck by lightning; ridden by guilt at this near fatal oversight, Kiyomi spared no expense in fashioning various electricity-proof accouterments for all her children.

Nevertheless Shiori didn't miss a beat and the brush with death only steeled her determination. The result is a mind, spirit and sword so strong to award the cherished moniker bestowed by her beloved mother: Chikara -- To demonstrate strength.

To this day she continues to pursue increasing altitudes of self-created strength and acts as Kiyomi's personal bodyguard.



A simple instrument made of hard wood for the purpose of training in Japanese swordsmanship; it bears no special traits.


The iconic weapon of the Japanese warrior; although forged and fashioned thru masterful craftsmanship it also harbors nothing noteworthy.


A gorgeous katana crafted from Shiori's very spirit, The Light of Justice is capable of creating, controlling and manipulating properties of photons within a wide area. Its blade may transform her spirit energy into light and absorb existing photons to empower itself; the light’s properties are identical to the sun. Thus she may create luminous works such as solar flares, flashes and waves of UV heat from the blade or ambient spirit energy.

Shiori may manifest the weapon at will and is impervious to its effects; as a superconductor of spirit energy it amplifies what is put into it to yield exponential results.

Electite Necklace

A keepsake bestowed by her foster mother; it possesses a magical mineral which produces a field around the wearer for 10 feet that attracts and absorbs incoming electrical energy.

Shiori’s clothing is ordinary save for flame-retardant fabric.


Body and Mind

A religion of sword training has bestowed Shiori with a physique leagues above an average female; she possesses a high threshold to pain and only the most exerting of tasks may exhaust her.

Due to her shatterproof focus and grounding on logical probability Shiori is difficult to deceive by means of illusion or other trickery; always questioning motives and how to remain at the upper hand within or without combat. She is able to delete thought from the equation and allow her body to move by instinct and muscle memory.

Shiori is able to feel and see the spirit energy of others if released or broadcast; an extreme sensitivity allows inference of the spirit’s power output, character and mood and she may extend her vision and grasp of the surrounding area via meditation.

Sword and Soul

Shiori holds a mastery of spirit energy, the energy of the soul.

The energy flourishes from her body outwardly and its properties are under her complete control; invisible to the natural senses it is otherwise perceptible by its wind, pressure and heat. She may project it through her voice in sonic blastwaves, as a physical barrier to brunt impact and to pour it into the ground will cause it to tremor, become superheated and crack; intensity of effects increase proportionally to amount generated and its intensity.

In exchange for a proportional amount of stamina she may draw from a large pool of spirit energy. Shiori’s training and experience permits much to be gathered and used within a short period; only in extreme exertion of spirit will she be winded or exhausted. She may use it to heal injury, dismemberment if the limb is still available and cure diseases as well as destroy other bodily invaders.

Shiori may use her sword as a conduit to store spirit energy for later use, increase its durability and amplify its cutting edge; how it is released will be proportional the amount unleashed and the reaction she has in mind. For example a straightened blade may release in a concentrated beam or ray of superheated energy or it may peel off in an arc from a sword stroke. Any ambient energy will eventually evaporate but meanwhile may be used at whim using focused thought.

Limit Breaker

Shiori’s drive for improvement disallows contentment with her current strength and motivates her cleavage of all obstacles to transcendence; the sheer will to refuse defeat against a stronger adversary or crush someone threatening those important is prone to result in a shatter of her current spiritual energy and physical limits. Hence she unlocks a gargantuan reservoir of new physical and spiritual prowess.

Once the energy is exhausted Shiori’s body must recover for an appropriate amount of time; she is unable to use spirit energy or take any strenuous physical actions until she gains a second wind of stamina. Although able to break her limits again the strain allows only a brief window of energy use and the resulting exhaustion will be doubled.

While Shiori may develop new techniques or swords as a result of a broken limit it is only thru training that may she truly understand and harness the strength at will.

Non-Player Characters

Shiori is often in the company of one or more combat-ready allies intended to be treated as entirely separate characters carrying their own kits.

These will be added at a later date.
How daring a hunter to seek prey within eventide hours; one so experienced should know a monster is at their strongest when the sun’s blasted light vanishes over the horizon and plunges the world into lovely darkness. Yet here she is wandering within the hot, humid building where the reputed reaper resides whether by happenstance or fate; long have the workers left and only the metallic thud of her footsteps fills the otherwise silent smithy. It appears derelict while abandoned work is left to smolder in the fire pits and exude a steely odor so strong it rusts the tongue.

Surely the woman feels the hateful negativity permeating the air and increasing with each step but she proceeds boldly, eager to deliver the justice so deserved; with the kind of fearlessness and self-styled sense of responsibility which has killed so many similarly seeking warriors.

Then the awful metal shriek drags across the silence from behind one of the leftward stations ten feet away to announce arrival; perhaps one has stubbornly remained behind to finish their project, even more dauntless than the knight. A notion dismissed when the female figure emerges in sideways view with slow, shrilling steps: long, unkept black hair; crimson silk kimono and simple, clapping sandals as her frowning face remains sunken like a shamed child. They appear ignorant of the hunter as they tug their katana by the frayed cord of its handle: a brand made an ugly brown with corrosion and neglect while it carves hungrily into the floor. It’s not until the declaration comes that the entity stops.

“Justice has come for you, monster.”

She turns her beautiful Japanese face enough to reveal an awed opal eye. The surprise vanishes in a blink and rightward cant of the head as they turn fully toward what will become dinner; the other eye is patched by raven locks she glares with thirsty, excited gleam and yanks their sword into proper, level hold, idle at their right side and pointed forward.

Reply comes flatly in a deep, velvety, deceptively gentle lilt. “Well, Ms. Justice…” A challenging smirk. “Come for me…”
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