A soft ‘goodnight’ was muttered from the raven cowboy, a lazy wave of a hand offered.
(Source: favoritelittlelyrics)
This is War.
I love this version of Hellmasker
(x)
As much as I’ll defend Luce, this is the one thing I simply stand by and take. Hojo was not a good man, well at least not after the Nibelheim Manor. He wasn’t always insane and I would like to think that he had moments of lucidity. He poisoned his own mine with Mako and succumbed to jealous tendencies. Vincent was in the way, and Vincent was no saint, so I will have none of that here in my house, but he did ask for forgiveness, just as Lucrecia did. They realized their actions were wrong, however, Hojo continued onward with research and development, he gave his son away to a company that supplied the money that fed his projects. You know what? He continued to break, slightly, but you could see a shattered mind. He was the villain, broken and torn to pieces until the very end where he finally injected himself with Jenova cells.
You know what? Jenova wasn’t even the villain. She was maligant, but she had to be separated, almost divorced from her main body. And who did the cell implantations and created clones, and grafted materia onto young girl’s hands? Hojo.
And you know what’s sick? He watched with a smile on his face.
Jenova isn’t the villain and neither is Sephiroth, they are subplots behind a bigger picture never explored.
(Source: finalfantasyconfessions)
Reblog if you have an imaginary life inside your head
hundred and hundreds of AUs
Countless
((OOc I spend more time there than I do in reality))
(Source: 7bottles)
snowyvilliers replied to your post: snowyvilliers replied to your post: [xD you…
[and my serah….oh boy….xD]
((I’m beginning to worry about the crowd Snow hangs around with! :P))
snowyvilliers replied to your post:
[xD you chose a really…entertaining time to lurk :3]
((I can see that from the lovely questions Snow’s having to endure…..))
lostwhitequeen replied to your post: A quiet tip of a head was offered in greeting.
“Good morning, sirrah,” she offered to him as she continued on her way.
A soft “Mornin’ ma’am” was offered in response.
A quiet tip of a head was offered in greeting.
At the end of another day scarlet was shed, boots kicked off easily. Gloves were slid off, a black hat removed as the raven made his way into the back room and without a second thought; retired.
Old West Meets Midgar
Cloud’s boots scuffed the floor as he walked around 7th Heaven. Tifa was out sick for a while, so Cloud had to watch over the place for a while.
He wiped a wet, smelly rag across the counter top and began to hum to himself. His humming was interrupted when a knock met his ears.
“Come in,” he yelled, continuing to clean the counter as he heard the doorknob turn.
He scooted to the sink and wrung out the rag and turned on the water. He could hear the visitors boots echo throughout the room.
He turned around to meet a ten gallon hat bent over the counter. Cloud stopped in his tracks and stared at the man. A slight chuckle arose in his throat, but he raised a hand to hold it back. He knew by the black hair that flowed underneath who it was.
“Vincent,” he acknowledged. “What ARE you doing?” he asked, continuing to hide the laugh with a small smile.
A scarlet clad figure sauntered in after he was prompted, spurred boots clicked as the raven glided across the pristine floor. The room seemed almost perfectly set in grey scale; slate walls covered in black frames, ebony tables strewn about in a noticeable sitting pattern. Even the bar and the young man behind it were dressed to match the decor; almost as black as the night he fled in. No one else appeared to be occupying the building; a strange thought considering people usually gathered where there was alcohol. Such a place was extremely unfamiliar to the raven, to him anything other than the saloon scene seemed slightly unwelcoming at best. However unwelcoming the place did seem, he knew he had to stop at least for a moment. Even he could not run forever, it seemed.
Somewhat reluctantly, the raven sat upon an empty stool at the counter. His head bowed slightly, shielding his eyes from view as he sat there quietly, lost in thought. He fled sometime before sundown, racing through the wilderness as he usually did. He must have traveled all night, he realized, yet he doubted he was any closer to finding her. A quiet sigh escaped him as the thought fluttered through his mind that perhaps his efforts were useless, he knew there was a good chance he would never see her again. However slim the chances were, he had always been a stubborn soul; he knew no matter what he would continue to search.
A voice suddenly dragged him back into the present. A voice that called him Vincent. A vile panic began to rise within his chest as he quickly realized the stranger seemed to know his identity. His true identity, the one in which no one alive knew. Without lifting his head his gaze shifted, crimson flickered to the figure behind the counter, one eye hidden beneath the large brim of his hat. His gaze was cold as he studied the other, staring unwavering at the blonde. He had been running for all of his life, but apparently in all his travels he had not run far enough. He reluctantly knew that if the blonde did know his true identity, his name would be added to the list of those unfortunate enough to cross his path, prompting to continue to run once more.
“… ‘Scuse me?” Vincent finally asked, his voice quiet and his gaze still cold.
