Post by Beaver Dude on Jun 30, 2009 20:09:50 GMT -5
Username: Dei Ex Machinis
Current canons: Shera
Canon you're auditioning for: Kefka Palazzo
Media canon is from: FFVI
Is the current canon taken?: I don’t think so
Audition post (400 words):
When I fell off of my-
Wait, what? Third person, narrate properly - follow the script?! - what is this nonsense? Do I look like some two-bit opera floozy-
Fine, fine. Geeeez.
When Kefka fell off of his tower he died.
No. Fudging. Duh.
Anyways, this Kefka guy? Truthfully, he’d have much ruthered that that be the end of it all. Bang, boom, shebang, fight-till-you-fall, the rest is silence, the bell tolls for thee and all that rot. No afterlife, no funky trains, no flaming-head overlords of puerile and ostentatious evil just… oblivion.
He was really very particular on that last bit. He’d worked very hard at forcing his soul and his body into one perfect hexa-winged, indigo-colored, godly existence. There was a Plan and everything – if the mucked up Returners (funny, real funny, Triad. I see the irony already) somehow, unbelievably, managed to strike down a God
(hey, this Kefka dude had managed it. It wasn’t that far off the scales of possibility)
every last trace of him would disappear. From the thrones of magic, to the bits of his chang’d body, to the elegantly cauterized continents, to, yes, his soul. All that’d be left would be the odd scorch marks and memory and rust and ruin. And in time, those too would pass. It’d be beautiful.
They succeeded at everything save the most important bit.
Second-rate slobs.
Vell then. This Kefka guy died. And that wasn’t The End. Nyet. Nein. Nope. Non. It was ‘just the beginning’. Cue unimpressed laughter.
So there he was, figuratively six feet under (and literally atomized and probably being breathed in by millions of unwary idjits) but not gone. For a while, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t Kefka. Kefka was just too damn bitchin’ cool and dastardly to be caught as a walking plot device needing closure. A ghost? Not even a ghast, or poltergeist, or zombie (zombies were cool) but a ghost?
‘Unfinished business.’ Uhee, hee, hee, HEE.
The whole mistaken identity shtick thing didn’t work out so well. He was a lunatic and all, but Kefka had never been in the business of lying to himself. Things were a lot less entertaining after that. Seasons passed. The ghost wandered his Tower (bored out of his freaking mind) watching as life and nature and green, pestilent looking things overtook all his hard work, eating through Magitek like the slowest, saddest little chocobo that somehow, miraculously, outdid the fast and powerful gold bear.
Ugh. Stupid book. I hope it burned along with that stupid orphan-
Oh, right, right. My bad.
When even the Light of Judgment was covered by moss and bugs and rust, unmistakably impotent and scrap-worthy the ex-God felt a little depressed (okay, not really. It was a pretty good facsimile though) but mostly… vindicated. Nothing lasted forever. Not the dreams of gods and men, not countries or their petty ambitions, not hope and its heart, not family, not pain, not joy, not even the best.
And, say what you will, the Light of Judgment was the fudging best there ever was. The apex of Magitek given form and purpose and life.
(And designed by a God that didn’t want his creations to fall apart at the smallest fart.
*coughimperialguardianscough*)
Still, validated personal philosophies aside, it was boooor-oooring. Sneaking around a desert looking for that loony Branford girl had been more exciting and that was saying something. His most entertaining moment had been when one of his guards had died from dehydration (uhee, hee, hee) and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been involved in wars on several fronts and laughing his ass off at all the pointless death and destruction anyways. These days, the only living things were the few cancerous beasties had somehow, miraculously, survived the Fall and prowled the premises of the Tower.
Sadly, none actually dared violate Kefka’s inner sanctum. And Kefka couldn’t get out. Something to do with being a ghost.
…
Son of a submariner.
He’d taken to tinkering (hey, Kefka had been brilliant once. Genius IQ and everything. Learning how to manifest fingers and interact with the world of the living had been easy-peasy) with the Magitek carcasses that spotted the tower. It was a useless gesture - dead God of Magic equalled no more magic - the damn things would never run again. But, boredom. Not like there was precious much else to do.
And then a dog showed up.
He tried to kill it. Really, he did. He hacked it with a Guardian’s machinegun arm, tried using a Duel Armor’s claws to greater affect – heck, even picked up Hitmen’s puny little dagger things and made a good attempt at imitating the thief that had stuck a (rare and expensive – how the *eff* did heroes become so well stocked with weaponry anyways? He’d been the freaking prime minister of the freaking largest imperium in the history of forever and even he’d never seen one of those) Zwill crossblade in his kidney.
The damn, rabied mutt beat him (or rather, it reduced all the tinker tot scraps into scrappier heaps of rust and bolts and left the ghost feebly scratching at it with two nuts and an adaptor). Then it turned the Light of Judgment into its own personal fire hydrant.
Hul-air-ee-ous.
The irony struck him only after the end – after the dog had wandered off and his own powerlessness had really sunk in. Here was the tableau, all blasé postmodern absurdism and political commentary wound into one tight ball of woe: a dog pissing on the remains of the greatest weapon in the world, a dead, vanquished God looking on furiously and impotently.
Long story short, he laughed for about four days straight.
And then he decided that to do it all over again. Properly, this time.
Current canons: Shera
Canon you're auditioning for: Kefka Palazzo
Media canon is from: FFVI
Is the current canon taken?: I don’t think so
Audition post (400 words):
When I fell off of my-
Wait, what? Third person, narrate properly - follow the script?! - what is this nonsense? Do I look like some two-bit opera floozy-
Fine, fine. Geeeez.
When Kefka fell off of his tower he died.
No. Fudging. Duh.
Anyways, this Kefka guy? Truthfully, he’d have much ruthered that that be the end of it all. Bang, boom, shebang, fight-till-you-fall, the rest is silence, the bell tolls for thee and all that rot. No afterlife, no funky trains, no flaming-head overlords of puerile and ostentatious evil just… oblivion.
He was really very particular on that last bit. He’d worked very hard at forcing his soul and his body into one perfect hexa-winged, indigo-colored, godly existence. There was a Plan and everything – if the mucked up Returners (funny, real funny, Triad. I see the irony already) somehow, unbelievably, managed to strike down a God
(hey, this Kefka dude had managed it. It wasn’t that far off the scales of possibility)
every last trace of him would disappear. From the thrones of magic, to the bits of his chang’d body, to the elegantly cauterized continents, to, yes, his soul. All that’d be left would be the odd scorch marks and memory and rust and ruin. And in time, those too would pass. It’d be beautiful.
They succeeded at everything save the most important bit.
Second-rate slobs.
Vell then. This Kefka guy died. And that wasn’t The End. Nyet. Nein. Nope. Non. It was ‘just the beginning’. Cue unimpressed laughter.
So there he was, figuratively six feet under (and literally atomized and probably being breathed in by millions of unwary idjits) but not gone. For a while, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t Kefka. Kefka was just too damn bitchin’ cool and dastardly to be caught as a walking plot device needing closure. A ghost? Not even a ghast, or poltergeist, or zombie (zombies were cool) but a ghost?
‘Unfinished business.’ Uhee, hee, hee, HEE.
The whole mistaken identity shtick thing didn’t work out so well. He was a lunatic and all, but Kefka had never been in the business of lying to himself. Things were a lot less entertaining after that. Seasons passed. The ghost wandered his Tower (bored out of his freaking mind) watching as life and nature and green, pestilent looking things overtook all his hard work, eating through Magitek like the slowest, saddest little chocobo that somehow, miraculously, outdid the fast and powerful gold bear.
Ugh. Stupid book. I hope it burned along with that stupid orphan-
Oh, right, right. My bad.
When even the Light of Judgment was covered by moss and bugs and rust, unmistakably impotent and scrap-worthy the ex-God felt a little depressed (okay, not really. It was a pretty good facsimile though) but mostly… vindicated. Nothing lasted forever. Not the dreams of gods and men, not countries or their petty ambitions, not hope and its heart, not family, not pain, not joy, not even the best.
And, say what you will, the Light of Judgment was the fudging best there ever was. The apex of Magitek given form and purpose and life.
(And designed by a God that didn’t want his creations to fall apart at the smallest fart.
*coughimperialguardianscough*)
Still, validated personal philosophies aside, it was boooor-oooring. Sneaking around a desert looking for that loony Branford girl had been more exciting and that was saying something. His most entertaining moment had been when one of his guards had died from dehydration (uhee, hee, hee) and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been involved in wars on several fronts and laughing his ass off at all the pointless death and destruction anyways. These days, the only living things were the few cancerous beasties had somehow, miraculously, survived the Fall and prowled the premises of the Tower.
Sadly, none actually dared violate Kefka’s inner sanctum. And Kefka couldn’t get out. Something to do with being a ghost.
…
Son of a submariner.
He’d taken to tinkering (hey, Kefka had been brilliant once. Genius IQ and everything. Learning how to manifest fingers and interact with the world of the living had been easy-peasy) with the Magitek carcasses that spotted the tower. It was a useless gesture - dead God of Magic equalled no more magic - the damn things would never run again. But, boredom. Not like there was precious much else to do.
And then a dog showed up.
He tried to kill it. Really, he did. He hacked it with a Guardian’s machinegun arm, tried using a Duel Armor’s claws to greater affect – heck, even picked up Hitmen’s puny little dagger things and made a good attempt at imitating the thief that had stuck a (rare and expensive – how the *eff* did heroes become so well stocked with weaponry anyways? He’d been the freaking prime minister of the freaking largest imperium in the history of forever and even he’d never seen one of those) Zwill crossblade in his kidney.
The damn, rabied mutt beat him (or rather, it reduced all the tinker tot scraps into scrappier heaps of rust and bolts and left the ghost feebly scratching at it with two nuts and an adaptor). Then it turned the Light of Judgment into its own personal fire hydrant.
Hul-air-ee-ous.
The irony struck him only after the end – after the dog had wandered off and his own powerlessness had really sunk in. Here was the tableau, all blasé postmodern absurdism and political commentary wound into one tight ball of woe: a dog pissing on the remains of the greatest weapon in the world, a dead, vanquished God looking on furiously and impotently.
Long story short, he laughed for about four days straight.
And then he decided that to do it all over again. Properly, this time.
I did post in shades of grey if anyone even remembers that lmao