Post by Beaver Dude on Jul 10, 2009 0:46:35 GMT -5
Username: deiexmachinis
Current canons: Shera, Kefka (?)
Canon you're auditioning for: Xaldin
Media canon is from: KH
Is the current canon taken?: Nope! I blame the dread mop.
Audition post (400 words):
On the stage, you're not you. Not Dilan, son of Dan, son of Xu. You're no one, really.
How appropriate.
His footsteps wept.
His footsteps wept, which, really, was just a fancy way of saying that he may or may not have had all his toes, that his socks were soaked and that his standard-issue shoes squeaked, leaking various viscous fluids at every step. Grime trailed in his wake, unwholesome and unprofessional. He me made a mental note to order IX to take care of it. The musician’s powers were best suited for this task and VIII had blithely informed him that their musician had a tendency to display... emotion. It would be instructive, watching a Nobody whine and whimper like a kicked puppy.
As time ticked on, walking became a delicate, deadly balancing act. Getting from one side of the Castle from which the Darkness had dumped him, to the other while keeping all the important bits in, and all without a hint of magic took particular skill. Hands had to be at the ready to staunch re-opening wounds, breaths had to be gasped, time spent, lack of magical stamina cursed if only out of habit. It would have been easier, of course, to simply step through the Darkness again, whisk himself to his destination but – even if the Organization was familiar with the Dark, they were not master.
Xaldin didn’t trust the Dark. It had eaten him once already.
He passed Naminé’s room. It had been a storage closet on some benighted world that was now, of course, uninhabitable. Ienzo had stuck her inside before it had been properly cleaned – the illusionist liked the imagery, their own castaway could live among the discarded junk of a broken world. Xaldin understood imagery but had never truly appreciated it. He had cleaned the room out himself, broom and dustpan and endless cardboard boxes his small contribution to this particular project.
He refused to babysit.
Of those that wished to, Even had drawn the short straw for being maid and minder today and was prattling on about the adventures of Hemoglobin and his good (if significantly smaller) friend, Oxygen who just happened to have a mass number of sixteen and an atomic number of eight and was extremely important in several chemical and alchemical reactions.
Ugh.
You’ve always admired your teachers. Of them your parents were the first, Ansem the most instructive, fate the most important.
But what have you learned?
The staircase became the first major hurdle, yawning upwards forever and ever. Xaldin, somewhat desperately, hoped that Aeleus was out. With his sense of balance as weak as it was, the Silent Hero’s stomps could not be compensated for. Nor could the mad motions of their seventh. An ignoble end, either.
Muttering arcane secrets, dusks huddled in small groupings before Xaldin dispersed them with a garbled command, mouth thick with half-congealed blood. He needed his concentration. It was always the first step that was the most important. It lent credence to impressions and became the point of reference for the entire act. He had to make this one mean something.
...
He hoped the tooth he spat out indicated vigour.
Halfway up, Braig appeared without breath or sound. Of them, he was the only one that never required the Darkness to move. An enviable quality, at the moment.
“You look a wee bit beat up,” the sniper greeted.
Xaldin, surprised, nearly lost his balance entirely and saved himself through sheer luck alone, gripping onto the railing’s feeble supports. He nodded briefly at the sharpshooter. The two of them were, physically, the oldest of the group. Seniority, in such a sense, came bearing the gift of responsibility. Of the brotherhood, they are the eldest. The eldest shelter, the eldest protect, the eldest help.
Xaldin spoke, terse, clipped, not dead.
“I’m fine.”
Braig shrugged, an easy motion that spoke of long training before disappearing once more. Perhaps he thought it was something a little chicanery with Time and its master could fix.
Xaldin wasn’t dead. He continued upwards.
The stairs done with, Xaldin breathed a bit easier. The pain in his feet had died down to a dull roar somewhere between the third landing and the sixth. It wasn’t a good sign, but it wasn’t terrible, either. He paused for a breather. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have: it gave his body enough time to short-circuit yet something else. As his vision went fuzzy, he was reminded of XII and why he was right to be wary of the Darkness. Lightning struck twice, folk wisdom be damned.
“Pride,” Ansem chided softly in his head, “is your most unfortunate shortcoming.”
Like father, like son.
The stairs done with, he passed his room next. He could see every edge and contour, dark, empty, dismal, so very different from XI’s garden of wonders.
To each their own.
Xaldin passed out, report unwritten.
You shouldn’t be surprised when your eyes adjust and you see the Superior. He is familiar, too familiar with the Darkness. To him, the absence of light means nothing. His expression is inscrutable which means he’s too occupied or too indifferent to mime a convincing fake. In either case, it is a sign of danger.
“It’s not worth the risk,” you admit, about SIN and a heart to dark and gritty to be caught, and he nods satisfied, before leaving.
Current canons: Shera, Kefka (?)
Canon you're auditioning for: Xaldin
Media canon is from: KH
Is the current canon taken?: Nope! I blame the dread mop.
Audition post (400 words):
On the stage, you're not you. Not Dilan, son of Dan, son of Xu. You're no one, really.
How appropriate.
His footsteps wept.
His footsteps wept, which, really, was just a fancy way of saying that he may or may not have had all his toes, that his socks were soaked and that his standard-issue shoes squeaked, leaking various viscous fluids at every step. Grime trailed in his wake, unwholesome and unprofessional. He me made a mental note to order IX to take care of it. The musician’s powers were best suited for this task and VIII had blithely informed him that their musician had a tendency to display... emotion. It would be instructive, watching a Nobody whine and whimper like a kicked puppy.
As time ticked on, walking became a delicate, deadly balancing act. Getting from one side of the Castle from which the Darkness had dumped him, to the other while keeping all the important bits in, and all without a hint of magic took particular skill. Hands had to be at the ready to staunch re-opening wounds, breaths had to be gasped, time spent, lack of magical stamina cursed if only out of habit. It would have been easier, of course, to simply step through the Darkness again, whisk himself to his destination but – even if the Organization was familiar with the Dark, they were not master.
Xaldin didn’t trust the Dark. It had eaten him once already.
He passed Naminé’s room. It had been a storage closet on some benighted world that was now, of course, uninhabitable. Ienzo had stuck her inside before it had been properly cleaned – the illusionist liked the imagery, their own castaway could live among the discarded junk of a broken world. Xaldin understood imagery but had never truly appreciated it. He had cleaned the room out himself, broom and dustpan and endless cardboard boxes his small contribution to this particular project.
He refused to babysit.
Of those that wished to, Even had drawn the short straw for being maid and minder today and was prattling on about the adventures of Hemoglobin and his good (if significantly smaller) friend, Oxygen who just happened to have a mass number of sixteen and an atomic number of eight and was extremely important in several chemical and alchemical reactions.
Ugh.
You’ve always admired your teachers. Of them your parents were the first, Ansem the most instructive, fate the most important.
But what have you learned?
The staircase became the first major hurdle, yawning upwards forever and ever. Xaldin, somewhat desperately, hoped that Aeleus was out. With his sense of balance as weak as it was, the Silent Hero’s stomps could not be compensated for. Nor could the mad motions of their seventh. An ignoble end, either.
Muttering arcane secrets, dusks huddled in small groupings before Xaldin dispersed them with a garbled command, mouth thick with half-congealed blood. He needed his concentration. It was always the first step that was the most important. It lent credence to impressions and became the point of reference for the entire act. He had to make this one mean something.
...
He hoped the tooth he spat out indicated vigour.
Halfway up, Braig appeared without breath or sound. Of them, he was the only one that never required the Darkness to move. An enviable quality, at the moment.
“You look a wee bit beat up,” the sniper greeted.
Xaldin, surprised, nearly lost his balance entirely and saved himself through sheer luck alone, gripping onto the railing’s feeble supports. He nodded briefly at the sharpshooter. The two of them were, physically, the oldest of the group. Seniority, in such a sense, came bearing the gift of responsibility. Of the brotherhood, they are the eldest. The eldest shelter, the eldest protect, the eldest help.
Xaldin spoke, terse, clipped, not dead.
“I’m fine.”
Braig shrugged, an easy motion that spoke of long training before disappearing once more. Perhaps he thought it was something a little chicanery with Time and its master could fix.
Xaldin wasn’t dead. He continued upwards.
The stairs done with, Xaldin breathed a bit easier. The pain in his feet had died down to a dull roar somewhere between the third landing and the sixth. It wasn’t a good sign, but it wasn’t terrible, either. He paused for a breather. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have: it gave his body enough time to short-circuit yet something else. As his vision went fuzzy, he was reminded of XII and why he was right to be wary of the Darkness. Lightning struck twice, folk wisdom be damned.
“Pride,” Ansem chided softly in his head, “is your most unfortunate shortcoming.”
Like father, like son.
The stairs done with, he passed his room next. He could see every edge and contour, dark, empty, dismal, so very different from XI’s garden of wonders.
To each their own.
Xaldin passed out, report unwritten.
You shouldn’t be surprised when your eyes adjust and you see the Superior. He is familiar, too familiar with the Darkness. To him, the absence of light means nothing. His expression is inscrutable which means he’s too occupied or too indifferent to mime a convincing fake. In either case, it is a sign of danger.
“It’s not worth the risk,” you admit, about SIN and a heart to dark and gritty to be caught, and he nods satisfied, before leaving.
I did post in shades of grey if anyone even remembers that lmao