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*Nobody is happy with this
Aug. 5th, 2019 04:25 pmThe last shards of the piece of Xehanort's heart dissipate, unable to hold themselves together, and Vanitas stares out at the Abyss, keyblade hanging by his side. There's nothing but silence and the distant roar of wind.
"Ventus?"
Vanitas scuffs a boot on the featureless black disc below him, barely discernible, then kicks it. There's no response at all. Not even the hint of the potential for response. It's just silent and dark and empty.
"Ventuussss. Venty Wenty. Venbutt. Wake the fuck up." A pause. "I'm burning your chess sets."
Nothing. There's a hiss and Vanitas turns to see a piece of darkness dissipating from the disc into mist, revealing a piece of colour that shines upwards.
"About time."
He walks over to it, and stops short when he sees what it is. It's nothing that should be on Ventus's disc at all. A single blue, catlike eye, and a little of the red and black around it. There's another hiss behind and to the right of Vanitas, and another small shaft of exposed light spiking up.
Foreboding hits Vanitas like a freight train. So does consciousness.
He sits up with a gasp of breath, feeling like one big bruise, and he stares down at callused and scarred hands and arms, one ringed with a bracelet. These aren't the clothes he was wearing. This is not his beautiful house. He pats himself down, and he can't find his Wayfinder.
If there's one thing about the World That Never Was, it's no lack of reflective surfaces. Still puddles of rain that never fell. Dark windows in buildings never occupied. Vanitas stares at glowing red eyes in a face not his own, and swears.
Navigating this world was easier when it wasn't absolutely teeming with heartless fallen from the giant Unmoon above. Vanitas has never seen a swarm this thick or large, and he ran out of potions a while back. It's all he can do to find ways to disengage long enough to spam Cure, wait for his magic to recover, then spam it again, an increasingly taller ask as he makes his way back to the Castle where he's sure the others are still fighting. He wears the cloak, but he doesn't want to risk a dark portal just yet.
He wipes his hand across his eyes, curling his lip at the black gunk that just will not stop oozing from them like viscous tears. His clothes - Ventus's clothes - are smeared with handlines of it from nose and mouth and maybe ears, he hasn't checked. He's still wearing that blue lobster shirt, faded from time that chilled Vanitas. He sways and leans against a wall, fighting the urge to throw up. It hasn't been this bad in years.
The same liquid tar hits the pavement, and Vanitas waits, but no red eyes appear in it. A guard armor takes the opportunity to attack, and Vanitas barely dodges the attack and is struck by the pieces of wall produced by it, knocking him to his knees. His breath mists in the air as he pants harshly, disoriented.
"Ventus?"
Vanitas scuffs a boot on the featureless black disc below him, barely discernible, then kicks it. There's no response at all. Not even the hint of the potential for response. It's just silent and dark and empty.
"Ventuussss. Venty Wenty. Venbutt. Wake the fuck up." A pause. "I'm burning your chess sets."
Nothing. There's a hiss and Vanitas turns to see a piece of darkness dissipating from the disc into mist, revealing a piece of colour that shines upwards.
"About time."
He walks over to it, and stops short when he sees what it is. It's nothing that should be on Ventus's disc at all. A single blue, catlike eye, and a little of the red and black around it. There's another hiss behind and to the right of Vanitas, and another small shaft of exposed light spiking up.
Foreboding hits Vanitas like a freight train. So does consciousness.
He sits up with a gasp of breath, feeling like one big bruise, and he stares down at callused and scarred hands and arms, one ringed with a bracelet. These aren't the clothes he was wearing. This is not his beautiful house. He pats himself down, and he can't find his Wayfinder.
If there's one thing about the World That Never Was, it's no lack of reflective surfaces. Still puddles of rain that never fell. Dark windows in buildings never occupied. Vanitas stares at glowing red eyes in a face not his own, and swears.
Navigating this world was easier when it wasn't absolutely teeming with heartless fallen from the giant Unmoon above. Vanitas has never seen a swarm this thick or large, and he ran out of potions a while back. It's all he can do to find ways to disengage long enough to spam Cure, wait for his magic to recover, then spam it again, an increasingly taller ask as he makes his way back to the Castle where he's sure the others are still fighting. He wears the cloak, but he doesn't want to risk a dark portal just yet.
He wipes his hand across his eyes, curling his lip at the black gunk that just will not stop oozing from them like viscous tears. His clothes - Ventus's clothes - are smeared with handlines of it from nose and mouth and maybe ears, he hasn't checked. He's still wearing that blue lobster shirt, faded from time that chilled Vanitas. He sways and leans against a wall, fighting the urge to throw up. It hasn't been this bad in years.
The same liquid tar hits the pavement, and Vanitas waits, but no red eyes appear in it. A guard armor takes the opportunity to attack, and Vanitas barely dodges the attack and is struck by the pieces of wall produced by it, knocking him to his knees. His breath mists in the air as he pants harshly, disoriented.
