Hoshikata could see the spirits of all people, living or dead. He could peer into the very core of a person, to determine who and what they were. Those cursed eyes of his were not merely for show, they allowed a vision beyond that of any human; his hourglass pupils lived in both this world and the next, giving him unrivaled sights of both. The slow decay as time marched on was evident, the draining of life from every thing, even inanimate objects, was stark to his sight. He could look at someone, figure out their personality, determine their mood, guess their emotional state. He could tell so much of someone with a mere glance, and his training only made it so that he could, over a short time, come to learn someone fully. He had a unique gift in this world, he had a power beyond rival. And he never turned that gift upon himself, never once did he look into his own soul. As Haruka walked off, the Seer simply stands, watching. She said not to follow, the woman who only moments ago was willing and accepting of him and who he was, rejected him fully. Did she, perhaps, see his own soul?
He was not used to indecision. He could not comprehend the inability to think, to take action. As he watched her walk off, Hoshikata grew very still. He was rejected, denied. Once more, acceptance was pulled away from him by the cruel hands of fate. A voice in his head wailed, another gloated, and he simply stood rooted to the spot as she vanished from sight. Hoshikata never turned his power on himself, never sought to see what his own soul looked like. He turned slowly, his staff drawing near. Those golden orbs gazed into the crystal atop it, reflecting his own visage back at him. He looked deeper, looking for something many doubted to even exist, the soul of the madman he'd become.
Arid as the desert of Wind, white tinged with an ugly red color. Cracks ran through it, fragmenting the spirit into separate pieces that were not whole, could not join. He thirsted, desired, craved what he almost had. It was a weakness. As the voice inside gloated more, he came to recognize that weakness. He was above humanity, he was a god. What need had he of companionship? What use was acceptance among his lessers? Those cracks grew, nearly shattering what they covered. The ugly red grew deeper, darker, nearly enveloping what was there. He did not need friends, he did not need anyone.
Those were the words of his father. The wailing stopped, that lesser voice chiming in now. The cracks shrunk slightly, the white returning over the red. Both voices were his own, both voices were things he could be, or had been. What was he now? Was his soul truly so broken, so shattered beyond the norm? Why? What it because of her? Was it because of the questions she made him ask, or the rebuff of his advances? He had no answers, nor did he know what to do. The staff began to spin in place as he trembled. Rage, or sadness? The two emotions battled inside of him, his soul becoming more damaged with each passing breath. With a roar, the staff was flung from him, burying itself halfway into a tree as he fell to his knees with a sob.
It was a weakness, so why did he desire it?
(Topic left)
He was not used to indecision. He could not comprehend the inability to think, to take action. As he watched her walk off, Hoshikata grew very still. He was rejected, denied. Once more, acceptance was pulled away from him by the cruel hands of fate. A voice in his head wailed, another gloated, and he simply stood rooted to the spot as she vanished from sight. Hoshikata never turned his power on himself, never sought to see what his own soul looked like. He turned slowly, his staff drawing near. Those golden orbs gazed into the crystal atop it, reflecting his own visage back at him. He looked deeper, looking for something many doubted to even exist, the soul of the madman he'd become.
Arid as the desert of Wind, white tinged with an ugly red color. Cracks ran through it, fragmenting the spirit into separate pieces that were not whole, could not join. He thirsted, desired, craved what he almost had. It was a weakness. As the voice inside gloated more, he came to recognize that weakness. He was above humanity, he was a god. What need had he of companionship? What use was acceptance among his lessers? Those cracks grew, nearly shattering what they covered. The ugly red grew deeper, darker, nearly enveloping what was there. He did not need friends, he did not need anyone.
Those were the words of his father. The wailing stopped, that lesser voice chiming in now. The cracks shrunk slightly, the white returning over the red. Both voices were his own, both voices were things he could be, or had been. What was he now? Was his soul truly so broken, so shattered beyond the norm? Why? What it because of her? Was it because of the questions she made him ask, or the rebuff of his advances? He had no answers, nor did he know what to do. The staff began to spin in place as he trembled. Rage, or sadness? The two emotions battled inside of him, his soul becoming more damaged with each passing breath. With a roar, the staff was flung from him, burying itself halfway into a tree as he fell to his knees with a sob.
It was a weakness, so why did he desire it?
(Topic left)