ElvenAngel
I forget stuff because I had to make room in my he
Done a few years ago for a forum contest about rewriting the intro of FF8. It was a last minute entry (not for drama, my internet just sucked monkey bottom back then)...which then kinda won.
Comments are appreciated :3
Squall’s wrist hurts from the sudden strike that knocked the gunblade out of his grip and into the air, but he and pain are old friends. He ignores it—as he repeatedly has—and simply pulls away from his opponent. He’s irritated that Seifer has interrupted his training, but he never reacts rashly, which is what the other wants.
Squall prefers to train alone. He doesn’t want anyone distracting him. Training is a serious matter, a ritual almost; something between himself and his gunblade, upon which nobody has the right to intrude.
Seifer taunts him again as the Revolver twirls upwards, edge over edge as if it wants to reach into the storm overhead, rumbling with thunder. Squall only blames himself for that; he didn't react properly to Seifer’s ambush. He allowed surprise to loosen his grip as the other’s strike slid along the blade and jerked his wrist painfully. He let go of the hilt and the gunblade went hurtling into the air.
"See, just like I told you, kid," Seifer scoffs. "You do need more training, you're pathetic."
The Revolver completes its arch, obeying gravity and returns to the ground tip-first with a dry thunk. It digs into the hard soil, the chain at the end of the hilt dangling quietly. The steel lion head on its end is almost looking at him, criticizing him for his moment of weakness.
Ignore him, Squall orders himself.
But something in him, in the center of his world, feels the insult. His pride is fidgeting like an agitated animal, pricked by Seifer’s remark and he knows it can’t be contained for long.
His pride has always been his weakest flank.
The clouds swirl overhead and with a last roar of thunder, it begins to drizzle softly. Squall loathes Seifer’s smug smirk. It’s the smirk of a bully--and it suits him. They're both soldiers, but vastly different. Seifer takes vain pride in his skills and his power. Squall doesn’t want to care.
I want to be the best, for myself; I don’t care to just show it. I need to, even if it kills me, he thinks.
That’s why he was out there, in the Balamb mountain region. He wanted to train; no day went by that he didn’t practice. Gunblades were weapons that took years to master and Squalll had spent what felt like every waking moment of his life in the last ten years to master it and so far it had never let him down.
“Come on, Squall!” Seifer chuckles. “You’ll always come second best. Prove me wrong, if you can.”
That taunt makes Squall’s eyes narrow in anger and he pretends it isn’t there. He hates it, more than anything, to be thought as inferior or weak, but he also hates allowing his emotions to make him act foolishly. He always acts cold and detached but the truth is, he cannot run away from his emotions and how the world makes him feel. People call him cold but he knows better; he can’t always control his feelings; they go on like an unchecked wildfire before he can rein them into discipline. There are moments when he feels almost like a child, impulsive and unsure; therefore he hides himself under coldness, a self-imposed discipline that he's taken too far and hasn't even noticed.
“Why should I?” Squall snaps, attempting in vain to resist giving in to his anger.
Seifer smirks wider; he’s pressed Squall’s buttons. “You know why. You know you want to!”
And surely, Squall dashes ahead, grabs the hilt of the gunblade and charges him. He’s given in; his look is now angry and determined. Seifer’s smirk turns into a satisfied grin as he raises his gunblade straight in front of him. He enjoys the fact that he can provoke this otherwise cold and unfeeling warrior. He can neither control himself as Squall can, nor show the same dedication as him. He can’t recall seeing Squall really flinch.
It’s that serene and collected manner of his that Seifer detests so much.
Squall comes like a flash of black with the gunblade picking momentum for the strike as he closes in with feet thudding on the ground like a charging warhorse. Seifer utters a war-cry as he meets Squall head on, consumed by the heat of battle. Squall is drawn into it as well, disregarding danger.
This is just training, he thinks.
He’s lying; he wants Seifer to shut up for good. He has wanted to wipe that smirk off Seifer’s face for as long as he can remember himself.
Seifer closes in and twirls around himself to add momentum as he jerks his arm out to strike in a deadly reaper swing. Squall dislikes that one-handed method of Seifer’s but he knows how to read his moves. He changes his approach and pulls his arms overhead to bring his blade diagonally down, shielding his side.
A small burst of cold sparks dances to a blunt chime of metal as the weapons connect roughly. Squall is quick to move, side-stepping out of the blade’s immediate reach and moves his arms, attempting to push Seifer back.
Seifer moves in the opposite direction and as he turns, he slides his gunblade along his opponent’s with a reverberation of steel. Seifer takes a step to the side and rotates his body again to dodge. Squall reacts fast, turning the backlash of his blade into an attack by letting his arms bounce back. He brings them back down to strike, but Seifer moves out of range and Squall’s blade cuts the air with a whistle that sounds almost disappointed.
Seifer expects him to need time to regain his balance from the swing. But it is his turn to be surprised.
He cringes and most likely curses in his head as he notes that Squall has learned to turn his gunblade’s weight into an advantage.
He turns quickly to see Squall grunting as he swings yet again, pulling his arms back overhead. His look has turned into a stubborn scowl, but it is still far from Seifer’s sinisterly delighted attitude. He brings the blade down, feigning another vertical hit and Seifer falls for it.
Seifer curses under his breath as his attempt to sneak in a counterattack from the side and interrupt the swing fails; Squall’s feigned vertical is in fact aimed for the gunblade, knocking it to the side violently. Seifer winces; the vibrations from the strike travel up his arm painfully. With arms overhead yet again, Squall swings diagonally in a hit that Seifer deems wiser to dodge completely by moving to the side.
Missing yet again causes Squall to cringe and he turns abruptly to face Seifer, who takes a step back, looking irritated and panting. But then his smirk returns and he holds up his gunblade at ready with one hand, the other stretched to invite Squall to try again, flicking his fingers mockingly.
Squall rushes head-on again, only to duck briefly and parry Seifer’s strike. He then backsteps as Seifer thrusts his blade forward and parries yet again. Both blades bounce back and Squall swings overhead again, bringing the heavy Revolver down, just to collide on Seifer’s Hyperion. This time, they are forced in a deadlock as Seifer has been caught mid-swing, giving Squall the opportunity to put weight on the blade and push him down.
They glare at each other viciously and neither backs down. They grit their teeth and heave, but Seifer’s taller stature allows him to shove the other backwards.
Squall stumbles a little just as Seifer charges him like a raging bull. He holds his ground to parry, but he’s unprepared for Seifer’s ferocity and the blades collide so strongly it makes Squall stagger. Revolver’s weight turns against him and forces him back as he whips his arms up to catch Seifer’s swing on his blade. Hyperion bounces back, but Seifer relentlessly continues to swing and swing.
Squall ducks under the last swing swiftly, being lighter on his feet. Seifer curses loudly and swings yet again as Squall is about to stand, not caring if he decapitates him.
I’ve had enough of him, Squall thinks as he wisely backs away from the berserker.
He launches into a counter-attack, overcome by his anger at last. He charges so suddenly that Seifer can only parry the strikes that Squall unleashes.
His eyes widen in further surprise as he is driven back with every strike that sends painful reverberations up his arms. Once, twice—four times in a row, Seifer is unable to catch an opening in Squall’s relentless attacking. He grows furious as he’s pushed in a corner. Finally Squall swings overhead and it gives Seifer an opening. He meets Squall’s down-force swing with a side-sweep, Revolver’s blade sliding along Hyperion’s.
Seifer comes back with another reckless swing. Squall’s agility is the only thing that spares him from disembowelment. He moves out of the way entirely and Seifer turns to get his blade on his exposed side as Squall swings downward and rushes Seifer with a grunt.
Seifer grits his teeth, enraged. He feels like he’s losing and he can’t fathom the idea. He stands straight and holds out his arm; a bright haze ignites around it and a fireball charges at his fingertips. Squall realizes only too late what he’s doing and his eyes widen abruptly.
Fire—Magic?! Has he lost his mind!? he thinks in a panic as he tries to stop hastily.
He has no Guardian Force with him; he’s almost completely defenseless against magic now. Instinctively, he braces himself and yanks his gunblade up in front of him as a make-shift shield as a thought flies through his head.
This is going to hurt…
And surely, it does.
The burst of flame collides onto the flat of Revolver with a resonating note, the blade protecting him from direct impact. It’ll take more than a fire spell to even scratch the gunblade and he thanks his luck for it. The fire spreads and Squall can feel it singe his hair and clothes but not enough for a serious injury. Yet the impact of the low-level spell has enough brunt behind it to knock him off his feet and flat onto the ground with a rough thud. He’s lucky; his head barely misses hitting the mountain bedrock under his feet. The last thing he needs now is a concussion.
Seifer smirks sinisterly again as he sees Squall on the ground, like a dog. Yet as he watches, Squall picks himself up slowly, wincing and surely aching—but not giving up. He just won’t admit defeat. He starts to get back up again, hand tightening around the gunblade, and Seifer feels as though something in him snaps.
“Dammit, you’ve lost! Why won’t you stay down!?” he roars, towering over Squall and pulling his gunblade up, like an executioner.
Squall is still on one knee, trying to recover when he looks up and sees Hyperion’s sleek blade coming down for him. His eyes widen and he gasps.
Squall’s scream erupts like thunder as Seifer’s hit connects, its direction sweeping his head to the side; a hot pain blazes across his forehead, barely missing his left eye. He sees the splattered streak of blood on the ground.
He’s been cut.
Squall has sparred before, but he’s never actually drawn the blood of another human being or been wounded like this himself, certainly not in the face. His pride, now more than wounded, isn’t just fidgeting; it’s overwhelmed by hurt and insult and roars inside him. The pain is blinding and there’s blood streaming down his face but he doesn’t care. Seifer’s sarcastic laugh in his ears is the last straw.
Finally furious, he looks up at Seifer, as streaks of red run down his face.
“Go to Hell!” he blurts without realizing, moving abruptly and strikes back like a snake. He skids on the ground and swings his gunblade angrily.
Seifer can’t step away, Squall closes in too fast and the upwards strike catches him unprepared. He lets a vicious scream as the gunblade cuts his forehead. Now their cuts are exact mirror opposites. He stumbles backwards with blood streaming down his face too, staining his clothes and he grits his teeth. He tries to bear with the pain and grunts, taking his hand to his face to stop the blood and glares.
Squall is panting and hunches over, as blood keeps streaming down his face and even into his mouth. He must be in terrible pain as well, but he still isn’t flinching and Seifer feels as though he could kill him.
However, the pain sobers him up from his adrenaline rush and he realizes that his recklessness is going to cost him. He doesn’t need to further the problem.
“Hmph…it’s a draw today, twerp,” he scoffs, wincing, as he backsteps away from the scene.
He knows Squall is too righteous to attack someone from behind and he turns his back to his rival shamelessly as he staggers off.
Squall doesn’t move from his spot as Seifer leaves. He’s still scowling and gritting his teeth but he can’t move. He’s feeling dizzy but refuses to give in. He is more concentrated on the streak of blood on the tip of his gunblade; it’s the first human blood his blade’s ever tasted. He isn’t sure how he should feel about this.
He carefully brings his hand to his forehead and winces as his glove comes in contact with the cut. He looks at the splatter of blood on his hand and although it hurts, he frowns. Seifer has humiliated him now—but so has he.
That thought calms him a little; just enough to make his pride settle again inside him. Satisfied at last, he starts to slowly make his way back to Garden. He tells himself he should head for the Infirmary right away, since he has no curing spells or potions on him at the moment. The drizzle has stopped, but the storm inside him is still raging.
Comments are appreciated :3
Running Storm
A retelling of the opening scene of Final Fantasy VIII.
Squall’s wrist hurts from the sudden strike that knocked the gunblade out of his grip and into the air, but he and pain are old friends. He ignores it—as he repeatedly has—and simply pulls away from his opponent. He’s irritated that Seifer has interrupted his training, but he never reacts rashly, which is what the other wants.
Squall prefers to train alone. He doesn’t want anyone distracting him. Training is a serious matter, a ritual almost; something between himself and his gunblade, upon which nobody has the right to intrude.
Seifer taunts him again as the Revolver twirls upwards, edge over edge as if it wants to reach into the storm overhead, rumbling with thunder. Squall only blames himself for that; he didn't react properly to Seifer’s ambush. He allowed surprise to loosen his grip as the other’s strike slid along the blade and jerked his wrist painfully. He let go of the hilt and the gunblade went hurtling into the air.
"See, just like I told you, kid," Seifer scoffs. "You do need more training, you're pathetic."
The Revolver completes its arch, obeying gravity and returns to the ground tip-first with a dry thunk. It digs into the hard soil, the chain at the end of the hilt dangling quietly. The steel lion head on its end is almost looking at him, criticizing him for his moment of weakness.
Ignore him, Squall orders himself.
But something in him, in the center of his world, feels the insult. His pride is fidgeting like an agitated animal, pricked by Seifer’s remark and he knows it can’t be contained for long.
His pride has always been his weakest flank.
The clouds swirl overhead and with a last roar of thunder, it begins to drizzle softly. Squall loathes Seifer’s smug smirk. It’s the smirk of a bully--and it suits him. They're both soldiers, but vastly different. Seifer takes vain pride in his skills and his power. Squall doesn’t want to care.
I want to be the best, for myself; I don’t care to just show it. I need to, even if it kills me, he thinks.
That’s why he was out there, in the Balamb mountain region. He wanted to train; no day went by that he didn’t practice. Gunblades were weapons that took years to master and Squalll had spent what felt like every waking moment of his life in the last ten years to master it and so far it had never let him down.
“Come on, Squall!” Seifer chuckles. “You’ll always come second best. Prove me wrong, if you can.”
That taunt makes Squall’s eyes narrow in anger and he pretends it isn’t there. He hates it, more than anything, to be thought as inferior or weak, but he also hates allowing his emotions to make him act foolishly. He always acts cold and detached but the truth is, he cannot run away from his emotions and how the world makes him feel. People call him cold but he knows better; he can’t always control his feelings; they go on like an unchecked wildfire before he can rein them into discipline. There are moments when he feels almost like a child, impulsive and unsure; therefore he hides himself under coldness, a self-imposed discipline that he's taken too far and hasn't even noticed.
“Why should I?” Squall snaps, attempting in vain to resist giving in to his anger.
Seifer smirks wider; he’s pressed Squall’s buttons. “You know why. You know you want to!”
And surely, Squall dashes ahead, grabs the hilt of the gunblade and charges him. He’s given in; his look is now angry and determined. Seifer’s smirk turns into a satisfied grin as he raises his gunblade straight in front of him. He enjoys the fact that he can provoke this otherwise cold and unfeeling warrior. He can neither control himself as Squall can, nor show the same dedication as him. He can’t recall seeing Squall really flinch.
It’s that serene and collected manner of his that Seifer detests so much.
Squall comes like a flash of black with the gunblade picking momentum for the strike as he closes in with feet thudding on the ground like a charging warhorse. Seifer utters a war-cry as he meets Squall head on, consumed by the heat of battle. Squall is drawn into it as well, disregarding danger.
This is just training, he thinks.
He’s lying; he wants Seifer to shut up for good. He has wanted to wipe that smirk off Seifer’s face for as long as he can remember himself.
Seifer closes in and twirls around himself to add momentum as he jerks his arm out to strike in a deadly reaper swing. Squall dislikes that one-handed method of Seifer’s but he knows how to read his moves. He changes his approach and pulls his arms overhead to bring his blade diagonally down, shielding his side.
A small burst of cold sparks dances to a blunt chime of metal as the weapons connect roughly. Squall is quick to move, side-stepping out of the blade’s immediate reach and moves his arms, attempting to push Seifer back.
Seifer moves in the opposite direction and as he turns, he slides his gunblade along his opponent’s with a reverberation of steel. Seifer takes a step to the side and rotates his body again to dodge. Squall reacts fast, turning the backlash of his blade into an attack by letting his arms bounce back. He brings them back down to strike, but Seifer moves out of range and Squall’s blade cuts the air with a whistle that sounds almost disappointed.
Seifer expects him to need time to regain his balance from the swing. But it is his turn to be surprised.
He cringes and most likely curses in his head as he notes that Squall has learned to turn his gunblade’s weight into an advantage.
He turns quickly to see Squall grunting as he swings yet again, pulling his arms back overhead. His look has turned into a stubborn scowl, but it is still far from Seifer’s sinisterly delighted attitude. He brings the blade down, feigning another vertical hit and Seifer falls for it.
Seifer curses under his breath as his attempt to sneak in a counterattack from the side and interrupt the swing fails; Squall’s feigned vertical is in fact aimed for the gunblade, knocking it to the side violently. Seifer winces; the vibrations from the strike travel up his arm painfully. With arms overhead yet again, Squall swings diagonally in a hit that Seifer deems wiser to dodge completely by moving to the side.
Missing yet again causes Squall to cringe and he turns abruptly to face Seifer, who takes a step back, looking irritated and panting. But then his smirk returns and he holds up his gunblade at ready with one hand, the other stretched to invite Squall to try again, flicking his fingers mockingly.
Squall rushes head-on again, only to duck briefly and parry Seifer’s strike. He then backsteps as Seifer thrusts his blade forward and parries yet again. Both blades bounce back and Squall swings overhead again, bringing the heavy Revolver down, just to collide on Seifer’s Hyperion. This time, they are forced in a deadlock as Seifer has been caught mid-swing, giving Squall the opportunity to put weight on the blade and push him down.
They glare at each other viciously and neither backs down. They grit their teeth and heave, but Seifer’s taller stature allows him to shove the other backwards.
Squall stumbles a little just as Seifer charges him like a raging bull. He holds his ground to parry, but he’s unprepared for Seifer’s ferocity and the blades collide so strongly it makes Squall stagger. Revolver’s weight turns against him and forces him back as he whips his arms up to catch Seifer’s swing on his blade. Hyperion bounces back, but Seifer relentlessly continues to swing and swing.
Squall ducks under the last swing swiftly, being lighter on his feet. Seifer curses loudly and swings yet again as Squall is about to stand, not caring if he decapitates him.
I’ve had enough of him, Squall thinks as he wisely backs away from the berserker.
He launches into a counter-attack, overcome by his anger at last. He charges so suddenly that Seifer can only parry the strikes that Squall unleashes.
His eyes widen in further surprise as he is driven back with every strike that sends painful reverberations up his arms. Once, twice—four times in a row, Seifer is unable to catch an opening in Squall’s relentless attacking. He grows furious as he’s pushed in a corner. Finally Squall swings overhead and it gives Seifer an opening. He meets Squall’s down-force swing with a side-sweep, Revolver’s blade sliding along Hyperion’s.
Seifer comes back with another reckless swing. Squall’s agility is the only thing that spares him from disembowelment. He moves out of the way entirely and Seifer turns to get his blade on his exposed side as Squall swings downward and rushes Seifer with a grunt.
Seifer grits his teeth, enraged. He feels like he’s losing and he can’t fathom the idea. He stands straight and holds out his arm; a bright haze ignites around it and a fireball charges at his fingertips. Squall realizes only too late what he’s doing and his eyes widen abruptly.
Fire—Magic?! Has he lost his mind!? he thinks in a panic as he tries to stop hastily.
He has no Guardian Force with him; he’s almost completely defenseless against magic now. Instinctively, he braces himself and yanks his gunblade up in front of him as a make-shift shield as a thought flies through his head.
This is going to hurt…
And surely, it does.
The burst of flame collides onto the flat of Revolver with a resonating note, the blade protecting him from direct impact. It’ll take more than a fire spell to even scratch the gunblade and he thanks his luck for it. The fire spreads and Squall can feel it singe his hair and clothes but not enough for a serious injury. Yet the impact of the low-level spell has enough brunt behind it to knock him off his feet and flat onto the ground with a rough thud. He’s lucky; his head barely misses hitting the mountain bedrock under his feet. The last thing he needs now is a concussion.
Seifer smirks sinisterly again as he sees Squall on the ground, like a dog. Yet as he watches, Squall picks himself up slowly, wincing and surely aching—but not giving up. He just won’t admit defeat. He starts to get back up again, hand tightening around the gunblade, and Seifer feels as though something in him snaps.
“Dammit, you’ve lost! Why won’t you stay down!?” he roars, towering over Squall and pulling his gunblade up, like an executioner.
Squall is still on one knee, trying to recover when he looks up and sees Hyperion’s sleek blade coming down for him. His eyes widen and he gasps.
Squall’s scream erupts like thunder as Seifer’s hit connects, its direction sweeping his head to the side; a hot pain blazes across his forehead, barely missing his left eye. He sees the splattered streak of blood on the ground.
He’s been cut.
Squall has sparred before, but he’s never actually drawn the blood of another human being or been wounded like this himself, certainly not in the face. His pride, now more than wounded, isn’t just fidgeting; it’s overwhelmed by hurt and insult and roars inside him. The pain is blinding and there’s blood streaming down his face but he doesn’t care. Seifer’s sarcastic laugh in his ears is the last straw.
Finally furious, he looks up at Seifer, as streaks of red run down his face.
“Go to Hell!” he blurts without realizing, moving abruptly and strikes back like a snake. He skids on the ground and swings his gunblade angrily.
Seifer can’t step away, Squall closes in too fast and the upwards strike catches him unprepared. He lets a vicious scream as the gunblade cuts his forehead. Now their cuts are exact mirror opposites. He stumbles backwards with blood streaming down his face too, staining his clothes and he grits his teeth. He tries to bear with the pain and grunts, taking his hand to his face to stop the blood and glares.
Squall is panting and hunches over, as blood keeps streaming down his face and even into his mouth. He must be in terrible pain as well, but he still isn’t flinching and Seifer feels as though he could kill him.
However, the pain sobers him up from his adrenaline rush and he realizes that his recklessness is going to cost him. He doesn’t need to further the problem.
“Hmph…it’s a draw today, twerp,” he scoffs, wincing, as he backsteps away from the scene.
He knows Squall is too righteous to attack someone from behind and he turns his back to his rival shamelessly as he staggers off.
Squall doesn’t move from his spot as Seifer leaves. He’s still scowling and gritting his teeth but he can’t move. He’s feeling dizzy but refuses to give in. He is more concentrated on the streak of blood on the tip of his gunblade; it’s the first human blood his blade’s ever tasted. He isn’t sure how he should feel about this.
He carefully brings his hand to his forehead and winces as his glove comes in contact with the cut. He looks at the splatter of blood on his hand and although it hurts, he frowns. Seifer has humiliated him now—but so has he.
That thought calms him a little; just enough to make his pride settle again inside him. Satisfied at last, he starts to slowly make his way back to Garden. He tells himself he should head for the Infirmary right away, since he has no curing spells or potions on him at the moment. The drizzle has stopped, but the storm inside him is still raging.