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towerofanimus2013-01-14 03:35 pm
sageprincess) wrote in towerofanimus2013-01-14 03:35 pm
Entry tags:
The flow of time is always cruel...
Characters: Jaded, 28 year old Zelda and you!
Setting: Dorms, Floor 12, 48, and 11
Format: Starting in action, but I'll match.
Summary: Yet another of the Tower residents has been affected by this month's event, and the ten 'years' she's lived through have not been the kindest to her.
Warnings: Possibility of violence if she gets annoyed.
Dorms
[The night is dangerous, and the Princess of Hyrule is already asleep - or close to it - when the subtle shift occurs. In a quiet instant, her body fills out just a bit, no longer that of a young maiden, and silver strands caused by stress pepper her blonde head. At the same time, her possessions rearrange themselves: her shining regalia, once meticulously cared for, now dull and dusty under her bed; her ocarina and harp, once her most precious possessions, now sitting unplayed at the bottom of her trunk, covered not by pretty silk dresses, but by simple cotton clothes.
The once-girl herself stirs slightly as the change happens, but is otherwise remarkably still through the night. Somewhere along the line, she must have either grown accustomed to the kind of nightmares Tower life would bring, or she learned how to control them.
In any case, she wakes with the dawn, as always, changes out of her nightgown quietly, and stops off at the women's restroom to wash her face before making her way to the elevator, all in a way that seems almost absurdly routine. After ten years of living in the same place, repeating the same thing over and over, she could probably do this morning ritual blind.
... And given how the Tower works, it's not too much of a stretch to say she actually has.]
Floor Twelve
Some say the world will end in fire.
Some say in ice.
[Oddly enough, this planetarium-esque floor has become one of Zelda's usual haunts over the course of ten years. It's morbid, watching the universe slowly die, reset, then die again, but to one so desensitized, that simply means the newer, more foolish arrivals will likely just pass this floor by.]
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
[She doesn't like interacting with them much, if she can help it. The hopeful, determined ones remind her too much of what she once was, something she doesn't like to remember.]
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate...
["I can think of no better candidate to unite the free people of this tower." Yeah, right.]
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great...
And would suffice.
[Quiet and alone, she watches the destruction of universes again and again impassively. There's no horror in her eyes, no tense fear in her expression, and if you're lucky, you might hear her repeat a short poem that she's memorized over the years to herself.]
Floor Forty-Eight
[Like the planetarium, the graveyard possesses a silent sort of despair that tends to keep the newest of arrivals away. At least, there is rarely anything for them here. This is a place for those who have been hurt in one of the worst ways the Tower knows how.
By watching friend after friend disappear.
She does not mourn them. Because she doesn't believe they are dead or because the very concept of death is beginning to fade from her mind - she cannot say. Still, she finds herself wandering a certain section of the cemetery like a restless spirit, fingers grazing each marker as she passes.
Eight Links, all in a row. Three Zeldas next to them. A Sheik, then, nearby. Navi, Saria, Darunia, Fi, Pipit, Fado, Midna, Fierce Deity... glimpses, however brief, of the past and future.
... Minami, Samus, Ventus-- other familiar names dot the rest of the graveyard, and for one who hates remembering herself, she lingers here, losing herself in the memories she has of others.]
Floor Eleven, dusk
[One good thing has come out of ten years of being trapped, however.
She has gotten damn good at magic.
Blasts and arcs of divine fire follow her command, lighting up the quickly darkening meadow. As the rainbows begin to reverse themselves, there are intermittent bursts of what can only be called pure light, searing any phantom foolish enough to draw close and whisper to her in achingly familiar voices.
She has her own memories to eat away at her. She doesn't need such foul things as a reminder.]
Setting: Dorms, Floor 12, 48, and 11
Format: Starting in action, but I'll match.
Summary: Yet another of the Tower residents has been affected by this month's event, and the ten 'years' she's lived through have not been the kindest to her.
Warnings: Possibility of violence if she gets annoyed.
Dorms
[The night is dangerous, and the Princess of Hyrule is already asleep - or close to it - when the subtle shift occurs. In a quiet instant, her body fills out just a bit, no longer that of a young maiden, and silver strands caused by stress pepper her blonde head. At the same time, her possessions rearrange themselves: her shining regalia, once meticulously cared for, now dull and dusty under her bed; her ocarina and harp, once her most precious possessions, now sitting unplayed at the bottom of her trunk, covered not by pretty silk dresses, but by simple cotton clothes.
The once-girl herself stirs slightly as the change happens, but is otherwise remarkably still through the night. Somewhere along the line, she must have either grown accustomed to the kind of nightmares Tower life would bring, or she learned how to control them.
In any case, she wakes with the dawn, as always, changes out of her nightgown quietly, and stops off at the women's restroom to wash her face before making her way to the elevator, all in a way that seems almost absurdly routine. After ten years of living in the same place, repeating the same thing over and over, she could probably do this morning ritual blind.
... And given how the Tower works, it's not too much of a stretch to say she actually has.]
Floor Twelve
Some say the world will end in fire.
Some say in ice.
[Oddly enough, this planetarium-esque floor has become one of Zelda's usual haunts over the course of ten years. It's morbid, watching the universe slowly die, reset, then die again, but to one so desensitized, that simply means the newer, more foolish arrivals will likely just pass this floor by.]
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.
[She doesn't like interacting with them much, if she can help it. The hopeful, determined ones remind her too much of what she once was, something she doesn't like to remember.]
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate...
["I can think of no better candidate to unite the free people of this tower." Yeah, right.]
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great...
And would suffice.
[Quiet and alone, she watches the destruction of universes again and again impassively. There's no horror in her eyes, no tense fear in her expression, and if you're lucky, you might hear her repeat a short poem that she's memorized over the years to herself.]
Floor Forty-Eight
[Like the planetarium, the graveyard possesses a silent sort of despair that tends to keep the newest of arrivals away. At least, there is rarely anything for them here. This is a place for those who have been hurt in one of the worst ways the Tower knows how.
By watching friend after friend disappear.
She does not mourn them. Because she doesn't believe they are dead or because the very concept of death is beginning to fade from her mind - she cannot say. Still, she finds herself wandering a certain section of the cemetery like a restless spirit, fingers grazing each marker as she passes.
Eight Links, all in a row. Three Zeldas next to them. A Sheik, then, nearby. Navi, Saria, Darunia, Fi, Pipit, Fado, Midna, Fierce Deity... glimpses, however brief, of the past and future.
... Minami, Samus, Ventus-- other familiar names dot the rest of the graveyard, and for one who hates remembering herself, she lingers here, losing herself in the memories she has of others.]
Floor Eleven, dusk
[One good thing has come out of ten years of being trapped, however.
She has gotten damn good at magic.
Blasts and arcs of divine fire follow her command, lighting up the quickly darkening meadow. As the rainbows begin to reverse themselves, there are intermittent bursts of what can only be called pure light, searing any phantom foolish enough to draw close and whisper to her in achingly familiar voices.
She has her own memories to eat away at her. She doesn't need such foul things as a reminder.]
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