[It is a day like any other. There is nothing particularly odd or strange about this one. Aerith makes it a normal habit to travel the town, the outskirts, and into the forest, usually with flowers in mind somewhere. With her flower shop in the business district, it's almost more a necessity at this point, but chances are even if she didn't have that, she'd simply be looking for more to fill her apartment with.
Especially since Tifa seemingly vanished without a trace...
She is only marginally looking for flowers this late afternoon into early evening as she wanders through the forest of Brocéliande, lying just outside of the town. Her steps are careful and light, still puzzling over why she can sense life, but not everything else that ordinarily would come with it. How does the cycle of life and death work in this world?
Aerith thinks of the Lifestream in all of its complexity, realising that she isn't sure she has anyone to ask. Back home, she feels so much certain of herself. Here, it isn't a hopelessness, but there's an unsure sensation that she's not so fond of.
In the midst of a step, she spies only a long tress of silver that scarcely catches the ray of light that breaks in through occasional cracks in the adjusting trees that tower over her. Aerith pauses, breath catching in her throat for but a moment, a soft shift in her composure that is generally so even and level. Surely she is mistaken.
She passes a tree and sees nothing. Aerith casts a look over her shoulder and she finds that there is nothing strange or suspicious. There is only her. Her and the weight of her thoughts. The Cetra pauses and a frown tugs at her mouth mid-step using the tree at her left to steady herself.]
Was it my imagination?
[A sign from her future. A future she has not yet lived, but she knows will inevitably embrace her. Her eyebrows knit together.
No, she's certain she saw it. She would know that silver hair anywhere. Perhaps she simply misses home.]
Seeing Things - Closed to Sephiroth
Especially since Tifa seemingly vanished without a trace...
She is only marginally looking for flowers this late afternoon into early evening as she wanders through the forest of Brocéliande, lying just outside of the town. Her steps are careful and light, still puzzling over why she can sense life, but not everything else that ordinarily would come with it. How does the cycle of life and death work in this world?
Aerith thinks of the Lifestream in all of its complexity, realising that she isn't sure she has anyone to ask. Back home, she feels so much certain of herself. Here, it isn't a hopelessness, but there's an unsure sensation that she's not so fond of.
In the midst of a step, she spies only a long tress of silver that scarcely catches the ray of light that breaks in through occasional cracks in the adjusting trees that tower over her. Aerith pauses, breath catching in her throat for but a moment, a soft shift in her composure that is generally so even and level. Surely she is mistaken.
She passes a tree and sees nothing. Aerith casts a look over her shoulder and she finds that there is nothing strange or suspicious. There is only her. Her and the weight of her thoughts. The Cetra pauses and a frown tugs at her mouth mid-step using the tree at her left to steady herself.]
Was it my imagination?
[A sign from her future. A future she has not yet lived, but she knows will inevitably embrace her. Her eyebrows knit together.
No, she's certain she saw it. She would know that silver hair anywhere. Perhaps she simply misses home.]