[ There's talk, scattered through the merchants as he makes his way back from a simple delivery job, about some festive celebration that will give rise to silly things like love and affection in the air: but more importantly, more coin and trade in the hands of those selling wares for the purpose of it. It seems this celebration, whatever it is, means that he's less likely to be able to pocket any sort of coin and more likely to have payment for his services rendered as something a little less useful; it's a sour face that meets this realization, once he pushes his hands down into the worn pockets of his uniform and finds less there than he should.
He's tending to stacking a few boxes, back behind one of the stalls, finishing up the last of his work--and as his chin lifts, a small bead of sweat muddled down his jaw, he finds himself alarmingly close to someone browsing the local wares of this particular merchant, admiring some of the scarves hung up around the opening to entice people to buy. He imagines that it's mostly a celebration for those that would wear such pretty things: then again, maybe it's just all the delicate, beautiful ones on display to attract those in to shop for others. Embarrassed, he lifts up a gloved hand to touch at his jawline, dabbing away the sweat from his work.
It's awkward, but in this place, he doesn't think too many people know what to do or how to go about any of it--so he does what a real hero might do, and opens his mouth. ]
You interested? [ He might get mistaken for a merchant, at this rate, though the heavy sword at his back likely dissuades the idea. ] Think I get one of these on the house, but I'm not gonna use it, so if you want one...
[ Awkwardly, he leaves the offer open ended. ]
BRING PROTECTION.
[ Something pretty but practical, like the scarves, at least make sense to him--but as he's heading back to the inn, where Aerith should be, he realizes with some annoyance that other merchants, those specializing in jewelry, are selling trinkets of their own. They're for warding, he hears a jovial voice call out over the sound of the crowd: protection from evil, from terrible things, from all that one's imagination can create!
With his narrowed gaze, he leans in closer to one of the stalls: sure, these little trinkets look alarmingly similar, in some ways, to the accessories they used to use back home for protection. But if the vendors won't even be straight about what they really do, can they really be trusted? Folding his arms against his chest, he examines the wares and, idly, notices someone near him doing the exact same thing.
The desire to remain unnoticed has him biting his tongue for a moment--but honestly, if he's going to try to make it here, at least for as long as it'll take to get back home, he's going to have to create a reputation all over again. This means, unfortunately, more word of mouth. ]
Pretty sure these won't do any good. [ He's quiet, so it could be mistaken for him talking to himself. ] What do you need to be protected from?
[ There, now it's more obvious he's talking to the person next to him. His blue-green gaze flickers up, slightly, before jerking back down again, swallowing. ]
FLOWERS FOR ALDRIP.
[ Does he know a thing or two about gardening? Absolutely not.
But in theory, it makes sense. For one, he knows not to step on them once they're grown--that part is apparently important, and it seems obvious. They need sunlight, and water, and beyond that, maybe the right soil, but if any of these flowers are like the ones that Aerith used to tend to, way back in the slums, he has no idea. Either way, they can't be all that different: and though he doesn't have a green thumb, he does have enough training to be able to listen to instructions and execute them. He may have been terrible in training, but--
There's a soft jerk of his thoughts, redirecting him, and his brows crease. Crouched in the dirt, the knees and thighs of his pants smeared with it, he can feel the headache threaten: with a breath, it passes by, as though not comparing himself too closely to anything from before helps, as though letting thoughts of Shinra and SOLDIER float away from him for the moment does more help than harm. With a sigh, he lets his gaze settle on the flower bulbs in front of him. He's nearly done with the row, at least.
Carefully, gloved hands pat down the soil at the roots, eyeing the little nub of the flower bulb that seems to be peeking out of the dirt. ]
...Guess you don't have much to say. [ Yes, he's talking to the flowers: though it would be understandable if someone mistook him for talking to himself. ] Am I just the wrong kind of person? Or are you shy?
[ He gives the mound of dirt another firm pat with his palm, as though trying to reassure the row of flowers otherwise. ]
WILDCARD & OOC.
happy to plot something out if you'd like, or if you just wanna throw something random at cloud, please feel free!! open to anyone and anything.
cloud strife — final fantasy vii remake
[ There's talk, scattered through the merchants as he makes his way back from a simple delivery job, about some festive celebration that will give rise to silly things like love and affection in the air: but more importantly, more coin and trade in the hands of those selling wares for the purpose of it. It seems this celebration, whatever it is, means that he's less likely to be able to pocket any sort of coin and more likely to have payment for his services rendered as something a little less useful; it's a sour face that meets this realization, once he pushes his hands down into the worn pockets of his uniform and finds less there than he should.
He's tending to stacking a few boxes, back behind one of the stalls, finishing up the last of his work--and as his chin lifts, a small bead of sweat muddled down his jaw, he finds himself alarmingly close to someone browsing the local wares of this particular merchant, admiring some of the scarves hung up around the opening to entice people to buy. He imagines that it's mostly a celebration for those that would wear such pretty things: then again, maybe it's just all the delicate, beautiful ones on display to attract those in to shop for others. Embarrassed, he lifts up a gloved hand to touch at his jawline, dabbing away the sweat from his work.
It's awkward, but in this place, he doesn't think too many people know what to do or how to go about any of it--so he does what a real hero might do, and opens his mouth. ]
You interested? [ He might get mistaken for a merchant, at this rate, though the heavy sword at his back likely dissuades the idea. ] Think I get one of these on the house, but I'm not gonna use it, so if you want one...
[ Awkwardly, he leaves the offer open ended. ]
BRING PROTECTION.
[ Something pretty but practical, like the scarves, at least make sense to him--but as he's heading back to the inn, where Aerith should be, he realizes with some annoyance that other merchants, those specializing in jewelry, are selling trinkets of their own. They're for warding, he hears a jovial voice call out over the sound of the crowd: protection from evil, from terrible things, from all that one's imagination can create!
With his narrowed gaze, he leans in closer to one of the stalls: sure, these little trinkets look alarmingly similar, in some ways, to the accessories they used to use back home for protection. But if the vendors won't even be straight about what they really do, can they really be trusted? Folding his arms against his chest, he examines the wares and, idly, notices someone near him doing the exact same thing.
The desire to remain unnoticed has him biting his tongue for a moment--but honestly, if he's going to try to make it here, at least for as long as it'll take to get back home, he's going to have to create a reputation all over again. This means, unfortunately, more word of mouth. ]
Pretty sure these won't do any good. [ He's quiet, so it could be mistaken for him talking to himself. ] What do you need to be protected from?
[ There, now it's more obvious he's talking to the person next to him. His blue-green gaze flickers up, slightly, before jerking back down again, swallowing. ]
FLOWERS FOR ALDRIP.
[ Does he know a thing or two about gardening? Absolutely not.
But in theory, it makes sense. For one, he knows not to step on them once they're grown--that part is apparently important, and it seems obvious. They need sunlight, and water, and beyond that, maybe the right soil, but if any of these flowers are like the ones that Aerith used to tend to, way back in the slums, he has no idea. Either way, they can't be all that different: and though he doesn't have a green thumb, he does have enough training to be able to listen to instructions and execute them. He may have been terrible in training, but--
There's a soft jerk of his thoughts, redirecting him, and his brows crease. Crouched in the dirt, the knees and thighs of his pants smeared with it, he can feel the headache threaten: with a breath, it passes by, as though not comparing himself too closely to anything from before helps, as though letting thoughts of Shinra and SOLDIER float away from him for the moment does more help than harm. With a sigh, he lets his gaze settle on the flower bulbs in front of him. He's nearly done with the row, at least.
Carefully, gloved hands pat down the soil at the roots, eyeing the little nub of the flower bulb that seems to be peeking out of the dirt. ]
...Guess you don't have much to say. [ Yes, he's talking to the flowers: though it would be understandable if someone mistook him for talking to himself. ] Am I just the wrong kind of person? Or are you shy?
[ He gives the mound of dirt another firm pat with his palm, as though trying to reassure the row of flowers otherwise. ]
WILDCARD & OOC.
happy to plot something out if you'd like, or if you just wanna throw something random at cloud, please feel free!! open to anyone and anything.