[ It's never advisable to lose something valuable--even more when everything has a price. There's always some kind of intrinsic benefit, some of practicality and some of pleasure; he can remember things being taken away from him for this very reason, possessions lost to the whims of his own tantrums and his father's nasty punishments, and maybe that's why he declares everything within the realm of his power as his own things: people and items alike. There's not an item he owns that he is not entirely unwilling to part with, and as his icy eyes scan the people around him, tossing in clocks and flowers and precious jewelry, he almost thinks them mad.
Who would do such a thing merely for some festival? Who would be that ridiculous?
He stands, stubbornly resistant, refusing to even level his shotgun with the width of the darkness there, refusing to even waste one bullet on it--but some things are taken as involuntarily as the stuffed bear he'd lost once he'd "outgrown" it, and a memory of this toy, of that one particular instance of his father's cool rage and cruelty, wrapped into one, comes past his lips like icy breath; it falls, a light that goes dark into the chasm, and Rufus has no idea how it happens or why he's suddenly without it.
Just that the first person he sees staring at him will be met with the snap of a mirror of that cool anger--] Can I help you?
SALOON.
[ It's the taste of dirt in his mouth. Dirt or sand, he can't quite tell--but he hates it all the same, hates that when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, he can't quite remember why he's there in the first place.
His white clothes are sufficiently scuffed, coat unbuttoned and hair a wild blonde mess around his temples; and he can't remember why he's wearing them, either. He can't remember where he is, or why when he gets up onto his knees, there's the sign of some garish bar or something similar--what even is a saloon, his mind spits at him--in front of him, of doors he can't remember being tossed out of, and the frustration of it all makes his lips press together, pursed and angry and a tiny, tiny pinch afraid. Amnesia?
He tries to dust himself off the best he can. There's a gun at his feet, and he doesn't know that he wants to touch it; guns are dangerous things, especially when wielded by someone unworthy of them. He nudges it faintly with the toe of his boot and then, with a sigh, bends again to haul it up.]
Excuse me. [ He asks, of the first person he manages to see.] I'm sorry to have to ask this, but do you... know who I am?
PITY.
For your trouble.
[ He's used to those that beg--even enjoys it, in a sense, especially when he's comfortably laced into a thick leather chair, listening to some hopeless employee prattle on about how they'll do anything to spare the reprimand.
The ones at his feet now are not so dissimilar, though they crave attention as much as they crave money and whatever else they may glaze their eyes on--he doesn't much care. Better to give them something before they take advantage of much more; and his pocket is full of his coins, silver enameled things meticulously carved, enough that he only feels a jolt of displeasure when he thumbs one out and flicks it in the direction of the beggars.
And what do they want? Well, of course--they want the rest of them.
Rufus takes an immediate step back, a firm line of irritation settling in, and shakes his head. He needs a decoy, and fast: so he reaches for the first person he sees, passing by, and hooks his arm in through with this stranger's to offer them a demanding sort of smile. ]
You. Yes. Walk with me. Away from here.
NETWORK.
Bruises, in the right places. Why choose anything else?
ooc: ( got a different idea? feel free to hit me up via PM or just post it below, i'll roll with anything! )
rufus shinra — final fantasy vii remake
[ It's never advisable to lose something valuable--even more when everything has a price. There's always some kind of intrinsic benefit, some of practicality and some of pleasure; he can remember things being taken away from him for this very reason, possessions lost to the whims of his own tantrums and his father's nasty punishments, and maybe that's why he declares everything within the realm of his power as his own things: people and items alike. There's not an item he owns that he is not entirely unwilling to part with, and as his icy eyes scan the people around him, tossing in clocks and flowers and precious jewelry, he almost thinks them mad.
Who would do such a thing merely for some festival? Who would be that ridiculous?
He stands, stubbornly resistant, refusing to even level his shotgun with the width of the darkness there, refusing to even waste one bullet on it--but some things are taken as involuntarily as the stuffed bear he'd lost once he'd "outgrown" it, and a memory of this toy, of that one particular instance of his father's cool rage and cruelty, wrapped into one, comes past his lips like icy breath; it falls, a light that goes dark into the chasm, and Rufus has no idea how it happens or why he's suddenly without it.
Just that the first person he sees staring at him will be met with the snap of a mirror of that cool anger--] Can I help you?
SALOON.
[ It's the taste of dirt in his mouth. Dirt or sand, he can't quite tell--but he hates it all the same, hates that when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, he can't quite remember why he's there in the first place.
His white clothes are sufficiently scuffed, coat unbuttoned and hair a wild blonde mess around his temples; and he can't remember why he's wearing them, either. He can't remember where he is, or why when he gets up onto his knees, there's the sign of some garish bar or something similar--what even is a saloon, his mind spits at him--in front of him, of doors he can't remember being tossed out of, and the frustration of it all makes his lips press together, pursed and angry and a tiny, tiny pinch afraid. Amnesia?
He tries to dust himself off the best he can. There's a gun at his feet, and he doesn't know that he wants to touch it; guns are dangerous things, especially when wielded by someone unworthy of them. He nudges it faintly with the toe of his boot and then, with a sigh, bends again to haul it up.]
Excuse me. [ He asks, of the first person he manages to see.] I'm sorry to have to ask this, but do you... know who I am?
PITY.
For your trouble.
[ He's used to those that beg--even enjoys it, in a sense, especially when he's comfortably laced into a thick leather chair, listening to some hopeless employee prattle on about how they'll do anything to spare the reprimand.
The ones at his feet now are not so dissimilar, though they crave attention as much as they crave money and whatever else they may glaze their eyes on--he doesn't much care. Better to give them something before they take advantage of much more; and his pocket is full of his coins, silver enameled things meticulously carved, enough that he only feels a jolt of displeasure when he thumbs one out and flicks it in the direction of the beggars.
And what do they want? Well, of course--they want the rest of them.
Rufus takes an immediate step back, a firm line of irritation settling in, and shakes his head. He needs a decoy, and fast: so he reaches for the first person he sees, passing by, and hooks his arm in through with this stranger's to offer them a demanding sort of smile. ]
You. Yes. Walk with me. Away from here.
NETWORK.
Bruises, in the right places. Why choose anything else?
ooc:
( got a different idea? feel free to hit me up via PM or just post it below, i'll roll with anything! )