retrospec | (no subject)

I know we've all been a bit distracted lately, not only from the abrupt loss of two colors from the spectrum, but all the usual school madness that occurs in June. Grades are coming in, summer sessions are about to begin, and that's an understandably stressful time.

[To say nothing of sleep loss. Rosalind certainly looks exhausted as she glowers into the camera. Behind her, chalkboards are filled with equations, and someone with a particularly clever mind might be able to spot a trend towards space and time.]

However. Let me give a few of you a piece of advice. I know several of you are in university right now, or about to graduate high school and enter into it. If you ever send a professor who failed you something like what I'm about to attach, you will not change their minds. Point in fact, they'll be even more determined to fail you. I know I certainly am, and I'm not even the one dealing with this right now.

Rosalind Lutece shared a photo.
6/16 near Recolle University

Honestly, I preferred the bribes to this.

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[Maybe someday, she'll feel comfortable enough to cry in front of him. Maybe not. But at least if she's ever so inclined to it, she can think back on this moment, this discussion, and know he at least in part understands why she's so reluctant to do so.

For now . . . Rosalind leans back, resting against the cushions with a force of effort. It takes further effort for her to allow herself to slide over, bumping her shoulder against his, halfway leaning against him.]

Well. You might be good for a distraction, if you feel up to telling a story.

[She still feels raw and shaky, but the inclination to burst into tears is passing, and she'd prefer to keep it that way.]

[That elicits a chuckle from him; his shoulders gently jostle at being bumped, and he returns the favor as a way to accent his reply.]

A story? Well.

[He never considered himself much of a storyteller, but heavens knows that he has the dramatic flair for it. A fondness of words, coupled with the motivation to do so, might prove entertaining to those who listen.]

Of course. What sort of story do you want to hear?

Oh, anything.

[She isn't quite leaning full on against him, but it might not be long until she does.]

Tell me about your chocobo, or what you and Prompto have done, or something you remember from your childhood. I hardly care what, I simply . . . let me think about something else.

[Free reign, then, the speak about what he wants. He considers for a moment the suggested topics, and immediately rules out the one about his childhood. About Prompto? Maybe. About his chocobo? He couldn’t remember many details of the creature, but…

Perhaps that lent itself better to the act of storytelling, even if he had to make something up, for the sake of romanticism.]

I told you I don't remember my chocobo's name. I still don't, but even then... I know it was a steadfast companion of mine. We travelled together, far and wide, and met many people -- rich and poor, old and young.

[Which of these parts does he actually remember (fragmented things, really), and which details does he just fill with his own imagination? He'll not say.]

And when I say we travelled, I mean that we travelled far. Many, many miles, sometimes. Through wilderness and open plain. At times, we'd even have to stop, and make camp in the night. And one had to choose their location wisely, because there were creatures lurking in the dark, always there, lingering. Dangerous.

[He can't see her face when they're positioned like this, Rosalind knows. And so, as he speaks, she allows herself the indignity of letting her eyes close.]

Did you fight them?

[Is he making all this up? Likely. But really, she doesn't care, not right now. She isn't asking because she wants to know about this other Ardyn; she's asking because she doesn't want to think about her gentleman.]

Or did you two ride away?

If camp was already made, it's a bit difficult to pack everything up when a behemoth descends upon you. You've a matter of... maybe seconds, really, to move out of the way. They have a fondness for eating chocobos, you know, so when they burst through the swaying trees, they've already a target in mind.

[This is very much 80 percent made up, 20 percent based on his own imaginings and conversations with Prompto about behemoths.]

So you flee. You leave everything behind, with no light to lead your way, and wait. You listen for its growling and its shuffling to make sure it hasn't followed you. And when you believe yourself to be safe... you return. And hope that your campsite hasn't been completely destroyed underfoot.

Mmm . . .

[She's not falling asleep, but there's something very soothing about the way he tells a story. It's a talent, heaven knows; he manages to weave his words in such a way that she's entranced.]

That's what you get for camping outdoors, you know. How big are they?

[If he senses her growing relaxation, he knows that's only a reason for him to keep telling the story.]

Large. Very large. Massive, towering creatures on all fours; at least two stories. Two great horns on its head, tearing through the forest, breaking branches and toppling trees in its rage. A forest, which by the way, was the only place for myself and my chocobo to camp. The next village was miles and miles away. I had to find a place to rest my head.

Well, an hour or two later, and it had left. And the camp and all of our supplies? Scattered, broken, useless. Barely anything salvageable. I would go to sleep hungry and cold, that night.

Poor Ardyn.

[She'd said that earlier today, when he'd jokingly whined about being made to clean the boards. It can't have been more an hour ago, if that, but Rosalind feels like it was ages. Half a day, at least.]

I can't imagine . . . I don't even like chocobos that much, never mind something so bloody enormous. Was it carnivorous?

With canines as sharp and prominent as it has? I would think so.

[That, he's not making up. He remembers the maw of such creatures. Terrifying, enough to engulf a man whole. Not that thinks he was ever dumb enough to have done such a thing, anyway.]

Still, I had my life, and I had my chocobo. In the end, that's all I needed. To say that I wouldn't sleep that night was an understatement; instead, I took what was still useable and simply continued my journey to the next village.

Edited 2017-07-14 19:13 (UTC)

[SWEET CHRIST]

You make it sound like you were some kind of heroic cowboy. Did you teach the villagers how to defend themselves from the incoming bandits, or did you have to wait for the Magnificent Six to join you?

Maybe I was.

[A scoff.]

The heroic, healing cowboy. On a mission to cure the world of an ailment running rampant, or some such.

[A shrug of his shoulders.]

I'd like to say that, but it makes me sound more heroic that I might've actually been. I didn't carry a weapon. I must've only relied on my wits to survive the wilderness.

Mm. A strategy I think might just work out well for you.

[Her head tips, and she settles just a little more against him.]

I think you'd do well playing at heroics. You're good at that kind of theatrics, and theatrics seem to be half the job.

True, the theatrics part I was able to indulge myself in quite well. Much like how I am now.

[At least he's self-aware enough to admit this; then again, this shouldn't be surprising either.]

It helps that I was amicable and charming, too.

Now you're just patting yourself on the back.

Not at all!

[A little.]

Think about it; I would have to be a sort of person that others would trust. I'd hardly draw a crowd if I were a surly, ill-tempered healer.

Rosalind Lutece shared a photo. 6/16 near Recolle University