Wow, I actually did this. (Titles)
So, I debated with my good friend RBMIfan on what would be a good way to get started on LiveJournal.
Somehow, I ended up with Titles as my starting point. Originally posted on ff.net (because I have no shame), Titles was a series of oneshots based on the Titles in the game Tales of Symphonia. Some are serious; others decidedly not. Anyway, let's give it a go.
Title: Titles
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Characters: All Playable Characters
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: Part 1 and Part 2 together= 8000+
Spoilers: Season 2
Warning: Canon, mentions of violence, mood whiplash, spoilers
Disclaimer: I don't own TOS (Originally posted on ff.net)
Summary: "Our names are what we are: our titles are who we are."
Part 2
Titles- Part 1
Swordsman
“One who trains his body and soul to fight the enemy with all his might.”
Back twist… right… left… half circle… quarter turn… extend… slash… retract… stab… dodge… flip…left… The wind whistled as twin blades cut through the air, shattering the peace of the forest clearing. It did not halt the user in his training, nor did it encourage him. He just continued swinging his swords in a style unfamiliar to the lands; for it was his own, and nobody else’s.
Unseen enemies were slain with each stroke, and each stroke shifted to a more complex series of motion. Sweat glittered in the setting sun. The boy failed to notice, too enraptured by his mind telling him where to strike next, reminding him that the enemy would never let him catch his breath; that one wrong move would see him dead.
So, he was unrelenting in his swords’ clean slices through the air. How long he trained, only the Moon knew, but as all humans’ must his energy soon failed. The boy laid there in the grass, hands refusing to let go of the swords that almost willed him to get up, panting with harsh breaths. Turning his head slightly to the left, warm brown eyes locked onto to a gloved hand: to white wrappings covering a lump.
Brown eyes hardened slightly, and, as if the last two hours of training had never happened, the boy was standing. Two feet apart, swords drawn and ready, he waited for an unseen signal. Whatever it was it came and soon he was back to his dance. The one only he knew. Back twist… right… left… half circle… quarter turn… extend… slash… retract… stab… dodge… flip…left…
Magic User
“The first title given to those who study magic. Follow that path of sorcery!”
It had been pure luck that he had stumbled upon the book, trudging home one day under a smoky grey sky. At the time could never have known that the tattered thing he had tripped over, covered in grime and mud, was something to be valued and treasured above almost all else. How was he to know that a simple book would- could possibly- alter his entire destiny?
How was he to know that a book he’d found face down in a pile of dirt contained every elemental magic spell known in the history books?
His heart just about stopped when he saw the rune diagrams for Fireball one page in. A glance further in showed the necessary runes and the incantations for Indignation and Absolute. He just about forgot to breathe when he saw the last two, though they were far too complex for him to even consider. That a small, insignificant, outcast boy like him could have access to such knowledge was overwhelming.
But in that clearing a week later, the now-cleaned book resting on a rock, he felt his blood sing to him. And as the mana flowed through his veins, helping him, guiding him, he realized he’d never before felt so whole. No matter how many times he practiced saying the words, they only truly flowed the moment he added mana to them. Weaving it into the letters and moving his hands to accommodate the finer details of the spell, he lost himself in the beauty and sheer, raw power of the magic.
“O Flickering Blaze Burn. Fireball!”
Fledgling Chosen
“I’m still a fledgling, but to save the world… Her smile heals the most wounded of souls”
The priests closed the doors behind them as they left her to read, oblivious to her sighing the moment the door was closed. Surrounding her was a sea of books, some in the human tongue, and others in the angelic language. Dust filtered through the room- a testimony to how ancient some of the scripture was. She had to be delicate while handling a few else they could be horribly damaged.
She stared at the cover of a book, one that was decades older than she would ever hope to be. The priests said that this was the map and notes of another Chosen: one of the few who’d completed the Journey of Restoration. Gently, her fingers brushed the worn leather and faded gold leafing. This was what another before her had finished: this was their journal. She did not need to open it to know the last pages had never been written in. In all the journals she had read, she had yet to find one with all the pages filled.
For one selfish moment, she wanted to be the one to write a completed dairy of her life.
But as quickly as the wish floated across her mind, she banished it. One life or thousands? It was a decision anyone with a brain could make. She smiled faintly, breathing deeply, and with a steady hand that betrayed her frame of mind she slowly opened the cover. Flipping the pages she steeled her will to read. There was so much she still had to learn, after all. Even if she was still only a fledgling.
Mercenary
“He travels the world, trusting only his own powers. His skills are for sale-not his loyalty.”
There was a force in his steps and harshness in his eyes as his feet hit the well-worn trail. The forest around him was indeed beautiful, yet he could not bring himself to care. Fate had decided that he would return to the region he would have been happy to never see again. It seemed Fate always won whenever he tangled himself with it.
The trail wasn’t long to someone like himself, someone who was used to traveling great distances in short periods of time. But he did not hurry. One step at a time: it was all he could do right.
At times like this, when he was alone with the world and far from the humans he couldn’t decide whether to love or hate, before he began to weave the lies that would lead the sheep to the slaughter, he almost felt like the mercenary he pretended to be. But the Chosen he was to guard had been long out-bid.
4000 years out-bid.
Teacher
“A work filled with dreams, her job is to teach her students the joys of learning.”
The tests were set with a certain reverence on her desk, red ink drying in circles and numbers on most of the sheets, almost as soon as she’d drawn them. The light flickered beside her hand, illuminating the oak desk dimly. She knew the owner of each pencil scratch on each page her pen touched. She knew what they liked, what they didn’t like and how they tackled their lives.
Some did not need prompting to learn. Others needed to spend more time reading, and despite her best efforts she had yet to convince the latter group of the wisdom in that. There was small sigh as she reached a test she knew would not take long to mark. Tests belonging to this particular writer never did, and there little doubt in her mind that would ever change.
Red ink flowed from the pen’s nib, glinting in the dark, her mind lost to her thoughts. One question had her thinking about the Triet Ruins, another about the Balacruf Mausoleum. What she would give to see and study them! A glance at the sheet beneath her pen deflated such thoughts, though it also brought a smile to her face.
But it seemed she had work to do first.
Drifting Swordsman
“The boy sets out on a journey, bearing his sins. Do not forget the past.”
The smoke clogged his nose, raking his lungs with clawed, jagged fingers when he inhaled and refusing to give up its prize when he exhaled. What appeared to have been a rainstorm trailed off into a drizzle, but the wetness didn’t stop the ashes from dancing in the wind. Embers were slow to die in the wreckage of a house, while in another the flames still burned high. The villagers were desperately trying to save it, though everyone knew it was beyond saving. This alien landscape of craters, and ruins had once been a town.
Villagers shout and curse the boy, but the words don’t cut nearly as deep as the hateful glint in the eyes of everyone he sees. The mayor’s verdict is unchallenged and the scent of the rotting dead prevent the boy from bringing himself to argue.
He turns, the path before him covered in puddles and mud tinted pink with blood. It sloshes against his boots as he walks, staining them the same colour. His past is behind him, haunting him, while a future waits before him. And with boots stained by the villagers’ blood he takes his first step toward it.
It would be the first of many in those stained boots.
Brotherly and Sisterly Love
"You need me, sis. You can't do laundry and your cooking can only be called destructive."
"The title given to an older sister who is strict at times, kind as a mother."
Her bags were packed, the last of her supplies safely stored, and he fought the lump in his throat. She herself was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded with the last of her work to be completed for school. He sat down hard, and she glanced at him curiously. “What’s the matter?”
“Take me with you.” Eyes of the same shade, carved from the same trials, the same parentage and the same sibling love met hers in a battle of wills. Neither dominated.
“No.” The protector, always the protector, had steel in her voice. It was a tone she normally reserved for the school, when disobedience had to be heeled as quickly as possible. He knew what she was thinking. They had gone over this before. Why was he bringing it up again? How could he convince her not to go alone? Not to leave him like…
He stood, hands on the table, eyes blazing, “You need me, sis. You can’t do laundry and your cooking can only be called destructive.”
Her eye twitched.
As she prepared to pull rank on her brother, finger mid-wave, she saw it. Hiding from her gaze, the little half-elven boy who might never again see the only family he had ever known and was terrified of being alone, trapped in a teenager’s body. Now the world was clear.
Swallowing hard, she leveled her gaze. “The road will be long and dangerous - too dangerous for you. While the mercenary is skilled, he can’t protect you if we get into trouble. Neither can I throw you into that danger knowingly. My answer is no."
She forced herself to remaining sitting as he ran off to his rooms, slamming the door like the little lost child he was at the moment. Protecting younger brothers from the world as long as they could was the elder sister’s task. That didn’t stop the headache, or the clench in her throat, but it did make it easier for him to allow the hug and light kiss on the head when she went to check on him.
Klutz
“The countless miracles come naturally. Is it okay to make a hole in the wall at school?”
The hole had a very distinct shape. Distinctly human, to be precise, and there was little doubt in the minds of the villagers about who had made it. There was only one person in the whole of the continent who was just naturally clumsy enough to cause property damage from a simple oral presentation. Inside the building, the rest of the class stared at the hole in bemusement while a certain red-faced Chosen apologized to the teacher.
“You know,” one started, “the scary thing is she’s the only one who can save us.”
Magic Swordsman (Kratos)
“His attacks will crush the earth and frighten the evils of this world.”
The blade rang a mellow tone as it hit the sheath; more a courtesy than a lack of skill, enough to warn his opponent of his presence.
It was all the warning they would get.
His opponents (for lack of a better word; the wretches didn’t deserve such a title) turned towards the sound. There was a moment of stillness in the desert as the two parties regarded each other. Then, at some unheard signal, the battle commenced. The bandits were slain without hesitation and without remorse. He had done such acts more often than he cared to acknowledge.
At the expert swing of his sword, a life ended. And another. And another.
His return to camp was noted only by a raised silver brow and a pair of eyes that watched his every move with distrust, the same way they watched over the others, sleeping unaware. Eyes that noted every detail, like the flecks of blood he had yet to remove.
The fire flickered into the night sky.
Grand Swordsman
“The lofty spirit that lives by the sword. His skillful attacks could be called art.”
Quick stab right… demon fang… flip…counter-strike… dodge… right… left… right… behind… tempest… stab… counter-turn… dodge… The desert was a strange, unfamiliar terrain. The ground was different here, not as constant and reliable as the boy was used to. How he stepped was crucial, and the ease at which he could slip worried him. He had to practice until he was confident he could keep his footing in a battle.
Quick stab left. He’d moved too quickly; lost his balance seconds into the combo. The sand slipped from beneath the boy’s feet, and then he was down on his knees. He struggled to catch his breath, brown eyes glaring holes at the treacherous sand.
He heard a light scoff to his right, and a glance saw the mercenary watching him. “Sand is different than rock or dirt. It has little traction. You have to account for that when training.” Then the man was gone, his back retreating in the direction of camp.
The boy growled to himself, scowling as he stood again. That was why he was out here training in the first place, wasn’t it? Just because the mercenary was more experienced didn’t mean he had to be a jerk about it. He shook his head then; no time to be distracted. Taking his stance, body twisted to favor one blade at each side, he settled. Quick stab right… demon fang… flip…counter-strike… dodge… right… left… right… behind… tempest… stab… counter-turn… dodge…
Sorcerer
“The title for the one who controls the flow of mana with intelligence and technique.”
The book laid open on the rock. On the pages was an incantation stylized underneath a spell’s bold name. His fingers gingerly traced the fine print explaining how the mana had to flow, how he would not be creating a single fire but heating the earth under the feet of his enemies until it boiled. Once activated, nothing but his own magic prevented his friends -allies- from being burned by the arte.
He took a deep, calming breath and steadied himself, but the sweat on his brow betrayed his apprehension. His book listed warnings about what would happen if he failed, -another deep breath- but it would be worth it if he got it to work.
He could do this. Despite his misgivings, he knew that he could do it - he felt it in the deepest core of his being, the part that sang out whenever he took control of this magic. He took a third breath, let it out, then called upon his heritage, his control of mana, and let it flow into the ground… "O infernal emperor, rise from the depths of the earth... Burn! Eruption!"
Researcher
“Her dedication has surpassed study itself; she can’t stop flaunting her knowledge.”
Her notebook was open wide, her pen scribbling notes and labels around the diagrams she'd already drawn out. Triet Ruins was taking up an entire section of her notebook, she mused. Before long she would need another empty book to continue her research. She turned the page. On this page were the runes; painstakingly copied, in order to preserve them as accurately as possible; and a variety of phrases from the angelic language that the chosen had read to open the passageway to the interior of the ruins, with the meanings and translations noted quickly in the margins in pencil. She began recopying those more neatly, adding comments and insights she'd had since the event.
A glance over the fire showed two of her companions practicing dangerously close to the priceless find. She dropped her notebook and let loose a garbled shriek of outrage, all but flying towards the duo. The chosen and mercenary both glanced at her as she came past; the chosen covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile.
“What are you doing!?!” They jumped at her voice; her brother immediately pulled a ‘surrender’, both hands high, and the other shrunk under her waving finger. Their scolding could be heard clear across the desert, words like “imbeciles”, “irreplaceable” and “next time I see you practicing so close to a relic, both of you will be cleaning floors at every inn we visit and the temples” rising above the rest.
She returned to her spot once both boys were properly cowed; meaning they jumped whenever she glanced their way and kept well away from all objects that might possibly be considered old. She was well aware of the chosen’s light laughter and the faint amusement in the mercenary’s smirk.
Chosen
“She is the daughter of an angel. With her powers, she sacrifices herself to restore the world.”
The Seal of Fire was the first of many trials. The beginning of everything, one could say. And to her it served to cement the magnitude of her destiny. This was real, she thought. She could save the world. And as a sign of this destiny she was given a pair of beautiful wings, that left her in awe every time she glanced at her reflection and seemed to shine through the darkness of the future. They lit the road to Regeneration.
But even in the face of all these miracles, she couldn’t help but reflect that she missed the taste of chocolate.
Mysterious Assassin
“An assassin who kills in the darkness of twilight with shadows of sorrow in her eyes.”
The target was unmistakable: blond hair, blue eyes, definitely a ditz. And her bodyguards weren’t exactly...subtle. Even so, it hadn’t been easy finding her. This wasn’t her world, after all, and its roads were very different than what she was used to. She’d lost the trail more than once, forced to rely on rumour and days-old sightings to regain her bearings.
The Chosen of Sylvarant and her group were ignorant of the assassin above them. She watched them carefully as they set up camp, and relaxed around a fire. Completely relaxed, chatting amongst
themselves. Mostly about their journey; techniques and spells they’d learned along the way, and escapades from the last town. It seemed so… normal. If only the Chosen of Tethe’alla could learn the modesty of this world’s Chosen, she thought wistfully, and for one dangerous moment she wished she didn’t have to kill the blond. But the moment passed and, shaking her head, she prepared to drop down. After all, it didn’t matter whether she liked the Chosen.
For the safety of Tethe’alla, the Chosen of Sylvarant had to die.
Magic Swordsman
“His attacks will crush the earth and frighten the evils of this world.”
The group accepted him reluctantly. He'd expected that; they looked at him the same way everyone else did. Like they couldn't believe this idiot was the second most powerful person in Tethe’alla. And, sure, he'd gone out of his way to make them think that. But. Even after he'd left the Church, after he'd joined them on their stupid quest, their eyes would go from his face to his side; to his sword. He could hear their questions, unasked, and he quietly hated them for that. For being just like every other miserable person on this world.
It was the brat who finally voiced one of them, and that was definitely mockery in his tone, “Are you sure you can lift that sword without stabbing yourself?”
Taciturn Girl
“Her eyes do not reflect anything, She shows no emotions. What has made her this way?”
There was no doubt about it, the swordsman thought to himself; the girl was definitely weird. Like, insanely weird. Weirder than he'd ever seen before, probably, he nodded to himself. And then she turned her expressionless gaze on him and he couldn't hold back the flinch. He didn't continue the train of thought.
Her empty eyes that rattled even the bravest of souls.
Ill- Fated Girl
“A sacrificial lamb to save the world. Can’t allow it even if she chose it herself.”
He lifted the necklace gingerly; reverently. Stood there a moment, watching the light of the lamp play off the key crest pendant and thinking that this thing was probably her last hope in the world and it had better work, damn it. And then he knelt beside the shell of his friend. With more care than most thought him capable of, he set the necklace in its place.
Stepping back, he waited.
And waited.
And he felt a bitter taste form in the back of his throat when the eyes of his Chosen did not change. Even after all of this- after everything.
It was the taste of defeat.
Gentle Idealist
“The ideals he holds may be unrealistic, but many are moved by his heart.”
Not that he was going to tell anyone, but it was a relief when Tiga laughed and agreed to help with his impossible dream… and that the group believed in him anyway.
Convict
“The shackle is the symbol of the crime he committed. Its weight condemns him.”
They wore on him. Rubbing his wrists raw in the summer until drops of blood dripped down his hands. In the winter, the metal froze to his skin until they were white-hot fire. But he would not take them off; could not take them off, even if he had the keys.
For they were his reminder of the past; his bloody reward for all of his mistakes.
Idiot Chosen
“A title given by a friend during the journey. It is not a name given out of spite.”
“You Idiot Chosen!”
It actually takes him a minute to realize she's shouting for him, and then he's staring at a rather incensed looking ninja as she barrels towards him. It occurs to him, in that detached way that things occur to people who are about to die, that he should probably get out of the way. He's fairly sure that trying to charm her into letting him off would only make her angrier. By the time the command even starts to reach his legs, though, the Summoner is already in front of him. He almost flinches when she draws herself up to her full height and points a finger in his face…. and says nothing.
He risks a glance up after a second, to see a rather odd expression on her face. Sort of like she's fighting between anger and laughter. Finally she sighs and crosses her arms, a small smile twitching into place. “Don’t you have anything better to do than mess with the Sylvaranti?”
And he realizes then that she's not angry with him; not really. Annoyed, maybe. But not angry. And she called him an idiot, but there's no disdain behind it. It's more like the teasing that occurs between friends.
Huh, he thinks. He's made friends. He's not sure what to make of that.