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| No title. |
| (2012-11-19 - 2012-11-19) |
| No description. |
| Ivo Galvan | You'd think he'd have learned his lesson. Ivo's previous jaunt into the Golmore Jungle was less than a week ago, and though he accomplished both his objectives, he did not do so effortlessly or absent of personal peril. The request to pluck the great blossom from the head of an ancient blind Ochu was a convenient (so to speak) excuse to pursue his own ends, and seek out the leaves of the red toyon, the raw material for a fireproof fabric he has promised a friend. With both quests complete, one might assume little replay value would remain. But the verdant glen in which their prizes lay contained numerous other forms of rare and unusual vegetation, and the young knight-errant found himself consumed by curiosity as to their natures. Of course, last time, he and his compatriots were unable to examine the variety available to them due to enemy attention, thanks to their fearless leader finding their foes first, as it were. A horde of shrieking Picochus later saw the motley crew desperately fleeing once their mission was done. Returning to the scene of the crime might not seem like the wisest choice, but then again, perhaps Ivo /has/ learned his lesson. He didn't bring Reize this time. Having doffed his cloak in the heat and humidity, a bead of sweat traces its way down his neck and along the line of its collarbone as he eases his way through a mass of leaves, listening to the chatter of the birds, the buzz of insects, and the whisper of the swaying vines about him. For all the intriguing flora and fauna which populate this place, so far he has proceeded unmolested, and he intends to keep it that way, his blue eyes scanning as far ahead as possible beneath his dampened dark bangs. |
| Ivo Galvan | He figured that oppressive feeling was just the humidity. His first thought as the shadows thicken is wry, as he glances up toward the canopy with a rather blithe calm: so /that's/ why there weren't so many monsters and beasts about. Once it becomes obvious that a wave of darkness is coming his way, Ivo loses his deadpan in favor of a more serious expression, his brow furrowing as his hand reaches for Hauteclare's hilt, even as his gaze darts about for a likely path of escape, however improbably. So he is a little distracted when an all-too familiar young woman rushes by. "Ah, pardon me." Double take. "Wh--!" After a few breaths, Ivo is dashing by Jasmine's side, long legs making long strides, turning his head to look straight at her rather than where he is going, if only for effect. "Fancy meeting you here," he remarks, attempting a casual tone even as his voice tightens from the exertion of fleeing. "I regret to see that your lot doesn't seem to have improved. Did you lose track of your bodyguard? I ran into him in Traverse." He holds an index finger aloft, smiling slightly. "Quite an intimidating fellow, that Jean Faraven." It's somewhat ridiculous to be having an extended conversation in the midst of ducking under vines and vaulting over logs and overgrowth, but as he talks, Ivo's mind is churning. That's right: he'd been so awe-struck by Jean's sudden appearance that he reglected to ask about this mysterious woman. It's none of his business, of course, but he can't help but be curious. That Faraven fellow turned out to be from SeeD, like Quistis. Wasn't SeeD's headquarters recently attacked by a horde of Heartless and--? This promises to be quite the tale. "It's tough being popular, huh?" Ivo grins broadly, jerking his head back once at the shadows racing across the ground and splashing their way from tree to tree. "I'm no Faraven, but--" He's too curious to back down now. Besides... "--shall I fend off a few of your fans for you?" ...whether he sticks with her or not, the Heartless are here. |
| Ivo Galvan | "I'm flattered you remember me," is the swordsman's honest reply, still grinning despite their hectic circumstances. He's not surprised, per se, but he is impressed: their last encounter was even more tumultuous than this, and he was one of many involved. "Don't apologize, please. It's not so out of the ordinary," he demurs as the pack of ravenous abominations eager to devour his heart and soul close in, matching their frantic pace. "Men are used to associating trouble with beautiful women." Ivo's known for teasing girls, but his tone now is merely lighthearted, not suggestive. He's not a spiritually refined individual, but he is intuitive and (as some skilled manipulators can be) often empathetic, and this young woman strongly reminds him of Princess Aurora: her presence has a similar soothing affect. It frankly unsettles him slightly, though he'd prefer not to admit to it. Part of it is just that he tries to remain in control of his emotions. But part of it is that something about being with women who shine like these do reminds him of what it felt like to be cradled in his mother's arms, safe, secure, at peace, at home. He hasn't felt that way in a long time. "Understood." His tone is serious for once when she alludes to her reasons for separating from Faraven. He anticipated as much, but couldn't be sure. Still, it's the explanation that makes the most sense: she must have been part of the cause of the battle at Balamb he heard of, and fled to stave off the Heartless threat. "Heh... those slender shoulders bear a weight greater than I've ever known." No, he doesn't quite like this feeling, this sense of being in the light. It's precisely because it soothes him -- even in the midst of a headlong rush -- that it seems like it exposes him, like he won't be able to half-shroud himself in shadow and play his little games. Like the past might come flooding back all at once, and for all his self-cultivation, he'd crack under the pressure. But still-- The two of them reach the cliff's edge and Ivo pauses, glancing over his shoulder as the darkness looms, before looking back at the woman and smiling slightly. He trusts her implicitly. No doubt if he takes the vine she designates, he'll escape with his life, and more besides. But still-- "I can't leave you now." By the time he says this, he's already seized the vine second from the left and hurtled into space alongside her, head tilted to cast a grin in her direction as the wind whips his hair back. "I still don't know your name!" |
| Ivo Galvan | Without hesitation, huh? Ivo's expression is oddly ambivalent after the young woman's grateful compliment, confused to hear such a statement about himself, even as he cannot deny its truth. He didn't hesitate to protect her or the people of the Coliseum. He's trained as a knight of his home world, and raised to take responsibility for the people around him, and he takes pride in protecting the varieties of life which thrive in peace. But the Darkness, his foe? Sometimes he wonders. And yet, he is reminded of how when the Heartless came, and he took up his father's sword, how he fought in such a frenzy, how sometimes he feels as though he might brush against that transcendent passion again, that purity of purpose which he has never associated with himself. It's too improbable to see himself as a hero. Ivo, of course, has little insight into the battle which Jasmine must wage against her own unbridled power to banish the darkness, to burn like a pyre for the sake of the salvation of worlds. But even if there seems something inherently gentle about the light, when it is so restrained, it's this young lady's fighting spirit that draws him to her in a way nothing at all like his reaction to Aurora. He doesn't so much want to protect this person-- "Hey!" --as he wants to fight by her side. It's become obvious that something is wrong. The playful hint is entirely banished from his eyes as the knight-errant's gaze snaps over to see her struggling with the vine -- and, even if only for a moment, a stricken look flickers across his features as her veil is torn back, revealing a seemingly endless flow of hair, the breath catching in his throat briefly. Ugh. Please don't do that to him when we're swinging over yawning voids. "Alright..." Gritting his teeth, Ivo resorts to dangling from his vine with one hand, reaching out as far as he can even as he threatens to begin swinging back toward the horde from which they're fleeing. "We'll pull... together...!" And seizing the vine with her, their hands side by side, Ivo joins his strength to hers, pulling with all his might. |
| Ivo Galvan | Ivo blandly raises an eyebrow as their teamwork results in a crushing catastrophe for the hapless minions of darkness arrayed below them. "Why do I feel as though sticking with you has set something weighty in motion?" he murmurs, even as the boulder rolls beneath. When she drops down he swiftly joins her, casting a sidelong glance at the change in her posture and bearing, noticable despite the mere months that have passed, and smiling a little despite himself. Well, given the spirit and general competence she displays, it's not so surprising. Yes, it takes a lot to surprise a master of reading others like Ivo Galvan-- "Wha...!" The swordsman flinches back from the light, raising his hand to shield his eyes, squinting one shut as his lips part in trepidation. Yet there is no escaping it, for what radiates from without resonates within. Where the rays caress him, his heart responds, swelling to fill his body entire, as though spirit and not blood ran through his veins. For a moment, his mind revolts, confusing the change for some manner of invasion, some outward judgment of his being. But as he recognizes the outpouring of feeling as his own, and finds himself swept away by the overwhelming sense of 'rightness', Ivo relaxes all defense, and allows himself to be carried on by this gentle tide. tHe closes his eyes... The jungle about him fades. He is back in Cosmopolis, in the burough he had sworn to defend, his father's sword in his hand, and the swarm of Heartless around him is the same as that which had condemned his world to eternal darkness. But unlike that day, Hauteclare feels familiar in his grasp, as though it had always belonged there, and he is not afraid. Thinking of the moments he has spent in this city, the endless adventures he has enjoyed, he finds himself smiling with an inexhaustible hope. 'I'll train you no more, boy. You haven't the fire.' "Not every man burns," Ivo whispers in reply. 'Never touch my sword.' "I didn't, until today. But..." He extends his arm, the deceptively plain blade it wields catching a light that had seemed smothered by the ominous clouds above, a gleam reflected in his eyes. "It's not your sword anymore, Dad." It belongs to all the people of this city, he thinks. No, it belongs to all people everywhere, whose myriad ways of life go unappreciated and unnoticed, whose little eccentricities and absurdities are the delight of Ivo's eye. Perhaps he will never understand his father's raw passion and intensity, his enduring love for a single sword and a single woman. But he feels now, without a shadow of a doubt, that his vitality, his conviction, is the equal of that man. This sword belongs to all his friends. This sword... "Dance for me, Hauteclare!!" This sword dances for him alone. A click of the pommel, as the blade frees from its hilt. A crackle of energy, as blue lightning traces up the sword, a pulsing orb of power forming in the empty space beyond which the cutting edge almost lazily floats. And then at once he is a blur, pirouetting in place, with movements of peerless poise and grace, wasting nothing, expressing everything. Hauteclare's blade effortlessly flickers through the air like a darting fairy, its little cuts seeming to barely to brush the Heartless until they abruptly dissolve as though of their own volition, like marionettes with strings cut. There is no fury, no desperation. There is only an aspiration, to see yet more beauty in the world, to create it in the glory of his own style. And until the moment that blade returns to its hilt, leaving nothing but glittering motes of freed hearts dispersing, it is glorious. Ivo opens his eyes. The jungle is there. And the Heartless are gone. He gazes at nothing, blankly, for several moments, before, shuddering, he sinks to his knees, Hauteclare falling from his limp grace. Amidst the silence of this momentarily empty clearing, save for the woman by his side, Ivo's quiet gasps are easily heard. "S... strange... my eyes... are..." His voice quavers as his head tilts, carefully obscuring his face from Jasmine. "...was that..." Unseen, he stares wide-eyed in utter shock into empty space, tears flowing freely, as he chokes back a sob, some last vestige of his pride struggling to preserve a little masculine dignity without his express intent. "...was that... me...?" |
| Ivo Galvan | It's too painful. That he could be that man, and wasn't when he needed to be. That he could feel that way, and now, moments later, cannot remember what it was like, even though it had made so much sense. That even when that truth is thrust before him, in as undeniable a form as is conceivably possible-- He still can't believe. He can't believe that he's worthy of this sword. He can't believe that it's alright to be who he is, not who his father wanted him to be. He can't believe that he's been forgiven, that he ought to forgive himself. Ivo Galvan has a heart that is open to new possibilities, to the outliers of society, to that and those which are otherwise neglected -- but it is otherwise a heart carefully shielded, to protect others, to protect himself, to not let anyone down anymore. He can't believe that he's not a disappointment. And to feel, for a moment, as though he is perfect just the way he is... It's unforgivable. It's not fair. It can't be that easy. When Ivo's breaths settle at last, he reaches up to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand before turns his head to look toward the young woman by his side, swallowing once. Though his eyes are moist, they are calm and clear, clear enough to reveal that, perhaps sadly, the boundaries about his self have arisen again in the wake of being dissolved by the light, but also that-- "Are you alright?" Those eyes are free of pain. "We should probably get moving." And softly, ever so slightly, he smiles. "Lest your groupies mob us again." Within that smile, not yet ready to be confessed, a hint of gratitude. |