![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
{ VIDEO } ♆ 004
[ a lone figure stands in the Oxygen Gardens (one of the higher floors) surrounded by trees that shadow and shield him as much as holding his back to the camera does. his celestial bronze sword is out and every time his wrist moves, his feet shuffle or the wind sways him, the blade glints. he's wearing cargo shorts and a Camp Half-Blood t-shirt, though his dark hoody blots out the bright orange. his voice (when he speaks) isn't louder than it needs to be, no more than his sneaker cracking twigs. ] A long time ago, I believed the gods had everything figured out.
They had misguided intentions because they couldn't directly interfere but they were trying; to be better, to do better than before. [ his head drops, heavy on his neck and his shoulders. ] But what's the point in being able to predict the future if you keep repeating the same mistakes? If you're so detached from the world that you can't be involved in it, that you can't stop a blade of grass from dying, let alone a person? What's the point of living forever [ he lowers his sword, sinks the tip into earth, glares down at it like it's the root of his problems ] if the only thing you're going to do - if the only thing you can do - is pat someone on the shoulder and shove them into harm's way, time and time again, to do your dirty work?
[ he's not drunk; he doesn't drink. but what he's saying, the conclusions he's uttering are almost out of his control, gone before he can pull them back. they're everything he's ever thought but never intended to say out loud, where he can't pretend it doesn't bother him, that it doesn't keep him awake at night. ] If your only purpose is to safeguard your family but you can't even do that right, what's the point?
[ Anaklusmos shreds grass when he rips it from the ground and he turns, looks into the camera and in the little burrowed patch that's half branch overhang but with a large enough field for one or two people to train in, it's dark enough to obscure his face but light enough to play tricks. is there- is that armor on his face . . . or? (or is he like so many others lately, fallen prey to a mask?) it doesn't matter because the feed times out when he adjusts his sword arm (rolls out an ache in his shoulder) prepared to swing at a dummy that's certainly seen better days, considering it's slanting off a pole, splitting on one side, half an arm missing and it looks suspiciously like its head (compiled of sheets and other miscellaneous gathered goods) is about to fall off. ]
They had misguided intentions because they couldn't directly interfere but they were trying; to be better, to do better than before. [ his head drops, heavy on his neck and his shoulders. ] But what's the point in being able to predict the future if you keep repeating the same mistakes? If you're so detached from the world that you can't be involved in it, that you can't stop a blade of grass from dying, let alone a person? What's the point of living forever [ he lowers his sword, sinks the tip into earth, glares down at it like it's the root of his problems ] if the only thing you're going to do - if the only thing you can do - is pat someone on the shoulder and shove them into harm's way, time and time again, to do your dirty work?
[ he's not drunk; he doesn't drink. but what he's saying, the conclusions he's uttering are almost out of his control, gone before he can pull them back. they're everything he's ever thought but never intended to say out loud, where he can't pretend it doesn't bother him, that it doesn't keep him awake at night. ] If your only purpose is to safeguard your family but you can't even do that right, what's the point?
[ Anaklusmos shreds grass when he rips it from the ground and he turns, looks into the camera and in the little burrowed patch that's half branch overhang but with a large enough field for one or two people to train in, it's dark enough to obscure his face but light enough to play tricks. is there- is that armor on his face . . . or? (or is he like so many others lately, fallen prey to a mask?) it doesn't matter because the feed times out when he adjusts his sword arm (rolls out an ache in his shoulder) prepared to swing at a dummy that's certainly seen better days, considering it's slanting off a pole, splitting on one side, half an arm missing and it looks suspiciously like its head (compiled of sheets and other miscellaneous gathered goods) is about to fall off. ]
Page 1 of 4