I do not own Soul Calibur… damn

For a long time now I have been contemplating writing a fanfiction, and in that contemplation I have written many, but have never have I finished a single one. I either lose interest, or find something else to hold my attention. However, recently I have set down to start this one, and I will finish it, though soon or later is still unknown. I believe the story of Xianghua is one that deserves to be told in depth. Not in the short versions so many arcade games are known for. So many circumstances and unknown's surround her origins and destiny, and I want to exlplore a few. For I believe she is in a wa,y the heart of Soul Calibur, for she is the one it was given to…In no ways am I a great writer, or even a decent one, I know this, you do not have to point it out. And I have only recently began to play Soul Calibur, so I am sure there will be many holes. I hope in some ways I stick to the general story, but I do not plan on following the exact outlines… for I believe Xianghua's story is not one that follows any route… only a path as endless as the legacy given from mother to daughter. I want to explore the life told and the one untold… So here is where I begin a story… a story of Xianghua…

…

I put your picture away,

Sat down and cried today…

(Sheryl Crow & Kid Rock)

The walls of our house are barren; holding nothing except the faint outlines of frames they used to cradle.

If I squint, I can almost recall the images those frames held, certain momentary aspecs like the hint of a smile, the curve of a shoulder, the paleness of a hand. Yet when I try to fit the pieces together they waver like a mirage into the dust lining the walls.

The day my mother took down the pictures was the day when everything began to change, even her… the voice of her laughter grew silent, her gaze became faraway as if looking at something that was no longer there, and the picture I once held of her began to grow dim, becoming another empty space upon the wall of my memory. Her phobia of pictures slowly became something tangible, and as if in respect to that fear the other pictures lying aroud the house began to disappear. Almost as if they had never been.

I can not tell you where she put them, or even the day when I first came home to find our house empty .

I try to recall the before, when the pictures were bright and smiling. Only now, facing the after, I can do nothing but wonder when it became something different.

I try to remember my life before this, before the present began to poke holes in the memories that the pictures used to fill. I look at the wall and try to piece together my life, yet I see nothing but empty space.

…

I know this really is not much, even for a prelude, and I understand that it really gives no clue to anything… but I assure you that it does play a vital part in my story. It is by no means wonderful or great as a prelude goes, but every journey begins with a single step… this is mine…

Please Revies… thanks for reading!