Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own FF7
Author's note: It's just what it says. It's a brief interlude to provide
some.let's say background to the story.
Interlude
The arctic wind blows relentlessly over the northern continent. Its snowy fields and mountain landscape are barren, eternally covered by layers upon layers of white. The land is bereft of life, or at least visible life. The animals have all sought shelter against the blizzards that rage all over the continent. No living thing would be foolish enough to venture into the cold now. And yet, there is one who does.
In the midst of the snowstorm is a man. He trudges slowly through the deep snow, walking aimlessly forward. His green eyes stare intently ahead and his face is expressionless. He knows not where he is going, but is driven by instinct to continue this path. His mind is occupied with only one thought: to continue moving.
The deep snow bites at his bare feet as he trudges through it. The flurries fall tirelessly, obscuring his vision. The chill wind rips at his exposed chest, arms, face, and whips the strands of long, silvery hair behind him, as if trying to pull them out. His skin is now blue from cold, and icicles hang from his brow. But, he doesn't seem to notice any of this. He feels the unrelenting cold and the wind stabbing him like a thousand tiny knives. But, he gives no heed to them. He does not give in. He does not die. He continues to move forward.
His will is a blazing inferno, and the bright green film which covers him is the wood that feeds it, the force that keeps his body alive to serve that will. The storm seems angry with him, angry that it cannot bring him down on his knees. The winds blow with all their might, and the snow falls even harder. Still, he continues to walk on.
Interlude
The arctic wind blows relentlessly over the northern continent. Its snowy fields and mountain landscape are barren, eternally covered by layers upon layers of white. The land is bereft of life, or at least visible life. The animals have all sought shelter against the blizzards that rage all over the continent. No living thing would be foolish enough to venture into the cold now. And yet, there is one who does.
In the midst of the snowstorm is a man. He trudges slowly through the deep snow, walking aimlessly forward. His green eyes stare intently ahead and his face is expressionless. He knows not where he is going, but is driven by instinct to continue this path. His mind is occupied with only one thought: to continue moving.
The deep snow bites at his bare feet as he trudges through it. The flurries fall tirelessly, obscuring his vision. The chill wind rips at his exposed chest, arms, face, and whips the strands of long, silvery hair behind him, as if trying to pull them out. His skin is now blue from cold, and icicles hang from his brow. But, he doesn't seem to notice any of this. He feels the unrelenting cold and the wind stabbing him like a thousand tiny knives. But, he gives no heed to them. He does not give in. He does not die. He continues to move forward.
His will is a blazing inferno, and the bright green film which covers him is the wood that feeds it, the force that keeps his body alive to serve that will. The storm seems angry with him, angry that it cannot bring him down on his knees. The winds blow with all their might, and the snow falls even harder. Still, he continues to walk on.