Orran Durai: Household bunny wrangler. (celestialstasis) wrote in missions, @ 2012-08-13 05:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, orran durai |
And if I am a number I'm infinity plus one.
Who: Orran Durai
What: Measured steps. (Narrative.)
Where: Orran's room.
When: Sunday evening.
Rating: G (?)
Status: Complete.
Note: Erla's Waltz. Guerrilleros. Canon in D. Seizure warning for video. Toccata in E minor.
Even between the hustle and bustle things had been picked apart from his luggage and most had been meticulously packed away. At this point, there was only a suitcase and a half left. One completely untouched and the other opened, half picked apart but remnants laid strewn about still. An idle placement of an item here, a careless momentary toss of another there. All of these possessions would find homes soon enough but the trip had been wearing and upon arrival he'd barely obtained even a moment of peace. From the second the scholar stepped foot into Balamb he had been berated with noises, smells, people and events. Turning up in the middle of a celebratory festival of course would do that, however, it had been more than even he had expected. When warned about the impending events, Orran had idly written off the concept, assuming it no more elaborate than the open markets and festivals of his home. Certainly, this could be no worse than walking down an Alexandrian street lined with carts and stalls. Vendors shouting about their wears, buskers preforming for tips with hats at their feet for you to leave change, the occasional jester prancing around the square as children ran about trying to see and take in everything. Excited calls between brothers in arms, women shrieking with delight, high pitched giggles and bellowed laughter coming in from the corners of his perception. The smell of roasts and sweet fruit pies would waft through the streets as the cooks threw open their restaurant windows. Fares from far and wide displayed, the more exotic the gathering of items earning elated 'oo's and 'ah's from those who passed by. Certain stalls would be swamped with groups pointing and delightedly talking amongst themselves about the fares presented for purchase. That was, of course, until someone dug into a coin purse or satchel and retrieved the currency to appropriate the cost. It was during festival that reunions were common and many. More than once Orran had seen well dressed women demurely holding their hand out for an expected grasp, reunited comrades grabbing each other at the forearm before embracing one another, the pats they administered to each others backs hard enough to knock the wind out of lesser men. As such, festivals encouraged warm feelings for him, even if he did not tend towards much participation himself in the events. His father, a robust man of powerful build, enjoyed frequenting such events. Cid would tell Orran that for moments like this, for the times when people were joyous and without care, was what one should stand for when being a man of power. It was a sentiment that latched onto Orran, even though he had not been as sturdily built as his father. There were others ways for a man blessed with abilities above those of his peers to help the people as a whole. The Truth was one such tool, a weapon really, that when administered correctly could bring the mightest of opponents to their knees. A scan of the room would reveal a varied selection of books neatly arranged into one bookshelf. It was not even half full but by the time the rest of his belongings arrived via mail, it was certain to be over flowing. One such tome was carefully wrapped in a plain brown paper with a decorative ribbon, in singular form wrapped around both the length and width of the book before meeting in the center for a pleasant bow. That book, would require extra care so that it would not been seen too soon. However, Orran highly doubted that would be a problem tonight. The rest of the room was organized, his clothing had been hung neatly in the closest, his personal tome laid upon the desk with proper writing equipment ever ready by its side and next to that the communicator that the upper administration had bestowed upon him for the duration of his stay. The pencil holder and desk organizer had been aptly filled with the tools of his trade and papers had been carefully regulated to the drawers of the desk for the time being. Soon, he would need to obtain a proper safe to lock away his research and findings in. There was still much to find, to learn. The secrets of the universe and the hearts of men were many. With a longing gaze cast upon a locked box, a doleful sigh emerged from his throat behind closed lips. That, perhaps, was the most troubling of current circumstances surrounding his present conjectures. When he'd received the invitation from Valmafra regarding this opportunity he'd quite frankly been hesitant. The topics of research and the substance of opinion he held weren't viewed in the most popular of lights by the general public, especially with his standpoints on such matters. However, his beliefs were firm and the scholar would hold to them fastidiously. Disappearances were no small laughing matter, especially regarding who held ranks in their numbers. Additionally, the deaths of one such as a Guardian should bring sadness to all of mankind's respective hearts. For the Guardian had not only dedicated their lives to protecting and looking after another human being that could decide the fate of the world they all lived in, the guardian was a powerful human of themselves with strong dedication. When someone of such mammoth will, a will that allowed them to live in a world fraught with dangers and chaos, a solid stone in a coursing river, one stuck living in two different worlds and being pulled in both directions fell... It was not a good sign for those of simple up bringing. When a sorceress disappeared and a guardian fell, legends of their time were lost. This did not bode well for the shared future of their race, of this Orran held no doubts. Time comtimplating on such matters at this moment were foolish. Answers would be revealed in time, as all things were. Much unlike his beloved friend, he was no mother hen, doting over things that could not be changed by his hands was pointless. Instead, a moment from the insanity of the festivities, a break from packing and editing the outlined class notes to something better aligned with his tastes would be taken. Removing an older music player from the opened suitcase it was handled with great care. These things were getting harder and harder to come by unless one wished to spend a significant amount of gil on a newly produced model. The newer models seemed lacking in significance, they had no history, and a certain level of elegance that their older counterparts had been designed with that appealed to his personal aesthetics. Placing it tenderly upon a sturdy looking stand, Orran then set to plugging the machine in and checking it over, making sure it did not seem to have been damaged in transit. Removing the old media storage device it was carefully placed upon the player before the needle lifted and put onto it. This particular recording held some of his favorite classical music pieces. The first song, Erla's Waltz, a soft and bleak song, almost reminiscent of a lullaby faded into his living quarters, while a favorite it earned a raising of his brow before the needle was lifted and moved further in. Heavy, deep notes of Guerrilleros struck suddenly before abruptly fading out before violins soared over the quickening beats of the bass, while also a masterpiece of instrumentation it also was not a suitable selection. However, the third piece, perhaps one of his utmost favorites, the Canon in D, faded in, the introductory beats were long and filling, humble with how they crept into being before the soft swell and decay of violins began. Eyes drifted closed on a smile, a hand rising into the air, fingers posed as if holding a directors wand. A flick of the wrist to indicate the shift into the flurry of slurred thirty-second notes to violins as cellos continued on strongly, maintaining the simple quarter notes that realistically was the glue holding the piece together at its core. That was the only indication before the flow of wrist, hand and arm direction slipped back into the consistent and steady 4/4 timing the piece was dictated at. The violins soared, the cellos wowed and the bass boomed in their respective parts. Violins calling his mind to higher, loftier goals, the cellos reminding him how to stay grounded, carrying steadily on, and all the while the bass pulled at his heart. His upper body turned, as if to signal in some other imaginary sections introduction in his fantasy string quartet when suddenly, a shrill whistle pierced the perfect pitch and timing of the song. With eyes closed his features screwed up for only the briefest period before the noise was placed. The tea kettle, of course, letting his imaginary world fall away it was retrieved and some of its contents poured into a cup which was carried back into the area he had been trying to arrange. Setting the glass on his desk, the leaves would need to seep still. Sweeping his gaze across the area, eyes fell upon the book that contained his personal notes once more. A disgruntled sigh slipping forth, a seat was pulled up as a hand ran over the cover of the journal. 'Not tonight.' his mind ticked at him. However, the haunting organ of the Toccata in E minor would pull his will in a different direction. The tips of Orrans fingers would hook around the edge of the cover, pulling it open. Finger pads would then rest at the top corner of the paper, eyes scanning over his notes. Pages stained with ink held the secrets he maintained, the thoughts and findings kept hidden from the public, his personal cross referencing. As if re-reading them would reveal some previously unmarked secret, as though his mind had simply missed some trivial piece of information that it would undoubtedly latch onto shortly if just given enough time and reviewing of the facts. No. Yet again, the puzzle piece he so desperately sought would evaded him. It was so close he could taste it, feel it brushing against his skin and pulling at his heart every time he reviewed the information but it still remained just barely out of his reach. Like a piece of ripe fruit dangling from a tree, barely above your fingertips. It was so close he could swear he could touch it, yet, it remained just barely out of his grasp still. The fate that lay ahead of them was troubling. It was even outlined in the stars, unfortunately, there was little hint other than there was indeed trouble on the horizon. His brow set firmly as fingers wrapped around the warmed mug. However, the stars did change nightly. Their courses could be altered, certain constellations chose to show themselves in different seasons and locations, so certainly, if stars, in their many and varied forms held true to the greater celestial bond of the world, then humans could too. Stars and humans weren't so different. Some burned brightly and fast, leaving their glow embedded in the sky but ending sooner than their slower burning counterparts. Other stars held only a moderate glow, yet could remain holding onto that for a much greater time. There were stars that seemed like they would never die. They came in various shapes, colors and sizes. Each star held a unique place from the last and no one star would ever be the same as any other. Sometimes they were unpredictable, their births and deaths changing in what felt like a blink of an eye, even if Orran knew that not to be true. They mapped out a course of life, a place to be and light to shine. One key difference lay in the human mind however even if the generalized concepts could be aligned. Certainly, if stars could change and adapt so readily, humans could as well, correct? Though, that may be a matter for debate. Just as the stars must align to point the proper way, humans had to move in the correct manner as well for things to turn out positively in the end. But for the proper ending to be found, they needed information to make those decisions with. Properly backed research with valid claims, biases laid to rest before even entering the lab or book stacks and tests with repeatable results. Leaping blindly on faith was a gamble Orran knew no one needed in such trying times, it would only lead to pain and a vicious cycle fated to repeat itself throughout history if it was not learned from now, when they could stop the horror of war and bloodshed from even being begun. Thankfully, he was a man who held the strong belief that the best tactic was to stop a fight before it even began. |