So it seemed he hadn’t gathered his rose, mindless curiosity arising in wonder if the stranger had passed it without noticing. Or did he not have one at all? Just what presence did this man have that the Gallery itself wouldn’t issue him a rose of his own. An uninvited guest, perhaps.
Those without purpose were often lacking in what they should have obtained.
In silence does the simulacrum watch as the crimson hued man take in his surroundings, eyeing the Lady in Red once more. How curious was it that it seemed he knew of Rossa. Even she looked rather puzzled as to why the strange man was eyeing her with such… familiarity. Whatever presence she may have had wanted to devour diminished in an instant, instead silently pleading to the fabrication to divert the stranger’s attention away so she could leave.
It was odd to think that Rossa could become so uncomfortable so quickly. But a rather deepened sigh was given and a shrug of the Portrait’s shoulders as slate optics laid their attention on the man before him.
❝She is a part of this Gallery as any other piece, Lady in Red— her title. Now then, stranger, I would advise you to find your rose lest it fall to the hands of the residents of this Hell. They have a certain… Appetite for the petals, you see.❞
Frigid hands removed a rose from the pocket of his tattered coat, holding it up for the man to see. Deep cerulean blue in color, yet it was as fake as the man holding it between his fingers. Not that the other would know of this. Something of a smile crossed the fabrication’s features, dull hues reflecting the chroma of the seemingly luminous flower.
❝As the rose wilts, so too, will you.❞
Turning his head back to the young man, he listens intently. Gallery? How strange; and yet it makes perfect sense how one of the paintings could be in the Manor: Shin-Ra is nothing but p o w e r p l o y, and to purchase famous works of art would have been in the old president’s style. Of course, the…Lady in Red, was it? She is in the old mansion for the obvious: her likeness is reminiscent of…h e r. As if he needed another reason to despise that firetrap! His guttural tones are slow and sure when he finally replies. “…Where I come from…she has been purchased by a company…and hung in a manor they possess. She…resembles a scientist who worked for them." Looking behind him down the hallway, there seems to be a table at the far end, one with a vase on it. Something w h i t e peeks out over the top. Can it be this rose that is spoken of? ”…I think that could be it,“ he says, and starts toward it. The hallway is not especially long, though there is a mannequin head against the wall that seems to follow his movements with its eyes. Watching him? ’How absurd.’ Arriving at the table, it is indeed a flower. W h i t e…surely this cannot be for him? Thinking on it quietly, he recalls that Aerith had once told him about roses, possessing a desire to grow them. Red is for bravery or love, yellow is for friendship or jealousy, pink is for admiration, and white…white is for purity, secrecy, and silence. ’Secrecy and silence do describe me, I guess.‘ Reaching out tentatively, long fingers curl around the delicate stem and pluck it from its hold. Hearing a sound, he whirls around to see writing on the opposite wall in what appears to be red paint: ”T H I E F“. Clearing his throat, he reads the white sign that appears less transient: You and the rose are unified. Know the weight of your own life. As the rose wilts, so you too will rot away. Grimacing, he places the ten-petaled flower in his holster, noting that his gun is, again, missing. Looking down the hallway, he inquires, "How long have you been here?”
rubeusib reblogged this from memoria-fractis
engineofdestruction liked this
dellafine reblogged this from memoria-fractis and added:
memoria-fractis posted this