Tough, dry dirt pressed down compact made up the grounds of the location for festivals and celebrations aplenty. It was middle of a summer day with a noon sun overhead, but something about this spot just didn't come across right. Hundred foot diameter patch of dirt, not a single sprout of grass. No trees. No structures either; about all you could tell of the revelry that once existed here was the copious amount of trash that had partially rotted. No birds, no particular concentration of insects - no nothing. Just eighty degree Fahrenheit heat and dead still air.

Well now on second thought, suppose there was a glaring exception to this nothingness.



6'5" with a silky dress set of robes bulging with torso muscle, sickly green reptilian flesh rippling.
There was most certainly a man among the dry heated void.

Humming to himself in a drawling voice that rang out into the heavens, he seemed awfully busy gazing those round dark spectacles at his lime green gloss finish v-neck guitar. Poking at a few strings, adjusting the tune with an occasional note distributed to the afternoon of white noise abyss.

Why was this strange man of dubious human nature toying with such a fine looking instrument in this inhospitable hell? Well the answer was: Mr. Morwak as simple his stage name was, did not appreciate the noise and cancerous hubbub of the city life. Threw him off ten ways around. And here, not so far away from civilization but highly undesired by the fairer and more childlike avatars of man, was a stupidly hot little circle of Heaven. Nobody bothered him. He could test out his sounds without a neighbor at his hotel room crying. And the only price was the sweat saturating his robes; come on! Worth it.

One after two after: "What! Can you do on the sun~? You'd be burned to pieces.. on the sun. Oh now~ In the darkness with your laaaaaaaaahgGGgg... no!.."

Cutting off his dandy early with a groan of frustration, his metallic finger-tipped metal limbs began toying with the guitar again. Didn't sound right at all. Frankly sounded atrocious. He wouldn't tip that if he were a drunk let alone a music critic. And although he had this beautiful spot of solitude all to his lonesome, Smith was getting awful frustrated with the poor sound the vaguely lizardesque musician was producing today. Showing signs of being parched as his thin tongue elongated past his fangs to stroke those bone dry lips, he just knew this afternoon needed to be his muse for getting the song away from resembling a dirge. Needed to inspire romance. Maybe that blues touch.

Today the hot summer sun leers down upon an unsightly barren blemish in otherwise lush verdancy; a suitable clearing to pitch a tent, assemble a toasty bonfire and enjoy roasted beef or sweet, melted marshmallows with friends and family. It's no doubt seen many gatherings come and go; what with all the disgusting litter strewn about. For this is the distasteful apathy of people toward the very creation which birthed them; a tiny telling of their appetite for filth.

No tree or bush for a bird to roost and tweet compliments these grounds; neither the buzz of bugs bless this messy dereliction with the charm of their music. Stale zephyrs are the only comfort to the soul and now they bequeath a burly, antisocial bard with their swirling cool; this pitiful but peaceful place is his choice venue for acoustic guitar practice but his terse, untuned strums are far from dulcet: simply a boingy, off-key mess in lieu of his next hit single.

However, despite cracks in the musician’s temperance, they play on and, after a few tightening twists and inquiry of fingertips, what began as off-putting becomes a mellifluous Blues pleasantry rich in pulling, melancholic vocals: the cries of the wronged and the poor aching for ascension of status and fortune; shaking their fist at the oppressor but not with sword or firearm. Theirs is an arian arsenal but worth little else than to stir drunkards, impress a wench and earn a gil.

Yet today the bard will play for an audience entirely different. Today his song of sorrow will be performed in honor of a dark harbinger whom fate and desire have directed to appear there.

A scintillating shing slices the air fifteen feet before him to create a long, diagonal amethyst slit hanging midair to an electric hum and a faint aroma of burning. It's docile for only a moment before it, parallel to the guitarist's line of vision, tears its hungry maw wide open to inhale the refuse peppering the area from astride; paper, plastic, metal and glass discards swept up in great winds by a cosmic vacuum until the campground is cleansed for the occasion.

Soon it settles, sated; quiet save for its whirring effervescence; indeed respectful of the one to arrive. Then the tip of the slender, silvery steel moves leftwardly into view: inch by inch and foot by foot until its preposterous length manifests at nine feet from its square, golden guard; the navy hilt clasped by the same shimmery black stretching down the leather of his flapping belted cloak and muted boot; up the rigid arms to the silver pauldrons capping his shoulders and the long platinum locks asway as they veil his right-turned face and pour down his back. Three broad and effortless steps forward free him from the insatiable fissure which closes, sewn shut in calming air and fading glitter to leave the 6'1" swordsman alone to scan the scenery and take in a full, refreshing but dry breath.

A clearing framed in the distance by mountains, hills and trees; with a sinister smile his gaze sweeps center at more of the same and then left upon the newly discovered songwriter: the target of his piercing, tourmaline cat-eyed leer; they narrow in sharpened focus and scrutiny as turns to face them, feet squared with his shoulders, revealing his own broad, crossed chest. A leftward turn of the wrist faces the legendary Masamune at an outward angle amid its malevolent, ghostly ring.

There he stands without a word or a blink or a worry; only the expression of bemusement and contemplation over what the bard will do in his presence. They, the similarly tall persona reluctant to flee as all the animals surely already have; the wildlife far more wise than to remain nearby while they leave the sweet stillness of silence in honor of arrival.

Sephiroth has come.

Though destruction thirsted for its avatar to begin manifesting before the Blues proper, and no doubt "magic" if not some unnatural force made the rules society loved to drill into your head go awry - no distress made itself known upon the green garbed reptilian man. Oh no.

Air exhaled from his reptilian lips while his lurching form rose. There would be humorous contrast in his holding of the green guitar if compared with the newly arrived malevolent being's lengthy and frankly virile weapon; yet the confidence his posture exuded when "wielding" this instrument could be comparable with the composure of a life trained swordsman more so than the reject of a bygone band playing at the local tavern's sorrow in metal form.



Now sure. Smith could dig this strange cat spawning from the depths of Hell or perhaps an unusual hobby whence upon the soil below. Could dig him proper. He cleaned up some of the condoms and sugar water cups that were beneath the guitarist to sanitize himself; can't knock that none. No sir! However. Imagine the suspicion one may harbor if suddenly an extremely attractive woman thrust herself up against you when coming home from a long day of working in the mines. Never laid eyes on her before, but she was making it clear she was pining for your attention; a more optimistic sort with a touch of youthful naivete might see this as quite the gift. Luck or the tidings of their person becoming the magnet of lust!

But what if you weren't such an optimistic customer?

Well, then you might start considering just exactly why a broad you cannot for the life of you recollect getting the name of has gotten to second base with you while you're sweaty and covered in the toil of your labor which amounts to ash and feces. Theft? Murder? She one of "those girls," the gold digger stereotype? Oh to be in the music industry and have this style baby, you just had to be ready for those types anywhichwhere no matter how sweaty you were sitting out in the hot sun surrounded by used tennis shoes and noodle cups, because the second your guard comes down, there comes the blade!

Now in this roundabout metaphor, the busty beautiful babe is an unannounced swordsman with a weapon longer than the hours in a hard summer's day popping out of nowhere like a substandard drug trip. Well built, head taller than your average bloke, big metal weapon; not Mr. Morwak's usual groupie. No sir. What do you suppose then is the most logical prediction for such an event? A magical being has formed from the void, here in this isle of hell, coincidentally on this day at this hour in mere feet of the mighty Morwak? No son, that's nonsensical.

The obvious answer:

One of them rich magical swordsmen that Morwak must've gambled with when he was on drugs. At some parties, you are expected to partake or you will be denied entry; that's just the industry, respect it or pay the price. No doubt this fellow is loaded, carrying that big impractical blade as some kind of ceremonial flex of clout, and is here to collect on a debt owed. No other logical reason comes to mind, fella is too clean to be a simple axe murdering fanboy. Oh geeze Louis'Ann... Does Smith have egg on his face right about now. Owin' money and he can't even remember the gentleman's name. Well. Flattery will get you everywhere, they say.

"Hello there sir. I hope you find this area accommodating. Ah, got any requests? I'll sing ya a song." And a flash of fanged teeth forming a smile so insincere it could spontaneously burst into cheese. Rich boys love the "plucky artist making me a custom" angle. Always do. Hell. Might earn himself a tip! Tips buy you new guitar strings.