[A metal chocobo makes for a unique landmark, and it’s the first thing any sensible a one-man search-and-rescue party should focus on. Vincent does just that, rifling through old memory; eventually, he recalls and old racetrack with faded billboards, the paint beginning to chip at the edges. A great metallic chocobo at the entrance, dashing forward with a rider on its back, a promise of what’s to come for any who are willing to pay the gil to see.
It’s nighttime, so there’s not a soul around, save for a song that lingers through the air like a ghost. He knows, then, that he’s found him — he’d know that voice anywhere now, equal parts unique and annoying pervasive.
Moments pass. The branches of the tree above Charle’s chosen spot shudder and shiver. Vincent looks down upon him, though almost impossible to see the in the shadows.]
no subject
It’s nighttime, so there’s not a soul around, save for a song that lingers through the air like a ghost. He knows, then, that he’s found him — he’d know that voice anywhere now, equal parts unique and annoying pervasive.
Moments pass. The branches of the tree above Charle’s chosen spot shudder and shiver. Vincent looks down upon him, though almost impossible to see the in the shadows.]
You write it yourself?
[The song.]