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24 September 2011 @ 06:05 pm
[PRIVATE - Zelda, Link, and Link // difficult to hack]

...I suppose we ought to discuss how best to proceed.

He - [There should be no question of who he's talking about, of course.] - seems to remember no more than his first attempt. He looks no older, certainly. How much of that he remembers is difficult to pin, save that he knew of my place in it.

[A pause, and then he continues.] It may be wise for me to keep my head down, for that matter. Though I will not stray far from you, your Highness.

[PRIVATE - Saki Konishi // difficult to hack]


[There's no smile, as there sometimes is when he addresses her, nor does he speak with his usual deadpan - instead he sounds completely serious, tone somewhat clipped.]

Don't antagonize that man again.
17 July 2011 @ 01:41 am
[One might recognise, through the nighttime gloom, that Sheik is in the graveyard. He leans on a marker, amidst a strange little cluster of four identical headstones. His lyre looks grey rather than gold in the light, but this time, he isn't playing any music. After a moment of staring off at something unseen (he seems little troubled by the things known to haunt the cemetary) he recites in a soft, clear voice:]

I never was, am always to be,
No one ever saw me, nor ever will
And yet I am the confidence of all
To live and breathe on this terrestrial ball.

[A pause. He turns to eye the camera. His tone is cool, moreso than usual - distant, and distracted.] It's the new riddle, in the crypt. Ironic, really. The world is always moving.
22 June 2011 @ 04:43 pm
[Saki is good at avoiding and evading topics she doesn’t want to discuss, but something about her recent back-and-forth quietness seems to run deeper than it usually does.

Which is why he’s at her door now, a little unsure of himself. It was a desire not to pry overmuch which prevented him doing this sooner, and it’s vocalising itself again – it’s not his place to ask.

This time, he ignores it. Suspicion and concern have taken precedence, so, doing his best to stifle his own misgivings, he knocks on the door.]
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03 June 2011 @ 11:38 pm
[The night is still but for a soft breeze, audibly rustling leaves in the background of Sheik's broadcast. His voice is low, soft, and carries a rather bitter little sigh.] ...Hmph.

I suppose it doesn't matter how many times these things are sent, nor who sends them...

One can never get used to such things.

[There's a long pause, as if he's measuring whether or not to say more. In the end, he decides against it - instead, gentle, soothing lyre music starts to play.]
08 May 2011 @ 07:23 pm
...There was a man who took up residence here, but it seems he's gone elsewhere now. [Sheik's voice is soft, pensive, perhaps a little distracted. There's little noise in the background, apart from the occasional creak of a floorboard.]

Most of us come from worlds with some set path, with boundaries and walls. It might not feel like it, but there's consistency in that. But in this...

[He might be smiling, he might be frowning. The inflection in his tone is so subtle, it's difficult to tell.]

Well, you can't really rely on anything, can you? Even constants can be ripped from your hands...

[The sound of his footfalls, hushed though it was, comes to a stop as he sits down. A thoughtful silence, and then music starts - not that from the lyre, but the sound of a piano, soft but crystal clear. The song is sweet and gentle and a little repetitive, like an etude of some kind, a practise piece. It continues for a minute or two before fading off into silence, and then the recording is cut.]
24 April 2011 @ 10:32 pm
[A long, golden braid is draped over Sheik's hands like a rope, bound at either end with string. He holds it up, and one may note that is hair now hangs shaggily around where the cowl hides his jaw.]

This should cover part of our payment, at least. I shall leave it in the mailbox.

...As for these eggs, well - I think I'll steer clear of mine for now.
11 April 2011 @ 10:45 pm
[Sheik is perched on a rooftop again, the communicator held loosely in his fingers to give a thin view of himself and a wider view of sky and roof-tiling. His voice is soft, even more so than usual, as if touched with a little awe.]

This is Hyrule's Castle Town. Not as I knew it, nor Link... but as Her Grace did.

...Strange, that we should see it without her or another who knew it.

[He glances around, then moves. There's an abrupt swoop in the camera's view as he vaults from one roof to another, and then he addresses the feed once more.]

It seems that more than one of you have been labelled as Sheikah. It wouldn't surprise me if you attract more than your share of attention... we are little more than legend, nowadays.
13 March 2011 @ 01:04 pm
[There's a rare, almost jarring sharpness to Sheik's voice, an urgency.]

Her Grace - Zelda -

[This can't be happening -]

...she's gone.
08 March 2011 @ 03:56 pm
[The Sheikah looks to be sitting in the bough of a tree this time, though he isn't playing music. Instead, he's meticulously cleaning a long, slightly curved knife, the sharp edge gleaming in the light.]

The fair folk of the forest seem far more active in spring.

[His voice is a little dry. He sets to polishing the knife with a clean corner of the cloth - the rest is stained mottled green.]

And I'd be wary if one sees horses by the waterside. They may well be handsome beasts to look upon, but I imagine they look quite different when they drag you under.

[Apparently satisfied with his work, he flicks the blade up over his fingers and twirls it, watching the way it catches the light. Showy though the gesture is, it serves a purpose - he runs the cloth against a resilient spot of dirt before spinning it over his hand again, catching the grip in his hand and sliding it smoothly into the scabbard.

He points upwards to where, in the branches, a little cluster of brightly coloured birds can be seen.

They're rather more helpful than some, however. You should look to them, if you find yourself lost.
28 February 2011 @ 05:23 am
[Around Sheik's head, there is the still-dark sky, cloudless and sharp. He seems to be sitting on a stone roof - the keen-eyed might be able to figure out that he's actually on top of the temple.

The music is there. Isn't it always, with Sheik? But it is not the focus of the broadcast - in fact, it's softer than usual, barely audible. It is but a suggestion - all be it a powerful one, for music can be a powerful thing, and this one is low and perhaps a little dark.

When he speaks up, there's a subtle difference to his voice. It is utterly without the brusque quality sometimes present in his tone. Instead, he sounds indulgent, the words rhythmic and clear.

It would be very easy to fall into the pattern of it. To become wrapped in the story.

There are worlds, and there are worlds within worlds. There are times and choices that create new worlds of their own, on different planes and different axis, and all of them spin at once, independent, but not disconnected.

Sometimes, the space between them is very thin indeed, and one world bleeds into another, and lines are crossed. The threads of each realm grow tangled, and the tapestry can be disrupted, changed irrevocably.

But an axis cannot turn without a pin to hold it together, and at the end of all worlds - for all worlds have an end - there is a tower, tall and dark. It rises from a sea, a sea of water, then of bright red roses, and though one may see only sky around it, the other realms revolve around it, anchored to it, bound to it. All roads lead to it, if one can walk long enough, but the road is labyrinthine even when running straight as a spear.

End World, after all, is between the worlds. It is the pockets of nothing within each realm, the void which can be as black as stone, red as roses, white as absolutely nothing.

There was a king in that tower, and may yet be, and a goddess, too. But kings and gods can die just as simply as worlds can. What we knew, what we might know, the road that stretches behind us and before - all of it can crumble. One world falls into the next and sometimes, we fall with them.

The Dark Tower is not here, and the world may well have moved on - but some of us walk yet in its shadow.

[There's a pause, and then, unseen, his lips quirk, and the music ends, the lyre set aside.]

A man can walk for all his life and get nowhere.

Or he can take a single step, and reach another realm entirely.

Funny, isn't it?