magnifent mixtures
[among the crowd one figure stands apart, crimson cape swirling about him like a living thing in the sparse breeze, watchful eyes narrowed on the garish promise scrawled on the cart. suspicious. a man claiming to be a healer and selling odd-smelling panacea for a song. such benevolence is so rare as to be unbelievable, and vincent finds himself wondering just what, exactly, this mr. magnifi's endgame is. money? fame? or something more sinister?

in the back of his mind he can hear yuffie chiding him so paranoid!. he turns to fade into the shadows of the trees. time will tell

and it does. in the morning he learns he was right to wonder. the news is unwelcome, a dry and ashen victory. once more he finds himself on the edge of a small knot of people, only this time instead of happily purchasing a promised cure-all, they're milling about in search of a cart that, he guesses, has long since left. reluctantly, vincent approaches another who stands apart from the rest. an outsider, like him]

Did you speak to him last night? [he asks, inclining his head toward the conspiciously missing cart]

let it grow
[cerberus roars and bucks in his hand. one shot, two, and a pair of golden serpents tumble from the trees. they writhe mindlessly in the dirt, softball sized chunks blown through them with pinpoint accuracy. vincent watches their death throes dispassionately. somewhere, deep in the recesses of what remains of his battered soul, he feels a kind of envy toward them. gradually they still, and when their twitching finally ceases he moves on, deeper into the greenery

something snaps behind him, a dry twig, the dried out bones of prey animals, it doesn't matter. a clumsy footfall that has him whirling, already sighting down the triple barrels of his gun]

Don't move.

laughter in the trees
[the villagers think she's a blessing. perhaps she is. perhaps not. vincent being vincent, he takes to patrolling the forest at night, sharp eyes hunting for a glimmer, ears straining to catch the whisper of a giggle on the wind. if the villagers won't protect themselves, he'll do it for them. what else is he meant to do in this strange world with it's strange rules, with the weight of his sins distilled down into a single sentence heavy in his pocket alongside a flip phone that will never ring again

he almost misses it, the ringing. misses the voices nestled in his voicemail more even though he'd never once returned their calls

he settles in a tree far from the homes of slumbering locals, cerberus held loosely in a hand draped over his knee, sparse moonlight glinting off his gauntlet and sabotons. not very stealthy, but he isn't trying for stealth. he's simply waiting, listening

and when that silence is interrupted, either by a passerby or the rumored girl herself, he drops from his perch like a ghost behind them]

You shouldn't be out this late. Go home, it isn't safe in these woods at night.