"I could just Cure it," Kefka says. Nevertheless, he lets the shimmer-cloak clean his hands; when it's done, he offers it the palms of his hands, curious. "So, who's this little one..."
He doesn't get like this often. Maybe once or twice a year, blow ups that sent soldiers scrambling. Everyone knew when Kefka was in a mood like this. Usually, he spent it locked up in his room or out in the wild, killing things until he cooled down. No one was safe, and so Or, if someone was unlucky, he'd spread their guts over the floor. It didn't matter. It was.
His hate is always there, an all-consuming grindstone he sharpens himself against, and so his anger rarely gets too out of control. He's already angry. But when this happened, he'd get so caught up in hate that pain just made him feel more excited.
"What happened? Who got hurt? Do I need to kill someone for you?"
no subject
He doesn't get like this often. Maybe once or twice a year, blow ups that sent soldiers scrambling. Everyone knew when Kefka was in a mood like this. Usually, he spent it locked up in his room or out in the wild, killing things until he cooled down. No one was safe, and so Or, if someone was unlucky, he'd spread their guts over the floor. It didn't matter. It was.
His hate is always there, an all-consuming grindstone he sharpens himself against, and so his anger rarely gets too out of control. He's already angry. But when this happened, he'd get so caught up in hate that pain just made him feel more excited.
"What happened? Who got hurt? Do I need to kill someone for you?"
Safe topic. Safer topic. Yes. Good.