[Are you having a good night, Kakyoin? A decent night? Restful? Calm? That's good. It's a night that's about to be disrupted, but it's good it started out well, at least.
From the kitchen, at about one in the morning, there's shouting. French shouting. High-pitched French shouting, loud and angry and not ending anytime soon. Dare you investigate? You'd better soon, because soon after that there's a crash and the tell-tale sound of glass shattering.]
[Wide awake because of course he was, Kakyoin half-sprinted into the kitchen with Hierophant behind him, skidding to a halt one hundred percent ready for a fight.]
Jean yourself! Don't call me Jean, I'm not your friend!
[--shouts the child in French. Standing on the floor in a ridiculously oversized t-shirt, the child balls his fists, shattered glass all around him. There's something about this tall man (teenager, but everyone looks old when you're eight) that seems familiar, but still, he's on edge. Polnraeff hesitates, glances around uncertainly, and then adds:]
Are you going to answer me or not! [You didn't ask him anything, kid.] What's your name! You're . . . I've seen you before, I know I have.
[Kakyoin exchanged a look of confusion with Hierophant, as though confirming his Stand was indeed there and this wasn't a dream he was having upon having fallen asleep in the library.]
I don't...er...understand you. I don't speak French.
[But that was said more distractedly than aggressively. Belatedly, his eyes darted from Kakyoin to Hierophant. What the hell was that? Not a Stand, surely. Stands looked like his Chariot, knightly and fierce, a sleek perfect fighting machine. They didn't look like bug-eyed melon-y creeps.
Then again, though. The green-melon-thing did have silver armor along his arms and chest. That's . . . well. It's not as good as his Chariot, but it's certainly in the same classification. Polnareff wrinkles his nose, eyes darting between the two figures for a long few seconds.]
What's that? Is that--
[He took a few steps forward, reaching for Hierophant fearlessly. Come here, melon pope.]
[Yeah. Yeah, that seemed about right. Hierophant, who was a good Stand, albeit not as superior as his own. Polnareff nodded and took Hierophant's hand, fingers interlacing with green ones. Polnareff studied their joined hands, mouth pursed, before glancing up with a grin.
Behind him, Chariot sprung out. Chariot, who was short and skinny, just like his user; who squeaked out a worried noise and hovered close to Polnareff, just in case. Hierophant and his semi-familiar user weren't so dangerous, it seemed, but one never really knew.]
[Which was a painfully obvious thing to notice, but so it went that was just what stuck out first. Kakyoin knelt down with a small smile, holding out his own hand as well.]
[Look, he didn't properly name his Stand until he was eighteen, all right? That's the bad news. The good news is that when Polnareff speaks in French, Chariot echoes it, translating it into something far more understandable. Not English, but whatever middle-easily-translated equivalent they all usually use.]
No, he's . . . he's just him. Me. Whatever. He doesn't have a name. Why does yours have a name? When did you name yours? What can he do, that armor doesn't look like it covers much-- does it work at all, or's it for show? What's a Hierophant, anyway? And--
[This, all in one breath, questioned fired one after another with no sign of ever stopping.]
Mine's always had a name. I didn't give it to him, I just kind of knew it all along. [Hierophant tilted its head slightly, mirroring Kakyoin's confusion.]
It's a tarot card, representing a high priest. And he doesn't really wear armor, not like yours--we don't need protection like that, anyway.
You should. I could stab you right now, cuz you don't have any armor on.
[With Chariot's toothpick of a rapier, yeah. Chariot lifted it, though the action was more displaying than threatening. As he did, Polnareff grinned again, buckteeth and all, terribly proud of his Stand.]
[He gave him a little Look. He and Chariot most definitely would be able to hit them that easily, thanks, because he's magnificent. But if this tall ginger wants to think otherwise, let him. More fool him.]
And what's your name?
[No, wait. He knew this. He knew it in that same intuitive way he knew Hierophant's name: the knowledge was there, just . . . buried. Polnareff tipped his head, squinted up at him, and added:]
[That's . . . suspicious, isn't it, that this man knows his name. Except no, because why shouldn't everyone know his name? He's magnificent. Probably Kakyoin has heard of him by sheer rumor alone.]
Yeah I am!
[He's so cool. And now that they're basically best friends, Polnareff turns, ready to try hoisting himself up on the counter again. There's remnants of candy bars already opened, which might explain his current state.]
I couldn't reach. And then I broke a glass, and then I realized I wasn't at home.
[DUH, his tone says. He was still unable to reach, though not for lack of trying; Chariot had his hands under Polnareff's arms, trying like hell to lift his user up.]
[He frowned up at the glass . . . and then took it, because he was proud but not stupid. And as long Hierophant was being so useful . . . Polnareff lifted his arms up straight in the air, waiting patiently for Hierophant to lift him.]
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10/6, evening
From the kitchen, at about one in the morning, there's shouting. French shouting. High-pitched French shouting, loud and angry and not ending anytime soon. Dare you investigate? You'd better soon, because soon after that there's a crash and the tell-tale sound of glass shattering.]
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[Wide awake because of course he was, Kakyoin half-sprinted into the kitchen with Hierophant behind him, skidding to a halt one hundred percent ready for a fight.]
Jean-?! What's...
[...okay what madness have we run in on]
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[--shouts the child in French. Standing on the floor in a ridiculously oversized t-shirt, the child balls his fists, shattered glass all around him. There's something about this tall man (teenager, but everyone looks old when you're eight) that seems familiar, but still, he's on edge. Polnraeff hesitates, glances around uncertainly, and then adds:]
Are you going to answer me or not! [You didn't ask him anything, kid.] What's your name! You're . . . I've seen you before, I know I have.
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[WHAT.]
[Kakyoin exchanged a look of confusion with Hierophant, as though confirming his Stand was indeed there and this wasn't a dream he was having upon having fallen asleep in the library.]
I don't...er...understand you. I don't speak French.
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[But that was said more distractedly than aggressively. Belatedly, his eyes darted from Kakyoin to Hierophant. What the hell was that? Not a Stand, surely. Stands looked like his Chariot, knightly and fierce, a sleek perfect fighting machine. They didn't look like bug-eyed melon-y creeps.
Then again, though. The green-melon-thing did have silver armor along his arms and chest. That's . . . well. It's not as good as his Chariot, but it's certainly in the same classification. Polnareff wrinkles his nose, eyes darting between the two figures for a long few seconds.]
What's that? Is that--
[He took a few steps forward, reaching for Hierophant fearlessly. Come here, melon pope.]
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[He looked back to his Stand, who leaned over and extended a hand to Polnareff in what was probably a greeting.]
His name is Hierophant.
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[Yeah. Yeah, that seemed about right. Hierophant, who was a good Stand, albeit not as superior as his own. Polnareff nodded and took Hierophant's hand, fingers interlacing with green ones. Polnareff studied their joined hands, mouth pursed, before glancing up with a grin.
Behind him, Chariot sprung out. Chariot, who was short and skinny, just like his user; who squeaked out a worried noise and hovered close to Polnareff, just in case. Hierophant and his semi-familiar user weren't so dangerous, it seemed, but one never really knew.]
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[Which was a painfully obvious thing to notice, but so it went that was just what stuck out first. Kakyoin knelt down with a small smile, holding out his own hand as well.]
And this is Chariot, isn't it?
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[Look, he didn't properly name his Stand until he was eighteen, all right? That's the bad news. The good news is that when Polnareff speaks in French, Chariot echoes it, translating it into something far more understandable. Not English, but whatever middle-easily-translated equivalent they all usually use.]
No, he's . . . he's just him. Me. Whatever. He doesn't have a name. Why does yours have a name? When did you name yours? What can he do, that armor doesn't look like it covers much-- does it work at all, or's it for show? What's a Hierophant, anyway? And--
[This, all in one breath, questioned fired one after another with no sign of ever stopping.]
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It's a tarot card, representing a high priest. And he doesn't really wear armor, not like yours--we don't need protection like that, anyway.
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[With Chariot's toothpick of a rapier, yeah. Chariot lifted it, though the action was more displaying than threatening. As he did, Polnareff grinned again, buckteeth and all, terribly proud of his Stand.]
Are you a priest or something?
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[Kakyoin shrugged, adjusting his glasses.]
I'm not, no. I don't really know why 'Hierophant Green' is his name, but it just is.
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And what's your name?
[No, wait. He knew this. He knew it in that same intuitive way he knew Hierophant's name: the knowledge was there, just . . . buried. Polnareff tipped his head, squinted up at him, and added:]
Nor . . .
[Yeah!]
Norbert?
[No!]
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[He tried.]
Noriaki. My name's Noriaki Kakyoin.
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[Practically the same thing!]
That's what I said!
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And you're Jean-Pierre Polnareff, right?
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Yeah I am!
[He's so cool. And now that they're basically best friends, Polnareff turns, ready to try hoisting himself up on the counter again. There's remnants of candy bars already opened, which might explain his current state.]
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[DUH, his tone says. He was still unable to reach, though not for lack of trying; Chariot had his hands under Polnareff's arms, trying like hell to lift his user up.]
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[Hierophant's arm uncoiled into a single tendril, reaching across the kitchen and wrapping around a glass to hand to Polnareff.]
There. How's that?
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