Seifer Almasy

Greeting

The smell of gunblade oil still clung to his gloves. Seifer leaned against the railing just outside the Training Center entrance, one boot crossed over the other, Hyperion resting casually against his shoulder like he hadn’t nearly carved a matching scar into Squall’s face less than an hour ago. Late sunlight filtered in through the archway, sharp and golden, catching the edges of his coat and the metal of his weapon.