He'd gotten his bearings, gotten his clothes (and figured out how to get his new attachments more or less comfortable underneath the layers of mesh, shirt, and vest), and gotten himself a pipe almost exactly like his own, along with some tobacco to fill it. This last was the most important, really. Couldn't have a proper think without a little bit of a smoke to go with it.
So Jiraiya, with his accoutrements, settled himself out in the forest, his back against a tree -- diminutive by Konoha standards, but a tree no less, strong and natural and solid. Time to do some serious thinking, to process everything that had happened since he'd hauled himself out of the lake a few days ago.
The most important point -- he was not dead. His arm was back where it belonged, his throat no longer crushed, his body not pierced by those mysterious black bars that drove his chakra mad. None of these were bad things, not at all, but they left him filled with a mad restlessness. He needed to get home! If he'd been given a gift of second life, a free pass on sinking into death, then by the gods, he ought to be using it! He'd sent off his warning -- hoped he had, hoped that Fukasaku had gotten free in time, that Pein -- Nagato, gods, Nagato -- hadn't been able to stop him. Hoped that between Kakashi, Tsunade, Naruto, they'd been able to work out the content of his warning.
He'd almost resigned himself to dying, disappointed and regretful but accepting the darkness in the end, but now that he found himself still living, found himself whole and able-bodied again, he felt a desperate need to return to Konoha, to help, to stand by his beloved home village during its struggle.
But from everything he'd learned, from everything he knew, that was impossible. To return to his own world would be to return to the moment he'd been taken from -- so, at best, a few moments of fading consciousness before death took him. Nothing more. He had lived the full span of his life, save only a few moments at the end. That was all.
"I might as well consider this the afterlife," he mused aloud, watching smoke curl from the bowl of his pipe. He brought it to his lips again, drew in a deep mouthful. Then he let it out and added, "... Perhaps I'll find my way to a printing press. Or if not, I can start a circulation of manuscripts..." After all, there was so much potential here!
And that was the end of it, really. He could move forward, he could hold on to a few of his most precious people for a while longer... maybe this wasn't such a bad afterlife to find himself in. He could get used to it.
Jiraiya | Reserved | Samples
First Person: Training Wings
Third Person:
He'd gotten his bearings, gotten his clothes (and figured out how to get his new attachments more or less comfortable underneath the layers of mesh, shirt, and vest), and gotten himself a pipe almost exactly like his own, along with some tobacco to fill it. This last was the most important, really. Couldn't have a proper think without a little bit of a smoke to go with it.
So Jiraiya, with his accoutrements, settled himself out in the forest, his back against a tree -- diminutive by Konoha standards, but a tree no less, strong and natural and solid. Time to do some serious thinking, to process everything that had happened since he'd hauled himself out of the lake a few days ago.
The most important point -- he was not dead. His arm was back where it belonged, his throat no longer crushed, his body not pierced by those mysterious black bars that drove his chakra mad. None of these were bad things, not at all, but they left him filled with a mad restlessness. He needed to get home! If he'd been given a gift of second life, a free pass on sinking into death, then by the gods, he ought to be using it! He'd sent off his warning -- hoped he had, hoped that Fukasaku had gotten free in time, that Pein -- Nagato, gods, Nagato -- hadn't been able to stop him. Hoped that between Kakashi, Tsunade, Naruto, they'd been able to work out the content of his warning.
He'd almost resigned himself to dying, disappointed and regretful but accepting the darkness in the end, but now that he found himself still living, found himself whole and able-bodied again, he felt a desperate need to return to Konoha, to help, to stand by his beloved home village during its struggle.
But from everything he'd learned, from everything he knew, that was impossible. To return to his own world would be to return to the moment he'd been taken from -- so, at best, a few moments of fading consciousness before death took him. Nothing more. He had lived the full span of his life, save only a few moments at the end. That was all.
"I might as well consider this the afterlife," he mused aloud, watching smoke curl from the bowl of his pipe. He brought it to his lips again, drew in a deep mouthful. Then he let it out and added, "... Perhaps I'll find my way to a printing press. Or if not, I can start a circulation of manuscripts..." After all, there was so much potential here!
And that was the end of it, really. He could move forward, he could hold on to a few of his most precious people for a while longer... maybe this wasn't such a bad afterlife to find himself in. He could get used to it.