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The rain seethes itself into the ground. Soaking the soil underneath the grass and leaves. The storm was large and heavy with dominance over the island. As the leaves are swept away by the howling wind, the archeologist tethers the leaves draped on the low hanging trees around her to smoothly make a path. A stern look was painting the face of the slender archeologist. The storm stature illuminating the cold faded away stare that was burning bright with cobalt blue.
The devil’s child; Nico Robin. Her eyes were like a wolf, sharp and piercing through with terroristic power. An overcoming fear washes over whoever dared get in her way. The stare of the wolf. Circular face and oval eyes, an unmistakable sense of presence. With the folded iconic figure of her hands, suddenly dozens of marines lay lifelessly as their backs broke by her ‘clutch.’ Swift and deadly her attacks leave like her presence. Soft cherry blossom petals fall and disappear before they even reach the ground.
The devil child is a lonesome creature, with little to gain from making and conversing friends. Alliances, trademarks, deals, the breath of scandalization draws from her mouth. Nothing too serious; only just to gain what she wants. Poneglyths. The secret history. The dark age. The blank era. Nothing is more special to her than what lies deep within those tablets. Hidden across the world, filled with brimming memories of those blurred lines of history. Robin mourned for the invalid use of this. The poneglyths was the only text from this time. It was a spectacle.
Her mother had died for this. Her island was destroyed for this. Her life was ruined because of this. Yet, she strived to still uncover history’s secrets. Robin had nothing else to lose. What was the point of living out the life of an archaeological expedition without any archeologists to archive? Not much, if anything. It didn’t really matter, there was no turmoil on that aspect for Robin. She didn’t live, she sought out archiving, examining, writing, noting, analyzing, anything that might draw her closer to the truth.
The life of Nico Robin is filled with tragedy. Nothing has been gained for so much has been lost. The echoes and distant voices of the townspeople of O’Hara. It entraps Robin and plagues her with nightmares and fears of being the only survivor. I guess you could call it survivor’s guilt. The slow gnawing at her skin, searing at her heart. How her life enkindles through destruction and despair. Death follows her like a hallowing wind flowing through her hair. The one who brings death and the victims who are executed. Robin never enjoyed the blood and tears streaming down her enemies. Maybe it’s why she is so closed-off. She understands one thing.
The life she lives has too many lives strung down into the soil. Her ambition of her dream paves a road that is filled with many obstacles. The beating hums of her mind fills with guilt for being alive. Her dream only supports the bigger picture that only she can achieve. Her own life means nothing. Not her, not to anyone. Why should it? Her legacy basks in disgrace. The child who whence from O'Hara every time her mother sets out on a new adventure. Dreaming to join her on her endeavors. It was a wondrous endeavor.
Her mind filled with the knowledge of archeological discoveries. Robin wanted nothing but to be able to join and admire her mother at work. Her mother wasn’t part of the young life of Robin's past. So, her fond memories slipped past her knowledge and she would soon forget the facelift of her own mother. She almost did. When her mother finally returned; she was captured by the marines. Her mellow face was bruised, and defeated. Her snow-white hair hung low as her head knelt over her shoulders. There wasn't a more sad sight. The notoriety of Nico Olivia, the greatest archeologist from O’Hara, now sitting and waiting to be killed. It was a sad day, indeed.
The tragedy that fell upon the two Nico’s was seared within the young girl’s mind. Terrible. Alone. Helpless. Orphaned. The rain waters down the memories of the past. Saul was the only good memory to remember. The time they spent laughing, watching the sunset, eating wild berries and fish. “Nobody was born in this world to be alone.” Those words ring in the background of Robin’s mind. Her hands sculpt the truth as she reads the poneglyth. The soft scars enticed her skin. Remembering once before the hardships of her lonely life. Sleepless nights, seared with bruises and tear-stained eyes. The burning sensation in her lungs as she ran away from danger, as she ran, and ran, and ran.
Hiding herself in crowds, barely finding shelter within villages, cold stares of those who are innocent of disaster. The starless nights, with fleeting hope to soothe her to sleep. Reading brought little, but comfort. Cold, shallow, she hid from the warmth of the lights lit from cities and villages. Undeserving of the basking sun, she shone in moonlight. Her legacy rutted with mud, unprovoked by liberties of freedom. Nor did she ever dare to wish for the gift of freedom or life itself. The moonlit eyes shining cobalt blue from the devil child’s stare. The cold but torn stare. The wounded wolf; the alpha on a one-lonesome pack. The Devil Child, Nico Robin, the world’s most dangerous archaeologist.