Because the man is damn fine.

Ah ha, no, seriously, I inflict the metal-clawed box o' awesome upon the general public because this is one character that deserves a bit of limelight. Gosh, I love the final and fantastical with all my gaming heart, but Vagrant Story takes the entirety of the cake and eats the candles, too.

[Poof! Spoilers ahead.]

Though I may raise my vocal mannerisms to shatter glass as I expound on the thousands of ways SYDNEY LOSSTAROT IS MADE OF AWESOME, I'll admit that I wasn't so captivated at first. Actually, I thought he looked rather inane-- I think it was the pants. No, it was definitely the pants. Funny how things come around and punch you in the face.

And so hard, ouch.

Once upon a time, there was this stupid little girl who cried when the ghost boy turned around and whispered "He intends to die" as Sydney walks away to who knows where. There was this stupid little girl who cursed Guildenstern with testicular rot, as the striken prophet lay bleeding in Ashley's arms, the camera slowly backing away and the only thing running through her mind was "... oooooooh no you didn't".

But it's not only that, says she, it's the sway of his steps, the hurt of his words, the sharp of his wit. The way he can see what others cannot. The way a little boy is lost somewhere inside, and only comes out to die. And, damnit, it's the way he can set it up and take the fall, and save some souls along the way. He's so cool you could keep a slab of meat inside of him for three months without spoiling.

How do I put this? Sydney is fiendishly brilliant: from little thoughts bubbles to cunning grand plans, from flippant quotes to cutting observation of the various players and plays. The man sneezes charisma, and would totally blow his nose like a Wildean dandy. I bet he eats all the cucumber sandwiches, too.

... who am I kidding?

I have a particular fondness for metal-clawed arrogant little snots who suffer from a significant lack of pants. ♥