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Erdawn Il Deus · 08-05-2005, 02:58 PM

...to where my travels have taken me, though I have not managed to alocate the trickster Harlequint, or Jeszebelle, and regardless of where my steps take me their deaths shall pull me through it all. But here, I find myself waiting... why? For what? My instincts thrum with vibrancy, calling me to stop, wait, despite my quest to catch and kill my enemies for the poisoning and murder of my liege, Surlord Juda Damodred of Iscariote, and leaving my homeland to burn and my soul blessed black and chimed of Death.

So why do I wait? Perhaps death has taken me here, written out my end, and my pursuits are in vain. Perhaps I am already dead, and this place of seeming elycium bleakness only a large tomb. I feel as if things are coming to a close... a climax. I think I am being pursued. Surely, it is a possibility.

...

There is nothing more I can write here. I can only wait. Will you, Reader, await my return? Or will your interest in my tale end with me? Time will tell. Then again, time is only another enemy.

~S. A. Navarre,
Third Centurion of the Iscariote Royalty,
Order of the Vandal Heart

SixY/Ti/Boar/18

p. 8062

The staccato scratching of his quill ended, and which a liquid movement of his hands he rolled the feathered pen and slid it back beneath the folds of his coat. He closed the ruffled, leather-bound book of old parchment, too small to contain the numbered ammount of pages, and stuffed it silently among the others in his breast pocket. He looked up with reverred silence and observed the realm in which he had thread.

It was the Hour of the Owl, sometimes known as Highmoon, and the silver disk hung fat and milky in the velvet softness of the night-sky, giving ethereal light to the late world. Stars dotted the creamy black of the sombre heaven, twinkling frostily like crystallized chips of candlefire. Grey, patterned clouds drifted lazily overhead, too far spaced to cover the colossal moon in its unearthly brilliance. He was standing in a cyclopean temple or city ruin which grew stark and stoically from the shimmering field of white grass like pronged fingers, crumbled towers and pillars of dark basalt teetering in stacked piles of mortarless architecture, cut bricks in the darkness making them look like silent and unmoving worms. Here and there, dark walls rose from the field, ending in smashed heaps of brick, well-tiled floors of grey marble overgrown with the curious, white grass standing out bleakly without their walls or roofs in broken squares and rectangles, broken pillars rising smooth and sheared off into brooding, stone stumps. The field in itself was an excuse for the infinite - reaching out in every direction like a snowy carpet, made up of high, swishing grass and weeds a brilliant wintery white, taking in the light of the moon and almost glowing in turn.

He stood tall and stared out across the contrasting emptiness, letting the cool breeze ruffle and batter his heavy curls of hair and wash off his skin. He fit well in this place - his hair was combed back and soft and snowy, falling in a curled mess down to his shoulders and exposing the sharpness of his face, which stood out milky white and narrowed, his cheekbones poking from the flesh of his face with sallow insistence and his eyes socketed deeply and gauntly into his skull, pinpricks of pale green like sea-ice. He wore a heavy coat of silvery-white fox-furs over his lithe, sleek body, which draped and billowed like spun silk from his waist and back. Sheated in a scabbard of wolf-skin and leather rested a massive long-sword, its metallic, charcoal hilt scratched and covered with so many runes and diagrames and sutras they overlapped into unreadable gibberish, the weapon strung off his hip with belts made of hide and leather.

He kneeled into the lush white grass and broken marble tiles, resting his weight on his knees, and waited, the wind buffeting him in caressing gusts, crisp and icily rich, his throat humming soft worldless songs into the night, his aura a perfect pearl of smooth and unmovable harmony.

OoC: Long and written in a tournament based on battling, but I really felt a vibe with this character. Since I sent that PM while you were gone and the tourney's already started, I just picked the white field. I think it will do this battle justice.

Now let's tear em up!

[ August 05, 2005, 03:15 PM: Message edited by: e-r-d-a-w-n ]

08-05-2005, 02:58 PM	#2
Erdawn Il Deus Senior Member Join Date: May 2003 Location: Threading the jeweled thrones of earth under my sandalled feet Gender: Posts: 2,991 Thanks: 4 Thanked 45 Times in 39 Posts Points: 24,531.64 Bank: 887.92 Total Points: 25,419.56 Donate	...to where my travels have taken me, though I have not managed to alocate the trickster Harlequint, or Jeszebelle, and regardless of where my steps take me their deaths shall pull me through it all. But here, I find myself waiting... why? For what? My instincts thrum with vibrancy, calling me to stop, wait, despite my quest to catch and kill my enemies for the poisoning and murder of my liege, Surlord Juda Damodred of Iscariote, and leaving my homeland to burn and my soul blessed black and chimed of Death. So why do I wait? Perhaps death has taken me here, written out my end, and my pursuits are in vain. Perhaps I am already dead, and this place of seeming elycium bleakness only a large tomb. I feel as if things are coming to a close... a climax. I think I am being pursued. Surely, it is a possibility. ... There is nothing more I can write here. I can only wait. Will you, Reader, await my return? Or will your interest in my tale end with me? Time will tell. Then again, time is only another enemy. ~S. A. Navarre, Third Centurion of the Iscariote Royalty, Order of the Vandal Heart SixY/Ti/Boar/18 p. 8062 The staccato scratching of his quill ended, and which a liquid movement of his hands he rolled the feathered pen and slid it back beneath the folds of his coat. He closed the ruffled, leather-bound book of old parchment, too small to contain the numbered ammount of pages, and stuffed it silently among the others in his breast pocket. He looked up with reverred silence and observed the realm in which he had thread. It was the Hour of the Owl, sometimes known as Highmoon, and the silver disk hung fat and milky in the velvet softness of the night-sky, giving ethereal light to the late world. Stars dotted the creamy black of the sombre heaven, twinkling frostily like crystallized chips of candlefire. Grey, patterned clouds drifted lazily overhead, too far spaced to cover the colossal moon in its unearthly brilliance. He was standing in a cyclopean temple or city ruin which grew stark and stoically from the shimmering field of white grass like pronged fingers, crumbled towers and pillars of dark basalt teetering in stacked piles of mortarless architecture, cut bricks in the darkness making them look like silent and unmoving worms. Here and there, dark walls rose from the field, ending in smashed heaps of brick, well-tiled floors of grey marble overgrown with the curious, white grass standing out bleakly without their walls or roofs in broken squares and rectangles, broken pillars rising smooth and sheared off into brooding, stone stumps. The field in itself was an excuse for the infinite - reaching out in every direction like a snowy carpet, made up of high, swishing grass and weeds a brilliant wintery white, taking in the light of the moon and almost glowing in turn. He stood tall and stared out across the contrasting emptiness, letting the cool breeze ruffle and batter his heavy curls of hair and wash off his skin. He fit well in this place - his hair was combed back and soft and snowy, falling in a curled mess down to his shoulders and exposing the sharpness of his face, which stood out milky white and narrowed, his cheekbones poking from the flesh of his face with sallow insistence and his eyes socketed deeply and gauntly into his skull, pinpricks of pale green like sea-ice. He wore a heavy coat of silvery-white fox-furs over his lithe, sleek body, which draped and billowed like spun silk from his waist and back. Sheated in a scabbard of wolf-skin and leather rested a massive long-sword, its metallic, charcoal hilt scratched and covered with so many runes and diagrames and sutras they overlapped into unreadable gibberish, the weapon strung off his hip with belts made of hide and leather. He kneeled into the lush white grass and broken marble tiles, resting his weight on his knees, and waited, the wind buffeting him in caressing gusts, crisp and icily rich, his throat humming soft worldless songs into the night, his aura a perfect pearl of smooth and unmovable harmony. OoC: Long and written in a tournament based on battling, but I really felt a vibe with this character. Since I sent that PM while you were gone and the tourney's already started, I just picked the white field. I think it will do this battle justice. Now let's tear em up! [ August 05, 2005, 03:15 PM: Message edited by: e-r-d-a-w-n ]