Prologue
+ NAME + Maako
+ ALIAS +  N/A
+ AGE + Appears between 29-33 years old. Likely much older than that
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Stargate
+ BORN + Unknown
+ ORIGIN + Eye of Bperasmus
+ SPECIES + Demon
+ RESIDENCE + The Underworld!  Oh, Uh, Earth, actually.
+ OCCUPATION + N/A
+ COUNTENANCE +
+ STATURE + 6'3" / 200 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Blue-skinned, with hints of gray and green, Maako makes for a tall figure.  Few things are humanoid about him other than the fact that he is bipedal and has two arms, and two legs.  And two more arms just beneath the first ones.  He's slim in build, with stringy but well-defined muscles, and a belly with teeth to show for it.

They line down his stomach like a zipper might, although the teeth are much sharper should anything get caught in between them.    They are practical, and certainly more than a conversation piece.  Spines protrude from his face, one on each cheekbone, and at the corners of his jaw, and form a sort of crown like shape along his forehead and halfway around his skull.

He has silvery hair, cropped short and slicked back away from his brow. His smile is full of teeth, sharp ones but not unfriendly, unless you catch him in a bad mood.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
He didn't come into his world alone.  Maako has a talking hand, companion of sorts that switches between a blinking eye and a mouth when necessary.  When closed, it looks like little more than a  horizontal cut across his hand. 

CH II – Mental Make-up
Energetic yet lazy.  Curious yet reserved, Maako wants nothing more than to enjoy the fruits of life without having to work for any of it.  Unfortunately for him that isn't always the case.  He's friendly over all, but quick to throw a fit when he doesn't get his way.

+ FAITH +
He believes in the church of himself if that matters.

+ HABITS +


CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
____________, His Master
Formerly his master's favorite, he was sent out into the realm of Earth to retrieve something his master lost, in a vain attempt to regain his favor.

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ GLIDER +
A fold of extra skin resides just underneath his upper pair of arms to serve as a gliding apparatus.  He can glide long distances with them, although he cannot fly.  They are not attached directly to his lower pair of arms, instead ending right at the shoulder.  He can allow them to seep back into his flesh.

+ REATTACHMENT +
Maako can reattach any dismembered appendage that's unfortunately lopped off his body.  Also the talking hand can also spit acid.  Fun times.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
Nekkid?  But he's been known to steal clothes.  He likes dressing fancy.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Stuff happened!

I just need to organize it better.

[Open by Request]

Maybe it was a foolish decision that would cost him sooner rather than later.  But for a moment of respite, he would take that risk.  Coming into Essyrn wasn't as difficult as one might expect.  He was a hunted man certainly, however, he was quite capable of getting into places where he wasn't wanted.  Still, he kept the lip of his hooded poncho over his head and his face down as he entered into the tavern closest to him.

Atalier Talshar was no stranger to the evening life in this oasis city, nestled deep in the scent of jasmine and fresh water.  Sand crunched beneath his shoes.  They were soft soles that relented easily beneath the weight of him.  He tried to focus on the sound instead of the glances of passersby.  They did not know him nor he them, but he could never know exactly just when or where someone might be looking for him.  But then again maybe he was just being overly paranoid.

He was a traveler like anything coming into a place where foreign traffic was rather high even on a slow day.  People came and went from all over, what difference did it make if he was among them?  He was just another face in a crowd.

He stopped before a dimly lit building.  The red light dangling from it told him what it was.  It was alluring to be sure, and only then did Atalier feel the exhaustion settling into his bones.  It was better than staying and sleeping in the streets.  Vagrancy wasn't high on his list of aspirations.  Feelingly, he pulled out what coins jangled in the purse beneath his poncho.  He bounced the weight of a few coins and put them back.  He could afford a drink and maybe a store room bedroll, but probably not company for the night.  That sounded just fine for now.

Inside was the pungent fragrance of incense and perfume and it filled his nostrils, the sound of laughter and singing filled his ears.  Atalier was greeted by a young girl, one that casually took his arm and stroked his hand.  She smiled shyly at him, but Atalier politely waved her away.  She complied with some disappointment but little protest.

"If you're not here to pay and play, you've walked into the wrong place, my friend," a woman beside him said casually, puffing on a hookah pipe and affording him a sidelong glance.  She surveyed Atalier, grinning in appreciation and extending her hand.  "Saffir."

He looked her over, taking and kissing the back of the offered hand.  "Tal," he replied.  "I have money, but I just need a place to stay for the night.  Taverns are too...crowded."

"Unfortunately, the only rooms for let, darling, are already occupied."  She chuckled, letting her hand graze his on its way back to the hookah pipe.  She puffed on it, nodding to the man tending the bar.  "Give him one on the house."

Atalier smiled a moment before stopping himself.  "Nothing's free.   What's the price?"

Saffir laughed again.  "You're smarter than at first glance.  I like that.  Come to my room later tonight and we'll talk business, yes?  Top floor.  You'll know it when you see it."  She gave his hand another squeeze before departing the bar.

A sinking feeling entered Atalier's gut.  As intriguing as it was, he wasn't sure he was going to like whatever it was she had to say.  He sniffed his drink.  Rakshi...a crisp sharp burning of a whiskey distilled from wild rice in the Kishan Jungle.  A free rakshi drink didn't lend much to idea that the favor was going to be anything small. 

Another sip soothed his nerves for the moment.  He could always just enjoy the drink and walk out.  He tipped the man behind the counter a coin just for good measure.  Eyes flicked around to view behind him, surveying the crowd that came into this place.  A lot of these folk didn't look nearly as disheveled as he did.  They wore pristine clean robes, jewels adorning their hands, and it was plain to see this was a rather well-to do crowd.  One in fact locked eyes on him for a moment.

Atalier cursed and turned back to his drink.  He knew he should have kept moving.  Downing the rakshi, Atalier casually slid from the chair and thanked the server, moving slowly through the building out toward the back.  From the corner of his eye he saw the man stand, excusing himself until he followed after him.

Atalier kept walking, stride now brisk as he found the rear exit.  He pushed passed a slave, passing through into the alleyway.

"Hey!  You!  Stop," the man called behind him.  "Atalier!"

His hackles rose, adrenaline rushing.  Atalier turned back, sliding into the dip in an alleyway and heard the footsteps approaching.  They were homing in quick.  In a grunt of aggravation, Atalier rushed his pursuer, pressing him hard against the wall behind him and holding him firmly there.  "Why are you following me!?"

He stared back, stunned at the look in Atalier's eyes.  "Atalier, I thought you were dead... "

"Who are you?  How do you know my name?"

"I am Farahd Sha-ishra.  I'm not surprised you don't remember me...  I was a friend of your mother's.  I am sorry to hear what happened to your family.  I recognized you only after you looked back at me, I apologize if I startled you.  Please, calm down."

"You knew my mother?"  He relaxed, letting him go.

"Yes.  I saw her not long ago, somewhere in the market.  But I did not have a chance to speak with her, she quickly rushed away."  Farahd frowned, Atalier relaxing his hands enough to pull away.   But the look at the younger man's face was as if he'd seen a ghost.

"You...you saw my mother?  She's alive?"  There were more questions rushing through his mind that Atalier could not speak them out loud.  His heart hammered against his ribs in a desperate rhythm.  "Where did you see her?  When!?"

"In the market, not but five days ago.  But I told you I didn't get –"

"It's all right, Farahd.   It's enough to know she's alive.  Thank you."  Atalier nodded to the man before running off down the alley and moving away from the brothel.  The market wasn't far from where he was, but at this time of night, it would likely be closed.  There would be guards and others roaming about. 

Atalier drew his hood on, keeping it low enough but still visible enough for him to see.  He prowled the streets casually, trying his damnedest to keep his heart beat in check, nerve keeping his gaze averted to the ground.  He didn't see the body that collided into him, just that he heard the other stumble backwards and objects fall to the ground.  "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, reaching down to pick up the items.  "I didn't see you there."

[Tags @pomelo ]

It wasn't his first rodeo.  No, but it was definitely the first one where he didn't have to sweat bullets trying to avoid making eye contact with any guards.  Yeah, he didn't have to sweat them, but they were coming out anyway.  Not that the smoke between his fingers was helping him much, but it would do for now.  What he really needed was a drink, but that, unfortunately, would have to wait.

Quinlan's face was ignited by the light of his cigarette in hand, taking along drag that made the passing guard eye him with a frown.  "You can't smoke that in here," he snapped.  "Besides you're supposed to be inside.  It's what you're paid to do, ain't it?"

Quinlan slowly blew out the smoke, straightening his back against the porch pillar at the rear of the villa just in the walls of Selevea.  It was a nice city, filled with bustle, parties, and money.  That last part was what brought him here obviously.  But instead of hiding out in some greasy dive, he found himself here at the house of some Lord Understone or something or other.  He needed something different, and a man looking for someone to play bodyguard seemed easy enough.  Nobody to hound after him, nobody to gut him in his sleep, and there was steady pay without too much risk.

He finished the puff and dashed the smoke out on a small case he had, a folder of iron that silenced the hiss of the smoke, and he quietly put it away to be enjoyed for later.  "I was just taking a break.  The air is nice out, all right?  Relax."

"Look, I can relax.  I'm not some hired thug.  So get your ass back inside and keep an eye on Master Theiris!  I don't know where Lord Understone found you, but I'd sooner scrap you off my boot and toss you into the river."

"Ha, like you can throw that far with your flab," Quinlan said under his breath.

"WHAT!?"

"I said, I'm going!" Quinlan spat and turned back into the porch, going back into the cacophony of the party currently being held inside.  It was a birthday bash, for the grand Lord Cedric Understone himself, and the guest of honor had certainly made himself comfortable on the arm of a twenty-something that Quinlan had to tilt his head nearly 90 degrees to admire the fullness of that moon.  He sniffed, going back to his post and looking out for Theiris Understone as he enjoyed himself.

He could remain vigilant – hell, he was getting paid for it, why the hell not?  Even if he was a little bored just standing there...watching everyone else have a good time, knowing full one or two of the villa guards would be bumping around the cleaning closets with some of the fine flesh out here.  He gave a smirk, one that stayed plastered on his face all throughout the night.


"All right, Quinlan, I'll relieve you for the night," Rutger muttered as she stepped through Theiris' antechamber door.  Quinlan had been reading for the night, standing up as soon as the other guard entered.  "You look like you need a drink."

"Don't I ever," he sighed.  "Look, the kid's just gone off to uh, well, I'm sure you can handle it.  I'm heading out.  Gotta get away from Sir Flabs-a-lot.  I don't know how you deal with him.  See you in a few hours, all right?"

"Sure," she said with a nod and watched him go.

It was easy avoid the Captain of Understone's men.  The man could barely walk two paces without winding himself.  Quinlan alone had gotten meaner in build in the last few years.  But as soon as Quinlan was out onto the evening streets, he was home free.  At least for the next few hours.  Selevea was a decent place, he thought to himself.  Better than Ketra by a longshot.  And not a bad place to find himself.

There had be a tavern around here where he could spend his gold.  Some place to help him forget that he'd sold much of his freedom away to a mercenary's job.  There was no risk, sure, but there wasn't much thrill either.  But far be it from him to say no to easy money.

Quinlan took out the smoke case, and pulled out the one he'd half-dashed earlier, igniting a match and taking a drag on it, when he saw a familiar shape coming up toward him, or so he thought.  He wasn't drunk yet, so he couldn't be seeing things.  Quinlan saw the pair of people behind it pass under a lantern's light and smiled.

He'd know that hair anywhere.

@Rhi-Rhi

It was easy to say that he was tired of the desert.  It was maddening to view the sand in all its expansive entirety, seemingly endless with ages buried underneath it.  There was no mercy in this place.  The sand took what it wanted, including him if he let it. 

Atalier frowned in the distance before him, continuing his trek off the beaten path.   The caravan routes were only so useful in traversing the wider expanses of desert.  For now, however, he wandered away from sand and down toward the canyon ridges that resided far far west of Essyrn into a place uncharted by most maps. 

It was just as well that he would die out here without ever finding what he sought.  He knew if it sounded too good to be true, it probably was.  But a faint glimmer of hope clung to the promise of his employer.  They knew a way to break him from his curse, with an arcane understanding of djinn and their vile magic.  He could only hope it was true.   He was not that much a fool as to buy into that alone.  He knew there was a price to be had.  In exchange for his help they wanted something just as valuable.

A pelt more majestic than the world had ever seen.  A lion's pelt, but to be more specific, a certain breed of lion that was larger and stronger than those found in the wild.  They knew the place, the path to get there, but would rely on him to get it.  It sounded easy enough, kill one of them, skin the pelt, and take it back.

Atalier found the badlands easily enough, hidden far from view from the main route, within a canyon that allowed excellent coverage.  How even his employer found it was beyond him.  He observed the redrock stone, towered high above him as he ventured down, avoiding stepping on any poisonous lizards that hissed at his passing.

He pulled the face covering from his cowl, looking up around him, as he was now wandering the deep shadows in the canyon's labyrinthine ridge.  Wind swept back his cowl and sent his hair into his face.  He wiped a hand across his brow, going deeper into the shadows.

Until a growl caught his attention.

Atalier stilled himself.  Shit.  Couldn't this have been after I ate something?  Not even breakfast yet! he inwardly griped.  He turned slowly, seeing nothing.  "Fuck," he muttered, half irritated that his nerves were getting the better of him.  "You should know better, Tal."

That was until he heard a loud growl again, this time much closer than before.  And something heavy soon landing on his back, knocking him down to the floor.

[Tags to @Draconian ]

Life burned faster, when one obeyed their master.

A feat Atalier did well to refrain from pursuit.  He wanted out of the desert, and after coming this far, there was no way he was going to turn back.  Not with the headhunters that chased after him, looking to hunt the famed, or rather infamous Sandman.  He would find his own way here, his own life, even if he had to take it by force.  Why couldn't they simply leave him be?  Why did they have to hound him?

Just when he thought he found peace, there they were to snatch it from him.  He was a Tarshal, there would be no peace for him.  That was the price to pay for his family's greed.  Atalier mounted the hill he'd been climbing, staying low in the tall grass to hide from the wild Horsemen that had seen him in their territory. 

A loud whoop nearby made him perk up, as he saw a band of those damn Duhjari move closer to him.  He thought he would hide, but they'd likely find him...or trample over his body.  Fuck if he'd let them do that.  Sand or not, dirt was dirt. 

And when they neared, Atalier grabbed fistfuls of soil and threw them up at the trio of horsemen at their approach.  The dirt piles turned into large spikes, jamming upward toward the riders and unseating one from horseback.  Their cries summoned the rest of their warband, whooping and making chase as Atalier took off down the hill, rounding it as quickly as he could.

His heart raced, pounding heavily in his head, as he dropped and pulled more dirt from the ground, and it ignited into a large disorienting cloud to those that passed through it.  He slid down the grassy hillside, and underestimated it's steepness.  "WHOA!" he cried out, as he went down and down into a brush filled with bloodthorns.

He was knicked and prodded, tumbling down through thorny bushes, the five inch points tugging and pulling at his clothing and skin.  He struggled to free himself, poncho shredding in places, and his hands and arms bled through.  Beneath him was a dug out hole, a small burrow he could crawl through if he crouched down.

Atalier got down on his belly, shuffling just below the snagging points of those bloodthorns, into the darkness of the hole.  The coolness of soil engulfed his senses, and he hid as far away from the entrance as possible.  The sounds of the Duhjari grew louder the closer they got to him, and he held his breath.  He could summon a storm, he thought, call the sands of the nearby Moraki desert and flush them out.  But no, he didn't know if he could even control it. 

Their voices were so close he thought he felt them breathing down his neck.  It was close, too close.  He closed his eyes, counting.  There was nothing more he could do.  And soon his breathing was all he heard.  He opened his eyes, his hand having gone numb from laying on it.  He shook it out, fingers hitting something hard beside it.  He narrowed his eyes, unable to see much more than its shape.  It was a metal box, buried halfway in the dirt.

With the Duhjari gone, Atalier shuffled out of the burrow, wiping the dirt from his face and the box. He carefully pushed the tin, the metal a bit rusted over, and found it was a jewelry box...  And within it was a ring.

"Now who would leave something like this behind?" he murmured, blowing the dirt from the ring.

Prologue
+ NAME + Atalier Talshar
+ ALIAS + Atal / Tal / Phantom of the Sands/ Sandman
+ AGE + Ageless, Appears to be about 35
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Sacred Lotus
+ BORN + Summer
+ ORIGIN + Summer
+ SPECIES + Cursed Human
+ RESIDENCE + Nomadic
+ OCCUPATION + Former Merchant Prince / Mercenary Mage
+ COUNTENANCE + Dark Brown hair w/ blonde highlights / Reddish-Brown eyes
+ STATURE + 5'11" / 200 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Tall for an Essyrni and well built, Atalier has a deep olive skin, covering rough but rugged features, hair long but wavy, and curling at the ends.  His eyes are a deep reddish brown, almost as dark as his hair and accented with flecks of gold.  Some scars are across his form, his chest, arms and back.

He often wears travelers rags, simple clothing, layered yet light enough to withstand the devastating sandstorms of the desert.  He wears a poncho, shorter in the front than in the back with bandages across his forearms, a hood and face-mask for protection.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +

CH II – Mental Make-up
Dunno! Figuring it out as I go.

+ FAITH +
Has a tempestuous relationship with anything regarding the Essyrni religion.  While he acknowledges the possibility of their existence, he doesn't put more trust in anything religious.  It's just a matter of selling salvation.

+ HABITS +
Smokes and drinks during down time.  Other vices may include dabbling in dark magics.  He seeks to learn more about magic, as a way to learn more about his abilities, and how to control it.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Idina Talshar, Mother, Alive, whereabouts unknown
Fhaluada Talshar, Father, Deceased.
Tal-uan Talshar, Eldest Brother, Deceased.

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ SAND MAGE +
The result of a djinn's curse, he was given the ability to control and manipulate the very earth at his feet. Atalier can turn something as innocuous as sand into a devastating weapon.  He can solidify them into material weapons, or dissipate his own form into flowing sand, and materialize elsewhere.  Single grains of sand can be turned into devastating storms, tearing apart stone and steel, and can suffocate and vanish.    He can absorb a blow, or make his body dense to withstand it.

It is not a power he can always control.  When enraged, his eyes glow, and he loses nearly all sense of himself, powers growing exponentially.  He does not age as others do, his soul belonging to the djinn that cursed him.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
Nothing more than the clothes on his back, mainly.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
-Talshar family of merchant princes rose to prominence from the wishes granted by a djinn.
-The Djinn eventually turned the tables on their luck, and their fortune turned to bad luck.  They lost their territories, property in war, family in sickness.
-Bad dealings made many of Fhaluada's friends turn against him, forming an alliance to bring the end of him.
-Fhaluada Talshar was betrayed and torn to pieces by four horses, Tal-uan was beheaded and Idina was sold into slavery.
-Atalier escaped with his life, if barely by the forces that left his house in shambles.  The Talshar's properties were overtaken by a man his father once called his friend.

And more stuff as soon as I think of it!

[ @DragonSong  ]

The trap was set.  All he had to do now was wait, breath held, tightening in his throat as if the slightest sound would wake the birds.  Well, it wouldn't be the first time.  Rook knew best not to linger in the area, sighing inwardly, the best way to catch prey was to leave and return at a later time.  It was just as well, he wouldn't catch a damn thing, but game always seemed to sense when someone was nearby.

With that he bound the strip of rope in his hand, knotting it at its base and slipping it into his belt.  He took a moment to check on the hunting knife at his side.  His hand twitched.  Best to stay on his guard, he decided, and turned round, listening intently and walking quietly away.  The birds continued to chirp all on their own, nothing disturbed them.

And nothing would, even as another would scamper behind the trail Rook had left hours later.  What a curious being, he decided.  He was a black crow, rather large for its size, and with blue streaks marking along his black breast feathers.  He observed the bent twig, and the twine used to hold it in place.  Perhaps it was best not to disturb it.

Hindsight was always 20/20.

It didn't matter if Veles didn't touch the string, because as he turned, his body moved a carefully placed rock.  And when the rock moved, the twig twisted, loosened the twine, and up from beneath him a net embraced all around him.  He yelped as the net pulled him up high into a tree, and moving only twisted it further around him.

Veles panicked, fear pushing through him in a cold stab that penetrated deep into his lungs.  He did not scream, but struggling in that entwined net soon exhausted him.  He was dazed, his head spinning and aching all around.  Beneath him the world turned as he did on his head.  Night was falling now, and the fear struck deeper.

He wouldn't scream.  He didn't know how that would help his situation.  If the hunter that had set this trap would return soon,  he had every intention of eating whatever he found in the net.  Veles morphed his form, body altering and shifting the net as his legs extended and wings turned to arms, and feathers turned to flesh.

He did the only thing that came to mind then, and howled loudly as a wolf would, a loud and mournful cry.

Prologue
+ NAME + Iridu Skullshank
+ ALIAS +  Skullshank / Shank
+ AGE + 120
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Cloak
+ BORN + Unknown
+ ORIGIN + Underground
+ SPECIES + Urux Goblin
+ RESIDENCE + HOMELESS!
+ OCCUPATION + Mercenary / Bandit / Banished warrior from his clan
+ COUNTENANCE + Yellow-Red eyes / Black and red hair
+ STATURE + 6’4” / 199 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Skullshank is average height for a goblin, at least the ones of his clan anyway.  He’s broadshouldered, but lithe, and not too lanky.  His flesh is a murky, dark green, palms course and rough and he’s missing a pinky on his left hand.  But what seems to stand out most, and attributes even to his name, are the spikes and blades that protrude from the flesh of his left arm.  They are haphazardly placed, sticking up through the muscle of his forearm. Most of them are stiletto type blades, but one thickened blade in particular sticks up in the middle of his forearm.  His flesh had grown around them at the base, and only hurt some of the time.  But nothing annoys him more than when flesh gets caught inbetween them.

He generally wears leathers and bones, armor mended here and there with the bones of his enemies, and a human skull propped on one of the pauldrons.  Most of his equipment is haphazard, quickly thrown together or what he could rummage off of dead bodies, but he makes the most of it.  Various piercings decorate his ears, some having been torn off and leaving  behind ribboned flesh.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
A ridge of small bone protrusions create an oblique v-shape along his brow, just above and ringing up toward his hairline.

CH II – Mental Make-up
A stubborn, delusional goblin, if somewhat vain and foolhardy brute.  He takes things as they come, or more like he goes out to look for what’s coming to him, because he’s too impatient to wait for them.  He has little in the way of respecting personal space.  Your space is his space, and he has a bad habit of freely grabbing what strikes his attention, from objects to body parts.

He’s a generally clean goblin, respectful of his own hygiene unlike most others of his kind, and can often be seen grooming himself or sharpening his nails.  He has a delightfully grim sense of humor, often cackling hysterically.  He doesn’t understand why others don’t laugh, he thinks he’s delightful.

Elvenkind in particular annoys him, although he doesn’t think humans are that much better, considering them uppity and privileged and delights in stomping all over them when he can.  Also dislikes having people’s heads get stuck on the blades of his left arm – they don’t call him Skullshank for nothing.

+ FAITH +
A good way to brainwash people.

+ HABITS +
Drinks, smokes, takes hallucinogenics, and over all hates his life.


CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
*TBA 

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ BERSERK +
A maddened state where all he sees is red.  He is highly resistant to damage and pain, he is also multiple times stronger than normal while in this state.  It really only happens when he’s in the heat of battle, when his blood has been shed, and he has a taste for it himself.

Also, he’s fairly good at hunting, stealth, and overall banditry.  It’s really how he survives.  Most people don’t want goblins around.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
+ WAR AXES +
War axes melted down and forged from different materials, and often repaired or sharpened from rummaged materials as well.  They are banded with pieces of cloth and leather and sometimes reinforced with the bones of fallen enemies.  While they are not perfect they are his prized possessions and would sooner behead someone than allow them to even touch them.


CH VI – Reflections of the Past

He has one!  Just as soon as I think of it.

[Tags @Morrighan  ]

To be so far away from his home, Baeon never thought he'd see the day.  But it was an effort to get away from it all.  The fighting, the grit, the blood, the death.  He had thought Serendipity would have closed its borders, but he'd found a way in.  Money in the hands of the right pockets usually made such passage easier.  He would stay in Serendipity for as long as he could afford it.

Enough time to bring some relief to his troubled mind, if that was even possible.

He'd never been to this strange green country.  The fact that magic was used to so liberally was a bit unsettling, but he was no Mordecai or priest of the Church of Ansgar.  He was a knight, and an executioner at that.  It did not bother him much longer than his first entry into this outlandish nation.  He enjoyed the quiet, and the people did not treat him as an outsider though he was.

Yes, this was just the kind of place he was looking for.  This was just the bar he was happy to have found himself in, a quiet corner in the heart of Selevea, in the last place he'd ever thought to find himself in the world.  And he was just fine.

Baeon sniffed at his whiskey in his glass.  It was definitely watered down, he could tell, but he didn't mind.  It diluted the flavor, the alcohol, and how much he could drink before feeling hammered.  He didn't mind, he was alone after all, and thankful that most of the patrons were content to keep to themselves.
He sat at a table off to the side, by the stairs where he'd come down from his room.  A favored position with his back to the wall, and able to keep an eye on the door.  Looking out for what, he didn't know.  Maybe he was just antsy that way.

"Just relax," he told himself.  "You're on vacation."  And took another sip of his watery whiskey.

[Tags to @Parkway ]

Noble fools.  They ought to know better than think they could pass through these lands with impunity.  However, those of blue blood rarely considered that there might actually be repercussions to their actions.  Their regalia was obvious, blatantly flaunting the guardsmen in their shining armor, sterling weapons, some grim faced and others stony, resolute in their duty to protect this caravan.

Fools the lot of them.

Theiryk had followed them unseen as they made their way through the hidden path within the Draconi Forest.  Travel off the main roads was never easy.  And it seemed, despite their regalia, the men on the carriage were keen to keep too many people from knowing they were coming through.  Theiryk figured they were just trying to avoid highwaymen, most of which preyed on the main roads.

Perhaps they assumed they could handle any stragglers that would attempt to intercept their cargo.  And at the speed they were going, they didn’t aim to be stopped.  That was until a voice rang out for them to do just that.  “I can’t!  I can’t take it anymore!  Stop!” said the shrill voice of one of them passengers residing on the front carriage.

With a shriek, the horses were pulled back sharply, screeching the caravan to a halt, the other men on board jerking their head in surprise as the man fumbled with the door and stumbled out of the carriage.  He was followed by one of the guards, motioned by another to keep an eye on him.

The nobleman held his hands to his mouth and puked off to the side of the path.  “I can’t…take those goddamned sharp turns.  Stop…stop going so fast, Remis!” he hacked, puking more.

“Stop being so damn soft, Jens!” Remis griped at the buckboard, sitting beside the driver and rolling his eyes.  “Now stop puking your guts out, man up, and get in the carriage!  We’re on a very tight schedule!”

Theiryk watched Jens move closer to the carriage.  They wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.  Not if the Wild Elf had anything to do with it.  And just when the carriage was about to get moving again, Theiryk stood in the middle of the road, bow at the ready, arrow strung back and taut.  The guards immediately held out their weapons, two archers atop the carriage, pointing their own arrows at the elf.

Theiryk was unmoved, however.  Watching them with cold eyes, his face drawn.  “You’ll never fire them in time, you know,” he said levelly.  “Get out.  Now.”

[Tag @Soapies ]

His quarry couldn't be far.  They rarely ever got to be anyway.  It was amusing to be sure, to allow them to think that they could possibly escape.  Ki'adan always got his man, or woman, no matter how fast, how far, how dogged they thought they could run.  He had to admit there was a thrill in the hunt, excitement in the chase.

This runaway in particular was surprisingly good at covering their tracks.  This one was older than most runaways, but Ki'adan figured this probably wasn't the first time they'd done so.  Female, lithe of build, approximately 5'8" in height.  Blonde hair, grey eyes.  Fairly usual as far as descriptions went.  This time, however, the exception was that she was not any one's singular asset.

No, this slave was one only in theory, and had not yet been purchased.  The auction house that ran the usual sale of flesh wanted to keep the fact that one of its assets had escaped.  They were wise to employ only the best for the task.  Ki'adan had departed Ketra as soon as he could, following the trail doggedly.  The pay was rather substantial, and a bonus was thrown in if the slave could be returned in time, and without any visible damage to her.

The latter Ki'adan could not guarantee.  Those that ran as far as this one did, rarely agreed to be returned without a fight.

Then again, there were no guarantees in this business.

He sniffed, frowning in thought as he navigated between trees, his horse lightfooted over the underbrush.  It was early morning within the Draconi Forest, unusually quiet.  Nothing good ever came about when it was quiet.  He'd tracked the slave this far along, and up ahead he'd detected a clearing.  Dismounting, Ki'adan pulled the bow from his saddle, knocking an arrow against the grip carefully as he approached.

His mount knew better than to make noise, observing his rider, as he passed beside a tree, where brush and bushes were wildly overgrown, concealing his presence.  The smoke of a campfire rose from a circle of ashes in the small clearing, and what looked to be the remains of a camp.  Recent?  He'd only be able to tell upon further examination.

Ki'adan crouched, slipped through the bushes and kneeling beside the camp, where a few bones of an animal had been discarded.  "Where are you now?" he muttered, observing the grass and dirt around it for tracks.  Suddenly the sound of hooves pounding behind him made him stiffen in alarm.  The arrow that had been knocked was pulled taut in the bow and Ki'adan swiftly turned to fire it at the approaching stranger.

And fly it did, though prodding itself in the bark of a tree beside their head.  Yet just as quickly, another one was pulled back in its place, held at the ready.

[ @kleineklementine !]

Gods above!  What was that awful racket!?

Crowe sat up with an irritated groan.  Only to discover that terrible sound was the ringing in his ears.  For a moment he could hardly hear himself think, until the din subsided and soon ebbed away.  Fuck, did his head hurt.  Yeah someone definitely took a hammer to his skull.  Or something equally blunt and hard.  Dirty joke alert. 

"Don't be stupid," he heard a voice echoing out to him.  But upon opening his eyes, he saw no one around him, nothing but darkness as he sat within his circular cage, the metal bars glinting very little with the lone torch that flickered to the left of him.

"Huh?"

"I said, don't be stupid."  A soft chuckle.  "I didn't hit you with any sort of instrument.  You fell.  You should really watch your step.  I was under the assumption all thieves were light of foot.  I'm can't say I'm not pleasantly surprised."

"What?" he griped, scowling into the darkness and staring into the gloom surrounding that one lone torch.

"Hm, stupid too.  That's a shame.  But I'm sure you'll have your uses, nonetheless.  Don't go anywhere, darl'.  Oh wait.  You can't!"  Another laugh, well, more like a cackle.  One that shot down Crowe's spine and he jerked into alarm.  "Get comfortable.  When I decide what to do with you, then we'll talk."  And with that the voice was gone.  He could just feel her leave and he felt a chill down his spine.

He remembered crawling into a few broken slats covering a ruined window.  He remembered grabbing the stuff and heading for the exit.  Or would have done that if he hadn't been trying to explore the place a little more.  The more knowledge about a location the better after all.  He'd been in a higher tower, and had thought he'd mapped his steps carefully when he heard a click underneath his feet and the floor opened up, plunging him into a darkened pit.

Shit!  He cursed at himself, at his situation, and at that stupid woman that wasn't even supposed to be home anyway!  This was a routine job, boring at best!  Get in, get the stuff, get out.  Enchanted stuff went for a heavy load, especially the creepy shit.  Skulls, bones, feathers, and fragments of something that was once a living thing.  People would pay for anything interesting, and the take would be well worth the risk. 

The tip he'd gotten had promised more than a decent score.  Better yet the owner wasn't supposed to be home.  It was a piece of cake.  With something so easy, Crowe had planned to take as much as he could carry.  The only thing that sucked was that the castle – of course it had to be a castle – was buried deep in the wilderness.  Several miles away from the home base.  So far in fact...it was in another province entirely.  Crowe didn't normally go so far for a hit. Staying close to home was safer, just as lucrative, but the bigger the risk the higher the reward right?

He'd been lucky though, that he'd managed to convince Flitch to tag along with his scheme.  With more than a decent cut of course.  But now that he had time to consider it, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. 

Wait, Flitch!  Shit!

He was supposed to meet her at the rendezvous point.  Maybe he'd be lucky, maybe she'd figure he stiffed her and turned back and went home.  Maybe she gave a damn about her cut and would come looking for him.  He would never accuse her of having sympathy, after all.

[ @DragonSong ]

Severus gazed upon his reflection, an action he was unaccustomed to doing.  Long sinewy fingers reached up, tracing along the carved ridges of his cheek and forehead as long as the wounds trailed.  He had never considered himself conceited.  Nor was he conscious of his scar in the sense that it perturbed him to reveal his face to others.  He was aware of it.  But it was not all he was.

Contemplating his features was a fleeting endeavor.  For now, there was work to be done.

Never one to stay in any one place at one time, the road could bring only so much profitability.  And the fact was his patients needed care.  He was never late, and always returned on the day he'd promised.  There was a professionalism he had to maintain, and breaking appointments never did wonders to foster trust between the ailing and the man with the incision blade.

Severus grumbled something and packed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and snatching the crow's beak mask he'd taken to donning.  The young woman he was to see this night was ill with fever.  It was better to take precautions than not.  Severus strapped it over his face, the glass lenses covering his eyes, and pulled the hood over his head, and headed out the back of the inn.

Alden was a small town, only on the most detailed of maps, buried deep in the southern region of Connlaoth, obscured in hills and thick forests, thus far obscured from much of the fighting.  As dangerous as all roads had become, Severus would take what risks may come.  He had promises to keep.   Which was why he'd come as far as this backwater town, in a time where he'd otherwise wouldn't wish to find himself.  The war had caused enough damage, and who know how much more it would cause still.  That was not for Severus to say, but he would help those he could, if he could.

He walked hurriedly down the street from the back alley he'd appeared form.  He had no aversions to going through the front door, but there tended to be fewer awkward glances to a man in such a strange mask.  In the dark, he could travel freely without worry of too many prying eyes, and the interruption of foolish questions.

Severus stiffened, hearing footsteps ahead of him.  He pulled his hood further down, and quickened his pace, making sure to keep his distance.  No interruptions, he told himself.  But as he peered upward, the figure ahead of him saw him in the lamplight along the street.  And rushed toward him.

"Please, don't be alarmed!" the man cried out, voice hesitant.  But Severus fumbled with his bag, reaching for his surgeon's knife in a panic.  And perhaps worse would have come of it had he not seen the blood covering the stranger's hands as he pulled them from his abdomen.  He stumbled on the edge of a cobblestone and tumbled toward Severus, clinging onto the edge of his robes.

Severus brought his hands up, catching the man by the shoulders.  "You're wounded!" he hissed, staring at him with wide eyes, startled.  "What happened?"

"There's no time...."  A heavy breath.  "Please.  You must listen."

"I'm a doctor," Severus pressed, trying to bring the man to his feet, but there wasn't strength in his legs any longer.  "I can help you."

"No...There is no help for me.  You must take this.  Please.  It's a matter of life and death.  Not mine....My time has come.  But the life of another much...much more precious.  They know.  They are coming...  Please."

Before Severus could protest a hand slipped into his, the blood streaking the paper that was being pressed into his palm.  "No.  No, no, no!  Don't, don't slip away.  I-I can help you," Severus said, but the body fell down along his, and as he knelt beside the stranger's still form.  The die was cast, the life had been drained from him.  One wound, it seemed, from a three-edged knife, triangular, that sunk in deep, nearly poking out his back. 

Severus fell back on his haunches, holding his breath and peering at the blood that covered his clothing, and the bloodied paper that was pressed into his hand.  Before he had a chance to open it however, another was approaching.

He scrambled for his things, to the mask that fell, and throwing his hood over his head as quickly as he could.  He didn't know if would be fast enough.

This was a half-decent place.  Those half-witted fools wouldn't find him in here.  They would search through the alleys around that tavern he'd performed at, but before they realized it, he'd  be on other side of town.  And thankfully, he had no performances in this nicer area.  Such obligations were always difficult to talk one's way out of.  Especially since, well, he needed the money.  Jobs weren't always easy to come by, even with one's voice as beautiful as his.

He couldn't blame the man for wanting to bash his head into a wall.  That being said, Taladan had no way of knowing Nattie had a beau!  She didn't seem to have any mind in telling him that when they were rolling around in his room.  Bah, this was why he didn't make a habit of sleeping with just any woman that threw herself at his feet after a performance.

"Give me a cold ale, MacDonald," Taladan said to the man behind the bar.  With a smirk,  Macrey Macdonald was all too happy to serve Taladan a drink, and he went about cleaning the cups.  Taladan observed the ale in his mug, noticing a severe lack of bubbles, but he said nothing and took a deep, much needed sip.

He didn't have any plans to stay in the city over the night, but he felt he could afford to take a breather for a few hours or so.  Naithan and his chumps wouldn't find him here.  This was a quiet inn in a nice neighborhood – or as nice as they went in Ketra – and the guards wouldn't take his kind lightly.

Well, that's what Taladan was betting on anyway.

Prologue
+ NAME + Aurelius Devroux
+ ALIAS +  Severus Creed
+ AGE + Unknown, appears to be late 20’s
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Willow
+ BORN + Late Autumn
+ ORIGIN + Connlaoth
+ SPECIES + Human
+ RESIDENCE + The Road!
+ OCCUPATION + Plague Doctor
+ COUNTENANCE + Blue-gray eyes / Black w/ graying temples
+ STATURE + 5’11.5” / 188 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Good-looking perhaps, if you can look past the scars.   He’s just under six feet tall, light-weight and rather lithe in look and stride, but athletic in nature.  He has a stern, yet somehow bored look to him, as if he’s always looking for something more interesting to do.

His black hair is shaved along the sides of his head, and loose enough to just hang in front of his face.  A strong jaw line, coupled with deep blue-gray eyes.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
A scar marking across his entire face, as a result of a flintlock pistol fired near his face.  The residual burns remain, but are less conspicuous than the jagged mark that etches from his right cheek up to forehead, and another across his nose and over his left eye, and another across his lips, with a fourth along his chin. 

CH II – Mental Make-up
Though seemingly soft-spoken and polite, Severus always makes a point to prove that he is not one to suffer nonsense.  While he would never be overtly rude to someone, he is direct and forthright, seeing no need to beat around the bush.  Even if another shows a severe lack of manners, he will usually remain polite, if a little cold.  His life is a lonely one, but he prefers to keep it that way.  People and attachments make life complicated in manners that are, for him, quite unnecessary.

Despite past circumstances, Severus tries to bear no ill-will toward anyone, though it is more trying than he’d like.  He is mostly attentive and caring, and always makes sure to check up on patients that he’s tended to before.

+ FAITH +
None of that nonsense.

+ HABITS +
Has no severe vices other than smoking perhaps, both tobacco and herbs.  He drinks a bit, usually alone.


CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
  *TBA

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ TRANSFERENCE +
Severus recalls never being a sick a day in his life, never suffering broken bones – mainly from a careful, and strict mother – and any scratches and wounds healed quickly.

He does not know whether or not his gift is the result of any divine intervention, and would never make claim to such.  He has always possessed he ability to absorb the pain and damage of others by contact.  The lacerations, bruises, or otherwise are transferred to his own body, in exchange for renewed flesh.  Within time, his own body will heal the damage or expel the illness he’s taken unto himself.  The more severe the wound the greater concentration required to mend, and the longer it takes for him to recover from it.  He cannot however regrow limbs, nor bring back those that have died.

Likewise any devastating wounds on his person can be transferred to another, and he would gain renewed flesh.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
Plague Doctor mask, portable alchemical set, herbs and other such junk.

Also a surgeon’s knife that may or may not be solely for surgical cutting.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Severus Creed was born Aurelius Devroux, son to an apothecary and a seamstress.  When the war broke out, he did his best to keep his family’s small farmstead hidden from most of the fighting.  But troops found them anyway with accusations of his father being a mage supporter.  In truth, he had been, and was hanged when evidence was found supporting it.

His mother was shot and killed and he was tortured and beaten, left for dead.  His face still bears the scars of the gun that fired the shot that killed his mother.  And in the years that followed he hated the war even more.  He was a mage in a nation that despised mages, that hunted and killed them.  So he took to the road, and though he wanders all over, he has returned to Connlaoth, taking up the profession of doctor.

Though he cares for those in need, a part of him can’t help but feel the need to act, so that others might not suffer as he did, to interrupt the flow of the war and any efforts to hurt more mages, whether by blade, poison, or any other means necessary.


[Mostly probably not done]

[Open by Request]

Dragons danced across the sky.  They always did here in the Thunderblacks.

And for once the night was quiet.  Or as quiet as it could be.  The roars of dragons could be heard off in the distance, but nothing exceptionally loud reached Iharu's ears.  The wind whipped his hair, the tall row on his head standing on end, fluttering about wildly as Garaduin swooped down toward the tree line.  The dragon pulled his wings back, flapping enough to slow down and drop on a rising crest.

From that perch they could see for miles.  It felt like ages since Iharu had last seen a sunset.  The purple of dark was already setting in, and the last rays of daylight were draining away.  The stars were blanketed above, the gray setting in, the scorching wind blowing the ash from cliff's edge.

Iharu held his breath for a brief moment, wondering at the world that the gods had made.  They were not his gods, but their creation was beautiful all the same.  His own god created his people, set them apart.  Perhaps he didn't make this world, but they were just as much a part of it as any others, entitled to life as every creature was. 

He paused, an ear twitching at a sound that carried on that wind.  Perhaps it was only the wind, gusting out from a cavernous crack in the mountainside.  However, when he heard it again he turned his head, and Garaduin did too.

The wind dragon craned his long powerful neck.  "You heard it too?" he asked in the brisk sharp tongue of Draconic.

"I did." 

In the distance, Iharu spotted a soft glow in the treeline.

Within seconds, Iharu mounted the dragon's back and Garaduin was off into the air, before long, there below them all, there burned a fire, a raging blaze that engulfed what looked like a village.  The dark elf's heart dropped into his gut, hearing the screams emerging louder the closer they flew.  It was an Adelan village...

They were not his people, but did it really matter?  The fire that burned below threatened everything in its path, and from the sky Iharu could see swarms of bandits pouring from the edges of unburned trees, hacking apart everything that moved.

Enter the vast, empty wasteland.  And never come out again.

Such were the words uttered by the elders of his Duhjari tribe.  The old men that never ventured beyond the confines of their rivers; the old men that became old men because they could command younger ones to fight and die for them.  Though every Duhjari was taken to the horse because it was the very essence of their blood, that did not mean all ventured beyond their borders.  There was the Serha Plains, and then there was Adela.  The world need not be any larger than that.

However, that had never been enough for Ki'adan.  There was so much to be explored.  How some could simply cling to the small bubble that they know, he would never understand.  As much fun as it was to muse on the thought, he had a job to do.

Ki'adan searched through the canyon path, eyes honing in on the shadows between the hoodoos and seeing something off in the distance.  He turned his horse off into stark shade, where the sun peeked between two tall pillar, both with carvings he noted of a serpent-like animal, one that looked very much like a dragon.  They were crudely done, perhaps of a time long past, and while interesting to look at, was an unnecessary distraction. 

He crept closer, keeping to the shadow until he came across the discarded waterskin.  And there was also a knapsack, rummaged through and with many unnecessary items.  A few bits of heavy clothing, impractical in the desert, and a book, and curiously, an apple.  He took the discarded fruit in hand, and peered through the dirt and sand where a set of tracks went around a bend, and through a rising canyon.

Ki'adan remounted and bounded quickly, knowing these were fresh tracks.  The slave boy was not going to get far, not in this heat.  And not without water, if he had anything left at all.  Sand carried up in his wake, swiftly turning into the canyon and vanishing where the sun did not tread over jagged rock.


[Feel free to have a patrol, or some such turn up and tangle with him.  If you need me to fix anything, let me know! (: ]

[Take 3.  Drac.  Maybe Partly open still,  Maybe.]

Cold wind snapped the rope of a caravaner’s tent, blowing up the canvas, leaving the man to flail for the flying cloth before the gust blew anything else away.  He watched as men, bundled from the snow, rushed to help pin the canvas down.  It was quite a struggle to witness, and just as amusing.  In the same turn, however, a snapped rope could possibly mean the difference between life and death in this land of bitter cold.  They were far from Hyoite, as he’d come to learn the village to be called, and on their way to another settlement deep in the frozen landscape, buried possibly under wind and snow he’d imagined.  He’d never seen so much white in all his life, it was almost as if this was the edge of the earth surely.  He turned his eyes back as the caravaners successfully drove the stake into the ground that held the loosened rope.  Another family would survive the brutal wind tonight.

Theon vaguely recalled how he’d come to venture this far, or why he had.  It rarely mattered anymore, the direction his dreams had taken him, since after all this time of searching he’d come across nothing that would give him some kind of sign, some kind of direction as to why he came here, the key to his memories.  But there was nothing, he was left with nothing.  Just a sword that glimmered like soft moonlight in the darkening sky and a crow that had burrowed himself in the warmth of his borrowed tent, to help him on a futile search for something that as intangible as the wind.

Strange was this land, open and broad, but he was oddly eager to venture into this unknown landscape, no longer caring as much to find what the future held for him, for it was a terrifying thing that he wanted nothing to do with. And yet…he did not have a choice anyway.  For before his mind flashed the shifting visions of unshakeable omens, or petulant hopes, broken dreams, of things he didn’t understand and people he’d never met…perhaps only to meet them at their moment of doom. 

But he’d been lucky.  It had been many months since his last vision and he’d finally come to learn what it was to sleep, truly and deeply.  He’d met these caravaners passing through the valley and he’d paid his fare to travel with them, more for the company than because he was headed in their direction.  He didn’t know this land as well as they did.  He spoke sparingly and only when necessary for they asked the expected pressing questions that he could only answer with nods and vague explanations that explained nothing at all.

Theon crawled in the small canvas provided to him.  His managed to evade the wind much better than the others since it was lower to the ground.  He heard it rustle lightly against the material as he knotted the entrance shut and laid across on a mat, closing his eyes.  It did not take him long to drift away into the bliss of nothingness that his sleep had become.

Nothingness.  Then white.  White snow.  The valley.  An open, broad, expanse of near emptiness.  No sign of life in sight, not a creature, not a cry nor a howl.  The air was light, blowing soft gusts of snow, swirling in small tornadoes.  But something was wrong…there was suddenly red on white and screams in the air; the sounds of wholesale massacre.  The sounds got louder, the cries of men as they tried to run for safey, for their lives, and it sent chills down his spine as Theon tossed in his sleep, unable to wake.  Men ran, only to be cut down by something unseen, large gashes splayed across backs and faces and chests, painting the snow with their life’s blood.

His stomach turned with what came before his eyes.  Theon waited, holding his breath when the air abruptly became silent.  He listened, waiting to hear something, a moan of pain, someone calling for aid.  Just nothing.  Not even the crunch of snow signaling departure.  Even the air became still.

Theon awoke from the dream, his skin suddenly warm despite the cold.  The crow jumped and ruffled his feathers at the sudden start and looked at him with alarmed glossy eyes.  Theon leaned up on his elbows, and wrapped the cloak he’d been using for a blanket around his shoulders.  His heart was pounding hard in his chest as he prayed hope against hope for it to be a dream.  Nothing more than a dream.  But the cold stone in his stomach told him he knew otherwise.  He never dreamed.  Theon twisted around in that tight space, clutching the hilt of Lohengrin at his side, shaking hand reaching to part the opening of the tent.  He held his breath for a moment too long before rushing out into the snow.  An arm reached out to shield his eyes from the blasting snow around him, blowing hard to blind his sight, cloak ripping high against the wind.  Though it was difficult to see, he could see the dream was not a dream.  The vision was real.

The caravaners were dead.  All of them.  Their bodies lain in the snow.  He rushed into the blazing white, peering all around him.  His body was numb to the cold as his heart beat faster in his horror.  What had done this?  Who!?  He found no tracks in the snow, neither that of an animal nor a man.  But suddenly as he turned, he saw the shape of something in the distance, drifting away, leaving no trace of passage but the slaughter in its wake.  He pursued it, screaming, “Stop!” at the top of his lungs, but it vanished into the darkness.

Theon turned back to the circle of broken tents, of the hideous display before him, stepping back toward the scene.  He knelt down beside one of the victims, carefully rolling the middle-aged man over.  The claw marks on his body were large and wide spread, and uneven in many places.  He didn’t suffer for long.  Theon searched the nearby area for animal tracks, but found nothing of the sort.  The only disturbed snow was where they came in to make camp and where he ran in pursuit.

It was obvious that whatever had done this was clearly neither man nor an animal.  Theon fell to his knees amidst the snow, trying to control his turning stomach, trying understand what just happened...and why he'd been spared.

[ @Rhi-Rhi ]

"What a fucking night."

Was that him that just said that?  Decebal looked at his reflection in the pond, moonlight casting an iridescent glow over the misty waters.   It wasn't that misty, thankfully, though the night remained chilly at best.  At worst, the wind could pick up and howl – or rip a tree from its roots and send it sailing into him.  That would be bad, yes.

The night was quiet, maybe quiet like in those children's tales where something bad was about to happen and the hero met their untimely – and often gruesome – end.  Decebal kept facing the water, but his eyes were busy surveying the area.  This was where those rumors seemed to center on. 

Werewolves were always a nuisance.  And while people leaned toward the tendency of over-exaggerating, there was indeed a basis for fear.  Werewolves were dangerous, and could tear apart entire households in a manner of mere minutes.  Small thatch houses were no defense against tearing claws, and savage hungers.

And this werewolf in particular was a savage one.

Decebal waited, looking for any movement in the treeline, but saw nothing.  Nothing but a deer, drinking from that small pond before looking at him and meeting his gaze.  He didn't move, and the deer remained still as well.  For a long minute they stared, eye-to-eye until suddenly the deer jumped.  A howl pierced the night, and primal fear widened its wild eyes.  It tore off through the trees.

Decebal knew a cry like that.  It wasn't just a wolf's howl.  It was almost...human.

And he too bolted in that direction.

Prologue
+ NAME + Decebal von Durzinger
+ ALIAS + 
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Fang
+ BORN + Mid-Winter
+ ORIGIN + Connlaoth
+ SPECIES + Human?
+ RESIDENCE + Nomadic
+ OCCUPATION + Demon Hunter
+ COUNTENANCE + Dark Blue eyes w/ orange tinge / Sandy-Brown hair
+ STATURE + 6’3” / 202 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Gruff and rugged looking, Decebal’s eyes bear little humor in them.  They’re narrow and buried deep beneath his brow, a dark blue eyes lined with a burning orange tinge to them – a trace of his demonic parentage.  His nose is straight, somewhat large, with mouth often drawn and stubble lining his face.  It is not easy to stay clean shaven on the road, but he will when the opportunity provides itself.

He’s a tall man, taller than most Connlaothian’s and well-built for it.  His body is trained for hard combat and capable of taking brutal punishment.  While most of his body is otherwise normal, his left arm however, is his shame – a demonic transformed thing with claws and corrugated ridges along his forearm.  His skin appears burned and it seems as if scales form up along his shoulder where more ridges grow, bone protrusions that form a protective layer.    There is not much he can do to hide his arm, and he makes little effort to do so.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
Other than his left arm, Decebal has burn scars running up along his left ribs and spreading just above the left side of his chest, stopping just on his collarbone.  The scar also wraps around his back, staying just along his left and stopping just beneath the shoulder blade.

CH II – Mental Make-up
While not prone to outbursts of enthusiasm or joy, he has a hunter’s look to him, in no mood for nonsense or time for distraction.  He has a temper, which he does what he can to control, but is quick to put people in their place.  When on the hunt, he’s dogged, relentless, and has little mercy for monsters – both human and otherwise.

He loathes what he is, and demons of all kind, monstrous creatures that have no proper place in this world.  Because of that, he does what he feels he must in order to redeem himself for what he is.

+ FAITH +
He is not quite an atheist, and not quite an agnostic, but trapped somewhere in between.  One thing is for sure, and that is he places no faith in gods or deities. 

+ HABITS +
None that he would admit too.  But he’s not a complicated man – a cold hard drink, and a smoke, and he’s satisfied.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
  Matthias von Durzinger, Father?, Deceased, 43
  Lisabet Strauss, Mother, Alive, Exact age unknown, location unknown

Bartleby, a hawk, companion
 

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ DEMON HUNTER +
His upbringing included learning how to hunt and to ride masterfully.  He can track prey more acutely due to his demonic blood, and can sense when other demons / supernatural creatures are close.  His blood also gives him a higher resistance to demon magic and influence, and immunity to all disease, natural or magical.  He also has accelerated healing and increased strength and endurance.  However, he can fall prey to certain urges, and he fears that darker side that lurks beneath, of what might happen should the demon become unleashed.

+ SOUL REND +
A gift of his demonic heritage, Decebal can drain the life-force right out of a person, stealing their soul, in a manner most traumatic and painful.  He can only execute such a move by direct contact, and only through his mutated arm.  If he is severely weakened, stealing a soul will restore him to full strength, healing his wounds and filling him with adrenaline.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
+ BULLWHIP +
A blessed bullwhip that useful in more ways than one.  He uses it for both combat and defense and became an expert in its use in circumventing obstacles.  At the tail end of the whip, there are six small razor-sharp blades – three on each side – that are more than effective in pitted combat.

+ LONGSWORDS +
Two swords that belonged to his father, taken from his armory.  They are well fashioned blades, though one is slightly shorter than the other.  He takes great pains to keep them rust-free and has even had holy runes inscribed into the blade, and the hilt.  Despite his physical mutation, the wards do not harm him.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
He was born the only son and child to Matthias von Durzinger and Lisabet Strauss.  His father was a devout believer in Ansgar and a former knight, in service of a minor baron in the Sirantil Valley.  He married the beautiful but demure Lisabet, the daughter of a rich merchant, and though the marriage was arranged, Matthias grew to love his wife.   For many years they remained without children, and while their life together was largely content, tensions grew because of this.

Though she cared deeply for her husband, Lisabet did not tell Matthias that she had purposefully been sabotaging any chances for conception.  She was not ready for children, not prepared to completely relinquish all her freedom.  She was not all she seemed, and in secret, she dabbled in magic both mundane and darkened.  Her interest gradually turned to deeper and more complex rituals, to more and more dangerous spells.

Soon Matthias moved them from their southern home to a winter estate he purchased near the Kilanthro Mountains.  They were remote, far from the nearest city and Matthias had hoped the seclusion might bring them closer together.  But it was not to be.  He grew angry with himself, fearing his futile efforts meant sterility, and despair took its hold.  Lisabet couldn't stand to see him in such a state, but nor could she reveal her secrets. 

To her dismay, she discovered her methods of contraception had ultimately left her barren.  In her chambers she prayed to the spirits, summoning to any who would listen to grant her a child, one to be as healthy and strong as her husband and as beautiful as intelligent as she.

That night after she laid with her husband, she dreamt of a voice calling her, one granting her request.  She saw before her a demon, beautiful and terrifying all at once.  It reassured her that the child would be everything she hoped for.  However in return, a price must be paid, as with every exchange.  And soon she rested in unbridled ecstasy.

In time her belly grew, and soon she gave birth to a son, much to her husband’s delight.  Every woman knows though a man might claim to be happy with any child they have, they desire sons most of all.  He was named Decebal, and was raised in a loving home.  Lisabet had not forgotten the pact she had made to the one that gave her son life.  Apart of her was ready to pay it, and yet another feared every day it would come to collect.

Decebal had grown without incident, until he came of age.  He started to notice his skin changing, his left arm transforming.  Upon discover he cried out in horror, his mother coming to his aid.  LIsabet did all she could to stop the mutation, warding off the change.  When the demon came, meaning to take what was its own; it demanded Decebal’s body and blood, to be used as a vessel.

Lisabet initially refused, claiming she had thought the demon meant to take her.  Her own life, she was willing to give, it was a price she’d been prepared pay.  But soon she realized there were rules she could not ignore, could not shun simply because they did not suit her.  There was no other choice.  Everything she loved, had sacrificed for was gone.

Matthias took their son from her, horrified at her betrayal.  He went into hiding, in order to protect his son, to little avail.  He told no one of his whereabouts, save one trusted friend, but it was that friend that would prove to be his doom.  Lisabet had promised the demon her son, and she would deliver.

She hunted them down, and when she found him, she tortured Matthias to death in order to find her son, but he was away.  Matthias would not give in.  She left him abandoned in the ashes of the home he’d hidden away.  Decebal found him the following day, and took his father and buried him in hallowed ground.  He vowed to do all he could to circumvent the monster he’d been born as.  Though he has not seen his mother in years, he can sense her at times, and knows she lives, hunting him still.

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Nice Night for a Walk