Description
Whisper thin and standing near the six foot mark this figure moves with the
supple and assured grace of youth. His feathers are a dirty gray with yellow
white tips on almost each individual feather. His plume is a thicker gray to
the point of almost being black. The beak upon his face is small and has an
odd pure white stripe running down its length. The talons upon his feet look
at first to be underdeveloped for one of his race but upon closer examination
they seem to be trimmed purposely so and sharpened more than is natural. His
eyes though catch you the most, one is singularly white and the other is
almost completely white except for what looks to be a slash of red running
diagonally across it next to the pupil.
Role
Birth
Added Mon Sep 26 17:34:56 2005 at level 1:
Whistling wind pushes the growing flames chaotically back towards the street
as it cuts through what few buildings are left standing. Almost white, the
flames seemingly gorge themselves as they unnaturally dance in the joy of the
succulent feast. A scream of pain rips the air from farther down the street
as shapes move at the far end of the celebrating flames unholy light. The
shapes almost seem ghostly in their business, which they are so intent upon
that they do not notice a hunched figure covered in ripped and soiled robes
move silently about the street. The wind whistles stronger as the figure
cocks its head to the side straining against noises of plunder and chaotic
revelry. Instantly it is sprinting across the open street towards a fiery
building that appears to be once in the hands of a most wealthy merchant. It
glides towards the battered entrance to this small palace as flames burst
forth and just as the flames begin to receed once more back within the
curious figure dives agily into the doorway to disappear from your view. Just
as the flames burst forth in a hungered frenzy a small contingent of ghostly
forms shambles around a corner and moves past at a slow trot while a thin
pale human floats after them, occasionally looking up from what appears to be
a tome clutched in his frail hands. They move on down the street and
disappear into the swirling smoke and dancing flames at almost the exact
instant the swift beggar stumbles out of the entrance clutching something in
his robes, he staggers to the corner of this palace and hunches down to cough
out what smoke he can. As he stands the wind bellows and his robes part
revealing the ash covered feathers that only an arial is known for along with
an assortment of sharpened implements that can only be used for killing upon
his belt. As he turns to survey his surroundings the wind blows more and what
he clutches is seen for just the shortest moment, then he wrapps his tattered
robes once more about the baby within his arms and moves towards the back of
the house and into the swirling smoke and dancing shadows.
A beginning
Added Tue Sep 27 00:49:40 2005 at level 8:
Silently the robed one ambles forward towards the gapping darkness that
enters this place. He has traveled far and learned much in its journeys to
the outside world and returns once more, as it has time and time again though
this time something is different, even the air seems to be tensed in patient
anticipation. As ot passes down the hallway thrown torchlight reveals only
the tip of a scarred beak from the coverings of his robes. Moving past
hallway junction after hallway junction this one continues his steady pace
towards its goal, turning twice at indescript junctions. Quickly enough it
reaches the final door barring its path and moves beyond into a roughly
circular chamber adorned with a few simple religious symbols and strangely
enough two weapons racks on opposite sides of the chamber. It moves to stop
just shy of the very center of the room and throws back his hood to reveal a
dark gray plume of feathers.
"You are done?" Asks the ancient sitting with his back to the familiar
trespasser
"I have survived the final trial and am ready to begin the work of it which
is all and none."
A coughing chuckle and then.. "Yes you are ready, you now what must be done
before what must be is made to be?"
Without answering the familiar one steps forward and thrusts downward with a
blade that was not seen, it enters the ancient directly next to his neck and
pushes deeper, searching searching for the heart. With a shuddered gasp of
pain the oldest one seems to sink upon himself and then he begins to shake
violently.
"So begins what must end, and in my ending we finally have a beginning. But
know my apprentice." At this the old one begins to cough blood from his beak
and almost seems to fall into sleep until his attacker leans forward so very
close to hear the whispered "Your trials are not over, a beginning.. finish
this first harvest for it which is all yet.." He does not even complete his
words as the sword digs deeper and finally finds the old ones heart. As the
blade is withdrawn a tiny clay container covered in strange patterns and the
same religious symbol that is upon the wall is pulled from the young ones
robes and used to collect heart blood of this ancient one. Then without
looking back the dark plumed arial pulls his hood forward once more and turns
to amble from this hall, moving to exit the place of his youth.
The harvest
Added Thu Oct 6 17:08:52 2005 at level 35:
The events almost blur by as though they happened at an extremely quick
speed. Silently this undistinguishable robed figure watches from near the
maran, so much seems to happen within, people moving and fighting, screams of
death and fear and anger, then it slows. Almost as if in a dream a giant and
healer walk near to the hidden figure and stand talking, then instantly the
giant is laying on the ground streaming lifeblood that the figure lets drip
into a small jar and suddenly he is gone. Your gaze trails him, barely can
you see the figure but you watch as it removes its robe and sinks into the
earth through a cave near some woods, you watch as it stops and watches the
strange glow of a tombstone dissapate and then move quickly past it to the
far side of the cavern to create almost a cubby within the dirt, there he
places a jar and then leans forward tot he ground, suddenly the cubby's lid
is replaced and he is out of the cave gliding the winds and running the
shadows towards a palace made of marble, here he stands once more as people
scream and die, silently and patiently he waits studying the movements of
what looks to be an elf. Then the flurry of motion and he is running ahead
of the pack of barbarians towards their own village, running ahead and
watching behind. Once more he stands, this time covered again in the tattered
robes of a poor poor priest, about the village, watching and waiting. A
healer is suddenly fighting the giant and he moves in and slides his blade
into the back of the elf he had been watching bending quickly to collect his
lifeblood and then gliding the winds and running the shadows back to the
forest and into the cave, stopping only to let the tombstones odd glow fade
he moves to the far side and reverently pulls up the soil lid, then he
twitches his head to the side, shakes it and looks back at the opening. He
places the jar within and then bends his beak to the ground for a moment,
straightens and bends again. Quickly he stands and is gone from the graveyard
though for some strange reason you follow him not, this time. As he leaves so
does the only source of light and your vision slowly sinks into nothing but
emptyness.
Burden
Added Tue Nov 8 13:52:23 2005 at level 39:
It is almost as though he screams without screaming as his vision rests for
what must be the hundredth time upon this ancient crumbling tome. He wants to
shake his head, to clutch the ground with his sharpened talons, to flap his
wings and take flight, but innevitably he is drawn closer to the tome as he
has been time and time again. With long delicate fingers he flips the time
yellowed pages as though he knows what he searches for, stopping finally near
the very end of this tome to run his fingers along the length of the page. He
reads silently though from time to time he puts breath to a few strands of
prophecy.
"Born from smoke and fire to grow from the flames of need"
"only one can walk the path, disaster to all if any venture forth but the
chosen"
Then the book is slammed closed in poorly controlled rage and he swirls to
stalk towards stairs leading from this basement library. He storms past many
of his brothers, the obvious rage and agony on his face so evident that many
are held between trying to help and shrinking back in fear. Events swirl and
jump and suddenly he is screaming without screaming once more. As he thrashes
against the movements his body is making against his will the flames from his
torch begin to lick at the so prized texts of olden days resting before him.
He twirls quickly and the blade held within his hand extends from his
spinning form to take the throat of one that would protect the library,
completing his spin almost as though it never began he continues to stalk
down the length of the library, bringing flames to all that is there. Then he
is striding down the halls of the ground floor, the flames eating away at the
path behind him, twice a robe figure comes at him, once to help and once to
harm, and twice the robed ones are left lifeless on the floor. Finally he has
made his way to the front of his home, light from the enveloping fires
reflects clearly off of the tears that are so evident upon his face as he
stands and watches all that he was and those that he loved burn, as he stands
and makes sure that none escape what must be.
Finally a scream does take flight as he struggles to stand, his hands
grasping in turn at the air and at his belt. He gasps to take in breath and
shakes his head to clear the dream as his hand clutches at the hilt of a
blade laying next to his bedroll. Finally he pushes himself unsteadily onto
his talons and begins to roll his bed and pack his scant possessions for
travel, knowing that he will find no more rest this night.