Description
His feathers are a soot-black matte, save for faint undertones of midnight
blue that catch the light like oil on water. His posture is low and folded
in, shoulders hunched as though he's trying to vanish into himself. The
edges of his wings are streaked with an auburn hue, echoed also on the
narrow plume that rises above his cold, mercury-colored eyes. His beak-like
mouth shares the same dusky sheen as the talons curled quietly at his sides.
Strips of worn leather armor cling to him like a second skin, silent and
practical. At his side a dagger, its edge catching just a whisper of light.
Role
Origins
Added Thu Apr 10 20:40:16 2025 at level 15:
Born in the poverty-stricken Grig'Agali ghetto, he was nameless for the first
few years of his life-just another hungry face in the crowd. His parents,
accused of disturbing the peace over questions concerning the disparity of
upper and lower parts of the city, were torn from their roost when he was
barely fledged. No one told him what happened after that. No one needed to.
Left to the streets, he learned to disappear early. In a place where shadow
meant safety, his dark feathers were a blessing. He flitted through crowds
like a wisp of smoke-stealing food, dodging patrols, climbing walls slick with
moss and filth. Older thieves called him "Ashveil," for the color of his
plumage and the way he seemed to vanish between the cracks.
The ghetto taught more than stealth. It taught silence. It taught watching
before acting. It taught him that mercy was a luxury, and trust, a weapon
wielded by fools.
By the time he was fifteen, he'd carved a place for himself in the underbelly
of Ayr 'Trinil. Not in a gang-he kept to himself-but the right people knew his
name. He was the one who could slip past a locked window. The one who could
cut a purse without leaving a whisper behind. The one who left no trail.
Now, he walks the world beyond the ghetto, wings wrapped close, eyes cold
with quiet calculation. He doesn't speak of his past. He doesn't have to.
It clings to him like smoke-etched in every silent step, in every glance of
steel, in every dusky feather.
He will establish his own way in this world. Hardship has made him, and that
darkness is his closest companion. Power and security are bargains to be struck
or objects to be taken. He has no qualms taking what he needs from others on his
ascension; in fact, he sees it as the closest thing he knows to kindness.
Direction
Added Wed Apr 23 11:07:13 2025 at level 34:
The Sea of Despair was no metaphor. It was a churning grave, swallowing ships
and sanity alike. But Shaelrix crossed it alone, on the wing, drawn by
whispers in dreams-fragments of weeping light and familiar voices. He flew
until the looming shape of a ruined cathedral clawed its way through the
mist.
There, amid ruins devoured by time, he enter the Cathedral. In the
stillness, something stirred within Shaelrix. Not devotion. Not peace.
Recognition.
He stayed. He listened. And in that listening, he became a disciple.
It was upon his departure that he found the scroll. Inked in
shadowflame and wrapped in dark silk, a prophecy. An invasion. Inevitable.
Absolute. A tide of shadow that would devour the living world. The moment he
touched it, he saw-cities silent, stars dimmed, his own feathers turned to
ash.
He could not stop it. But he could survive it, and perhaps even find
himself better situated than he had ever been.
So he returned to the mainland with colder eyes and a purpose carved from
the silence. The Scions of Eternal Night, only whispered of, was his focus.
He knew his particular set of skills would be welcomed as a blade welcomes blood.
Shaelrix offered them his silence. His skill. His ability to insinuate himself
into any and every one would seek to hamper the Coming. He would make himself
indispensable to the inevitable.
Infiltration
Added Mon Apr 28 13:18:58 2025 at level 42:
Shaelrix was given his first true directive: infiltrate the Empire.
Destabilize it from within. The current Emperor, Skauzyn, had proven himself
hostile to the Chasm. Nothing could stop the Coming, but a smooth path would
reflect well on Shaelrix to the impending Shadow. Yet a direct assault would
only galvanize resistance. Concealment was paramount.
Shaelrix shed his past as one discards a worn cloak. He fashioned a new
identity: an itinerant dealer in valuables and information. He ingratiated
himself quickly with the young, promising crop of Imperials. Within weeks, he
became a trusted whisper among the Emperor's advisors, a shadow brushing the
edges of decision. He planted doubts with surgical precision: suggesting
threats where there were none, fostering mistrust, and stroking egos.
And so Shaelrix worked in silence, a soft hand upon the levers of ruin. He
would not bring the Emperor down with fire or sword. He would let it fall like
a rotted tree, toppled by the winds.