Description
This arial stands as a vivid contradiction. His plumage, jet-black and
unbroken, cloaks his wings and head in an ink-dark veil, lending him a dark
silhouette. Where feathers yield to skin, the stark white of his body gleams
with an alabaster purity. His eyes, vivid green as spring's first leaf, blaze
like jewels set against his monochrome features. His beak is prominent,
curving with the precise elegance of a daggers edge. His frame is lean and
sinewy, his limbs long and slender.
Role
Voices in the Ghetto
Added Sat Jan 4 17:45:07 2025 at level 12:
The boy from the twists of Grig`agali's Ghetto was the sort of child that
cities forget, a waif born of shadow and grime, with nothing to his name but
hunger and the will to endure it. Orphaned before he could remember a
mother's voice or a father's face, he had made the art of survival his sole
purpose. A handful of scraps stolen from the markets, a dry corner where the
guards didn't prowl,these were victories enough. He was nothing of note, a
ghost among the living, unnoticed and unremarkable.
Until the voices began.
The first time, it was a whisper, so faint it might have been a trick of the
wind or the restless muttering of his own mind. It came on the heels of
bloodshed, a shank buried in the ribs of a boy not much older than himself.
He had seen such violence before, everyone in the ghetto had but what shook
him was the murmur that came before the blade fell. He will die, it said,
soft as a lovers sigh yet certain as the stroke of a headsmans axe. He
froze, the words prickling along his spine like icy needles. When the blood
hit the ground, he told himself it was a coincidence. It had to be.
The second time, the voice gave no room for doubt. He had fled a brawl, his
flight taking him past the crumbling edge of the ghetto and toward the old
graveyard that loomed like a black tooth above the slums. He hadn't meant to
stop, but something called to him from among the leaning stones and yawning
crypts. Not a sound exactly, but a pul,a tug at his very bones. When the
murmurs came again, they had shape this time, not just whispers but words,
each syllable a claw raking his senses. He didnt wait to hear more. He
ran, the breath tearing from his lungs, the voices following close as if they
had taken wing.
He had been afraid of the graveyard long before the voices. His parents were
buried there, laid to rest in shallow plots among the other copperless dead
of the ghetto. They had been conjurers once, or so the whispers in the ghetto
claimed. Practitioners of some small and desperate magics, scraping at the
edges of the arcane in hopes of bettering their lot. But ambition has its
costs. A summoning gone awry, a flash of searing light and concussive heat,
and their lives, and their meager home were reduced to ash.
Zyhaerys had survived only by cruel chance. He was asleep in the corner of
the hovel when it happened, his small frame shielded by the sturdy frame of a
kitchen table. But no one truly escapes such calamity unscathed. The magical
disruption left its mark upon him, though its nature was subtle and
insidious. In the weeks and years that followed, he would feel its tendrils
burrow into his mind, reshaping him in ways he could neither name nor
understand. The voices were the clearest sign, though he did not yet know to
call them a curse, or a gift.
Understanding Fate
Added Sat Jan 4 17:46:23 2025 at level 12:
At first, they were rare, strange murmurs that came only at moments of
impending violence or death. He thought of them as some shadowy sickness, a
remnant of the conjuration gone awry that had seeped into his blood. When he
began to recognize the pattern.. that the whispers always preceded a life
endinghis fear grew into a heavy knot of dread in his chest. The voices
foretold death, and they were never wrong. Friends, strangers, even the
vermin of the ghetto streets,all fell as the whispers promised. He mourned
each one, wept for their passing, but above all, he feared himself. Was he
the cause of these deaths? Was his survival that night in the hovel the spark
that doomed others?
But sorrow has a way of hardening, and fear is not infinite. Over time, the
edge of his terror dulled, though his sadness never truly left him. He began
to see the whispers not as omens of tragedy, but as inevitabilities. The
world was cruel, and death was a certainty for all who drew breath. The
voices were not to be fought or feared, they simply were. He grew to believe
that what he heard was not a curse but a truth, bitter, unavoidable, and
absolute. He was no more responsible for the deaths than the wind was for a
trees fall. It was just the way of things.
In time, the whispers became more than an affliction to endure. Zyhaerys came
to see them as divine in origin, the will of the gods whispered into his ear.
What else could they be? Mortal men did not glimpse the threads of fate or
feel the cold breath of death before it came. No, this was something greater.
The gods had spared him in the fire for a purpose, and that purpose, he
decided, was to be their prophet. He alone could hear the cadence of
mortality, the last notes of life before its final silence. To him, it was a
sign of destiny,though one laced with sorrow.
But understanding fate required more than listening. He turned to necromancy,
believing it might unlock the truths of death and destiny. In its study,
Zyhaerys sought the weave between lifes fragile spark and the inexorable
pull of the grave. Necromancy was a forbidden art in Grig`Agali, shunned even
by the most desperate denizens of the ghetto, but the whispers guided him. He
scavenged tomes and scrolls left by long-dead mages, pored over fragments of
chants and diagrams etched in blood. What he lacked in formal tutelage, he
made up for in fervor.
Weeping for the Lost
Added Sat Jan 4 17:46:42 2025 at level 12:
It was through necromancy that Zyhaerys began to see the whispers not just as
warnings, but as commands. If the gods granted him foreknowledge of death,
who was he to let chance or delay mar their design? Fate, he believed,
required a hand to guide it. And so he became its instrument. The first time
he acted, it was with trembling hands and a heart heavier than lead. A man
who had wronged him, a thief from the ghetto who had stolen a loaf Zyhaerys
had scrounged, was to die, the whispers had said. And so, with a rusted
blade, Zyhaerys ensured that the thiefs end was no accident.
He wept for him afterward. He wept for them all, each time he raised his hand
to fulfill the whispers decree. Yet the more he acted, the more certain he
became. Fate was fate. His tears did not change the truth of the world, nor
did his sorrow make the act unjust. Each death, each soul he ushered into the
grave, became proof of his purpose. He was not merely a pawn of fate, he was
its executioner. And in his darkest moments, when the weight of his deeds
threatened to crush him, he clung to one unyielding thought: the gods had
chosen him, and he alone bore the burden of their will.
The Betrayal
Added Sat Jan 11 02:28:30 2025 at level 33:
Zyhaerys had become one of the Scions of Eternal Night. Among their ranks,
draped in shadows and secrets, he found a grim sanctuary,a place where the
inevitability of fate could unfold unchallenged. The Scions were arbiters of
suffering, the architects of ruin, and to him, they were the purest
embodiment of the truth he had come to embrace: suffering was inevitable, and
in its embrace, he could find his penance. He had long since ceased fearing
it. In his heart, he believed he deserved it.
His path to the Scions had been an arduous test of deceit and coercion.
Swaying Zadrian, a local magistrate of no small ambition, to turn against his
cause and bind himself to the Scions purpose. Zadrian was a man who
carried the burden of invisible wounds, resentment for the recognition he
never received, a yearning for validation that clawed at him like a starving
monster. Zyhaerys had seen this fissure in his soul and pried it open with
careful words. He did not lie... not entirely, but he shaped the truth into
something malleable, pliable, like clay between his fingers.
Zyhaerys had told Zadrian he was special, that his brilliance was wasted in a
system that neither valued nor understood him. It wasnt long before the
magistrates cautious loyalty was carved away, leaving a hollow vessel
ready to be filled with new convictions. Yet, as he watched Zadrian sever
ties with his peers, his faith, and the fragile fragments of a life he had
built, Zyhaerys felt the quiet pang of guilt, a sensation he could not
entirely extinguish.
In these moments, Zyhaerys reflected on the teachings of Rahsael. It was not
always the death of a loved one or the destruction of something tangible that
left the deepest scars. Sometimes, it was the quiet, gnawing awareness of an
opportunity slipping away, the haunting regret of roads left untraveled. This
realization was both his greatest insight and his heaviest burden. The
thought of missing his own destined path, of faltering in the face of
prophecy, was a terror too great to bear. And so, he pressed forward, even
when his actions dragged others into ruin.
Zadrians fall weighed heavily on him. Zyhaerys had not acted out of
malice...never malice...always necessity. He believed the magistrates loss
of friendships and faith might one day lead him to a higher purpose, a role
in the weave of fate far greater than the shallow comforts he had clung to.
Still, he could not entirely silence the doubt that whispered in the back of
his mind, nor the pain that lanced through him with every calculated
betrayal.
He struggled with the enormity of his deeds, their harshness, their cold
inevitability. Each step toward fulfilling the prophecy was a step away from
the man he once might have been, a step into the abyss he had willingly
chosen. Yet, there was no turning back. He knew what he was, and though it
weighed on him, he had come to accept it. The prophecy would come to pass.
Matters of Faith
Added Wed Jan 15 17:44:25 2025 at level 38:
Get to know others? Was it some kind of sick joke?
The doll saint of Rahsael, that fragile, broken thing, had asked Zyhaerys to
do precisely that. Its voice... soft, rasping, carried the weight of
something far older and far more knowing than its small, shattered form
should allow.
The doll shuffled forward on unsteady legs, each movement a grotesque parody
of life. Its brittle porcelain face, tilted toward him. Blue glass eyes
rolled in their sockets, catching the faintest light from its darkened
lantern, like fragmented shards of a memory trying to piece themselves
together.
When you listen to their stories, it had said, think about the
losses theyve experienced and what it reveals about what they value.
It wasnt just words... it was a command wrapped in a challenge, heavy with
the same merciless inevitability that Rahsael embodied.
Rahsael... That inscrutable deity of loss and secrets had pressed him, and
yet, what was this? To listen to others' pain? To sift through the ashes of
their suffering? What, after all, did it accomplish, but to reinforce the
notion that life was a long and bitter march toward inevitable ruin?
Maybe that was the point. Maybe suffering was the only true constant. As much
as he tried to focus on this one thing remained on his mind...
Matters of Prophecy
Added Wed Jan 15 17:44:51 2025 at level 38:
Zyhaerys clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as the weight of
guilt threatened to suffocate him. Zadarian was dead. Dead because of him.
The memory came unbidden: Zadarians face, a strange mix of determination
and despair, as he threw himself into tasks Zyhaerys had set before him. He
had been so sure, so steadfast. And then, like so many others, he had
faltered. He had failed.
Zadarian hadnt deserved it. Or perhaps he had.
But in the end, none of it mattered. Zyhaerys knew that now. Loss came for
everyone. That was Rahsaels lesson. That was lifes truth.
Still, guilt festered. No matter how deeply Zyhaerys tried to bury it beneath
faith and logic, it gnawed at him, a ravenous thing, demanding
acknowledgment. Zadarians face lingered, a specter of his failure, his
unworthiness.
And then there was the other presence.. haunting, elusive, and
incomprehensible. It coiled in the edges of his consciousness, a shadow that
whispered of things he couldnt quite grasp, a reminder that such mysteries
were never meant to be understood, only endured.
Something was coming... and now he had to glimpse into the souls of the
damned before it did.
PK Wins
Jan 7, 2025 |Lv 21|Darsylon|Phelor vs 2: [21] Zyhaerys (8%, KB), [15] Malvok (91%)
Jan 9, 2025 |Lv 29|The Ruins of Ostalagiah|Lofki vs 1: [29] Zyhaerys (100%, smash)
Jan 11, 2025|Lv 33|Copeham Inn|Kurpich vs 1: [33] Zyhaerys (100%, bleeding)
Jan 13, 2025|Lv 37|Galadon|Spitrog vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, chilling touch)
Jan 13, 2025|Lv 37|South Dairein Settlement|Volcalv vs 2: [37] Zyhaerys (36%, deathly touch), [36] Malvok (63%)
Jan 13, 2025|Lv 37|Galadon|Carrisan vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, claw)
Jan 13, 2025|Lv 37|Galadon|Volcalv vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, claw)
Jan 14, 2025|Lv 37|The Pass|Volcalv vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, bleeding)
Jan 14, 2025|Lv 37|Galadon|Carrisan vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, deathly touch)
Jan 14, 2025|Lv 37|Galadon|Vele vs 1: [37] Zyhaerys (100%, deathly touch)
Jan 17, 2025|Lv 43|Thar-Acacia|Dalanthilios vs 2: [40] Malvok (11%), [43] Zyhaerys (88%, deathly touch)
Jan 18, 2025|Lv 44|The Buried Battlefield|Taivu vs 2: [44] Zyhaerys (0%), [51] Yahkira (100%, earthquake)
Jan 18, 2025|Lv 44|Hardan Road|Mimataro vs 2: [44] Zyhaerys (35%, punch), [43] Sumae (64%)
Jan 18, 2025|Lv 44|Thar-Acacia|Ashmierre vs 2: [51] Ysignimmin (24%, claw), [44] Zyhaerys (75%)
Jan 19, 2025|Lv 47|Domain of Eternal Night|Bognor vs 1: [47] Zyhaerys (100%, KB)
Jan 20, 2025|Lv 47|Domain of Eternal Night|Bognor vs 2: [51] Porg (27%), [47] Zyhaerys (72%, smash)
Jan 20, 2025|Lv 47|East Sumner's Road|Arabuccha vs 2: [51] Porg (76%, acrid stab), [47] Zyhaerys (23%)