Post by Endrit Iasael on Sept 24, 2010 18:31:48 GMT -5
ENDRIT TIUS IASAEL
" Theres a pretty girl somewhere, with a pretty name,
But I could never let you know how much this means.
I swear we'll end this war, cause we both know
It wasn't worth fighting for."
the basics,
»»character full name: Endrit Tius Iasael. Drii.
»»age: 24
»»sexual orientation: Heterosexual.
»»Alignment: Dark.
»»Position: Former llord. He has since given up the title and disappeared from that circle, reappearing as nothing more than a foot soldier along the sides of the dark.
»»Magic: Wind.
the appearance,
»»eyes: One is chartreuse, the other a pale yellowish-biege.
»»markings: A scar like a collar around his neck, as if a chain had been locked around him for a long time and healed with it on. The point on his right ear has been hacked off; he has a jagged scar along the the spine of his head, hidden by hair. The right side of his face is swirled with scars as well, also hidden. His back and chest have been marred as if by torture.
»»height: 6'2
»»weight: 168
»»general appearance:
The basics: 6'2, 168, tall and only slightly built, with narrow cat-tilted eyes, pointed ears, and dark hair. What you can't truly describe: the narrow, supple turn of his lips, though they never smile, though there is nothing of softness or warmth that ever touches and lives when he talks. There is deadness there, craziness -- but it isn't the madness of blood lust. It is colder, deeper, and it lives in the curve of that kissable mouth. The unspeakable: the gentle slope of his cheekbones, narrower than most men, but seeming to come to a delicate point -- so easily shattered, but there is a strength there, a steel which has risen unencumbered by this strange sort of beauty. Cat-tilted eyes seem to glint like lightning in the dark, but it cannot possibly be: there is only the one, yes, you've read that, the one, the left which burns and turns and watches your every movement. It burns like fire, with tight circles of bright bistre, green and yellows. There is a slit of a pupil hidden amidst the dancing circles, but it is rarely dilated, always pointed as if in stress. What of the other? Hidden, destroyed? Nay, nay, there is only blindness to be had in the opposite direction. He had been struck by lightning -- and it had slackened the other half of his face, made his eye blind to the world, clouded with whites and yellows, as if a fog has been risen. Yet there is sight there: he claims to see magic, to be able to watch the currents of it moving through the world. Who knows what is true and what is false?
Drii's ears are pointed, proof of the extent of his powers, but it means little to him, who has lost everything, even, perhaps, his mind. The tip of the right ear has been chopped off with a sword. He is no newcomer to bloodshed and war. So many scars! A jagged crossing of burned, broken skin knots around the right temple, lingering like a lover's caress so close to his pale, terrible eye -- but that is not all. His hair, grown in long tendrils, hides the horror of scars which riddle the right side of his face where lightning struck, where only brute strength and perserverence had given him back the motion of mouth and nose and cheek. No point: he never smiles. Hair chopped short in spiky layers to hide the monstrosity, he is viewed through the left side, through the slightly tanned glimpse of what had been so gorgeous: there is sorrow and hate in his gaze. There is numbness and want, conflicting disinterest and vengeance mingling over your skin where he touches your body with his gaze.
There is a scar along the edges of his neck, wretched and horrible, marring his neck as if a collar had been locked about him for years and the chaffing healed only to be broken and ripped open again, and again. Medium build: this is no monster come hulking, but only semi-broad of shoulder, dexterous on his toes, and with long digits of fingers. He has clever hands and silent feet.
Drii has been tortured -- the story lives on his skin when he takes his clothes off, when the long lines of whiplashes and knife cuts, when the glimmering surface of magic-broken skin and flayed (and later resewn) bits are staring right back at you. Yet one thing remains the same: stillness runs deep.
the personality,
»»likes:
**Death
**Winning
**Getting closer to his goal
**Destruction
**Efficiency
**Calm, collected heads
**Rationality
**Strategy
**Having a purpose
»»dislikes:
**Losing
**Living
**People getting in his way
**The misguided
**Ignorance
**Stupidity
**Hot-heads, cockiness without evidence, rash, impetuosity
**Youths
**Reckless charging (ie: no plan, no idea, just "winging it")
»»strengths:
**Scheming (Drii is excellent at making battle plans)
**Fighting (He is agile, and focused; he does not play with his opponent, but kills efficiently and cleaning, moving on with merciless fixation to the next)
**Strategem (Excells at warfare)
**Dependable (one can depend on him in battle, insofar as your goals coincide with his own)
**Stoic and Silent (does not break down, or yield)
»»weaknesses:
**Selfish and single-minded (He only thinks about how things can be used for his own singular pupose)
**Does not listen (one can give him an order, and though he may not outwardly say anything, he will rarely listen if he thinks there is a better way to do it)
**Obsessive (He does not let certain things go)
**Insane (hears voices)
**Merciless and without compassion (whether it's his own side, or the enemies, if they can be sacrificed for victory, he doesn't even bat an eyelash)
»»secrets: **He has a lot of secrets, among them is his ability to use his magic to eavesdrop on people, and that he plays down exactly how powerful he is. He used to be on the side of good, before falling from grace, so to speak. His former beast is dead by his own hand. He is a traitor, and is seeking vengeance on a fool's errand. His real name isn't Endrit, but he has forgotten it. His whole life is a knot of intrigue and confusion. The list goes on and on and on.
»»general personality:
To understand Drii, you must first detach yourself, step back, back, back, careful of the precipice that comes to your feet. First, you must plunge into madness, lose yourself from the touch of warmth and feel nothing but the cold currents of vengeance, the cold, unrelenting tides of water as it rises up over your head. You must know loss and betrayal. You must know heart break. You must know fear, most of all, fear -- what it is like to be on the brink of death time and time again, to see it's tongue slipping over your face and panting hot breath -- the only warmth in your world! You must walk along the dark corridors, see the memories as they flitter past: little children holding hands, a wife, a woman, a friend in the form of a beast. You must know honor, and love. You must know laughter --- and what happens when it is ripped from you. There is so much pain in this man, hidden among the rocks and cliffs, among the crevices and crags that scar themselves across his skin.
His body is a story, and he is without the means to read it. He is a creature of good, who had been burned and hurt and destroyed. He was hollowed out by the thin blade of necessity and filled up with something other, something darker. In his burning, chartreuse eye, there is a story of love and hate, of a vengeance that is deeper than bone and reaches into the semblances of a soul that he has lost on the other side of death. How many times does it take to die? So many, too many, he cannot count. Endrit has given it all away, and the rewards that he has attained has warped him, broke him, changed him into a weapon to be used: the catalyst to an upcoming apocolypse, an extermination of the elfen race.
Stillness runs deep -- this is his expression, the words that string together to describe his very existence: the outer seeming does not match the inner. He has lost his heart and soul in a gambit for happiness, and was left with only ashes and madness. He destroyed his sanity, took the pieces and sewed them back together with such ruthlessness, it is no wonder he is missing pieces. Manipulative, cunning, broken -- he only has bits and pieces of his former self: the ability to think, to hold back emotions as they rise and fall, and fall away into the endless sea of his empty heart, the empty cavern where his soul should reside. There is only anger there, cold, dark, frigid; no hot fire this, but of ice and water, running through his veins. He lost himself in this sea and has never been the same. So he never smiles, for there is no need; he is only the purpose, only the goal: to destroy everyone. To take each life that comes to him and slit their throats -- take from them what they have taken from him: the ability to live. He wants nothing of women, nothing of men, of steeds, of warmth. He is the cold night, watching in silence, waiting to devour the death in the cold, oblique dawn.
It does not matter that when he speaks, he speaks in garbled riddles, unable to stop the flow of misguided words that gush over his tongue. There is danger in him -- for it does not matter whether it is friend or foe which falls before his blade. He gave up the friendship of his beast for this chance at vengeance, and it has marked him well. He loved, once. Now, he is emptiness. Now, he is the wriggling of suggestions and voices that have broken away and talk to him. Insane in ways that no one has ever predicted, he holds tight onto his delusions, his walking ghosts which scream out his name with their mouths ripped open by his blade.
He falls, and spirals into the calm realm of white static where only coldness and death can reside. No life, no memory -- for he is a person who has rebuilt himself twice. What is one more fall for someone who has evaded death so many times? For one who does not fear that which has already befallen? For surely though his heart is a physical thing and it beats within his chest, there is no compassion left, only a cold, hollow emptiness that rings through the beautiful, glacial touch of the left side of his face. Who cares that the right is so mottled when it hides behind such glorious hair? Who cares that there is madness inside of him, like maggots squirming in the rotted flesh to feast, when there is truth and efficiency in his actions when he kills? He is good for nothing else, and even if it will only be one person at a time, it will be done. Twice a traitor, with no allegiance but to himself, he will destroy all the good, then turn around and destroy the bad.
It is because of them that he lost everything, so he will make sure that they too, know what it is to love and lose, to fall into the ubiquitous darkness of eternal damnation.
the history,
»»mother: Eiglori (45, living)
»»father: Svander (deceased)
»»siblings: Cleomil (sister, 20) Dredys (brother, 18) Morine (sister, 15)
»»others: Wife: Varissa (deceased) Children: Maika (female, 4) Ailyr (female, 2 years, 6 months)
»»background: What is faith and love when it is compared to the ruthlessness in elf nature? A King has two daughters and one is condemned and exiled because she read a book. A son is granted a piece of land by his father when he passes away, leaving the son to administer and tend to it. To love it, to shelter and protect the people who work the land and keep him and his family well. Faith -- it is nothing but that little bit of kindness and loyalty. Endrit, gave himself to his land, to his family, sacrificing whatever dreams he may have dreamt when he was younger to take over when his father passed, to hold onto the strength of the family he had been born to. His Vassal lord deserved to be served faithfully --- and so he would.
He loved and married, spawned two beautiful little girls that had his eyes, but her hair and his mother's crooked nose. They laughed and lived and grew -- and it was, a portent of their future. No sons, but what did he need of sons when he was only twenty? When he had the rest of his life to love and adore his wife? When he had the rest of his life to watch his daughters grow and his land to grow with them. These were gifts, and he cherished them, worshipped them, humbled in the face of his good fortune.
Until his world split in two. A son is granted a piece of land -- a daughter is spurned because of a book. She gathers an army and so commences the war. So bloodshed, and mercilessness, and terror. Elf against Elf, son against father, sister against brother; it did not matter your allegience: blood was spilled, brutality and cruelty spread with it. The horrors he saw when he was swept up in War's path, lead by his Vassal Lord, taking his legion of men with him. They fought well, even if they died, one by one. They gave their lives for him, to protect the future of their land, their own daughters waiting back home, their own wives crying at night, wanting their husbands to come back safely. Endrit was more important -- so he was moved, pushed, shoved aside and kept alive, scarred by the ferocity of battle. Twenty years old and he felt old in his bones. His beast, Aerani, a black pegasus was his only solace, nuzzling her master when the nightmares were too much. His hands in her mane were often the only surety he had in life. Did his wife still live? Did the dark elves find a way around to circumnavigate the giant army built for the King? Was one Princess more powerful than the Regnant? Endrit despaired of ever returning.
When news reached him that his home was in danger, he separated from the army, and traveled long and hard to reach -- to burst through the doors of his home and hold his wife and daughters, to desperately ask them to leave, to go anywhere, as long as they were safe. But they had faith in him. As he had faith in his Vassal Lord. When pleas were urgently sent, they were swiftly and brutally ignored. What was one fief when the whole of the kingdom was to be destroyed? Sacrificed, without a thought, there was only so much that Drii could do when the dark elves knocked down his defenses and swarmed him.
Endrit was chained like a dog, forced to kneel by his newly acquired master's side as his wife was stripped and raped, as she cried out for him, pleading, wanting to die instead of bearing this shame in front of her husband. He was forced to listen, to watch as they destroyed her -- to hear the echoes of her tears as they dragged her away to be hanged. Of his daughters, he never saw --- were they, too, killed out of hand? Or would they be raised by treacherous hands? He had been abandoned, stabbed in the back and left for death. It was his family who suffered, while he, tormented, could do nothing.
For a year, he was chained to his master's side -- fighting alongside him on a leash. For a year he cut at his allies' faces picturing in their stead his vassal lord and that betrayal. He lived, but died inside, a dog that raises it's head and snaps at the hand that feeds it. Anything was danger. Anything was death -- so he snapped and grew feral, his world held at the ends of the leash, the rattling chains that locked him beside his master. Eleven months of insanity passed before Fate came and sent him on a new path: he fought beside his enemy, destroying whatever crossed his path, laying all low for the sake of his unrepentent thirst of vengeance. He nursed this need, and it was his undoing -- he was struck by lightning, his world dazzled and numb, before blackness surrounded him.
Left for dead, he woke to find that his beast, having hovered on the fringes of the army, nuzzled and mouthed at his hair -- but he was disfigured. Scars dripped from the right side of his face where nothing moved: when he spoke, his words came out garbled and wrong. What he meant to say, was never said. Tongue-tied and scarred, his memory completely blacked out, he picked himself up and started a new life: one without his wife and children, women he did not remember. He slept fitfully, woke hungry, and slowly, ever so slowly, survived. He joined up with roudy bandits and tried to reconstruct his life around the things he knew: Endrit could weild a sword, he could kill without pain in his heart. It was as if the lightning had carved out his pain and let it fall to the floor. Who knows how long truly passed as he pillaged and stole from the King's citizens in the wake of the Rebel's army? Weeks, months -- it did not matter to him. He contented himself with being full, warm and sexually sated.
It was only when they were surrounded by a scouting party from the Rebels that he remembered so painfully his past, where the silent black became bloody turmoil. He remembered his betrayal, remembered his beautiful wife laid low by these men who now surrounded him. He remembered being abandoned and left. The anger consumed him, the rage ignited his sense of justice. While the bandits dispersed among the slave pens, Endrit did not bow, would not be cowed. Instead he asked to join, that rage so terrible in his eye. When they laughed at him, he said he would prove his loyalty --- and snatched the knife hidden away in his boot. Whistling to Aerani, he took that tender muzzle in his hand, and held her so carefully against him. When they stared, he smiled grimly and said he would join their ranks: and slit her tender throw.
Cut from their link, lost and broken, Endrit descended into madness. His memory became blotchy -- like fog rolling in it would hide his pains and then just as suddenly he would remember each vivid curve of his wife's mouth. He lost himself to sensations -- to the voices of the dead who he had killed, nameless and terrible, familiar and completely strange. Only one thing remained in tact: his desire to kill absolutely everyone.
the player,
»»alias: Alicia || Drii || LadyMika (chatango)
»»age: 21
»»contact: AIM, pm system, email, or chatango messages ;3
»»rp sample:
[/size]
word count;; 1912
tags;; Dimitri
OOC;; holy mother of GOD! Should we fast forward, so we don't rp the icky parts that are not allowed amidst this forum? Or do you simply wish to create another thread?
I'm good with either. Rin has just become very complicated >.< and ... evil, if that's the right word.
[/size][/blockquote][/quote]
Password: ~Admin Edit~
How did you find us?: Andee!
" Theres a pretty girl somewhere, with a pretty name,
But I could never let you know how much this means.
I swear we'll end this war, cause we both know
It wasn't worth fighting for."
the basics,
»»character full name: Endrit Tius Iasael. Drii.
»»age: 24
»»sexual orientation: Heterosexual.
»»Alignment: Dark.
»»Position: Former llord. He has since given up the title and disappeared from that circle, reappearing as nothing more than a foot soldier along the sides of the dark.
»»Magic: Wind.
the appearance,
»»eyes: One is chartreuse, the other a pale yellowish-biege.
»»markings: A scar like a collar around his neck, as if a chain had been locked around him for a long time and healed with it on. The point on his right ear has been hacked off; he has a jagged scar along the the spine of his head, hidden by hair. The right side of his face is swirled with scars as well, also hidden. His back and chest have been marred as if by torture.
»»height: 6'2
»»weight: 168
»»general appearance:
The basics: 6'2, 168, tall and only slightly built, with narrow cat-tilted eyes, pointed ears, and dark hair. What you can't truly describe: the narrow, supple turn of his lips, though they never smile, though there is nothing of softness or warmth that ever touches and lives when he talks. There is deadness there, craziness -- but it isn't the madness of blood lust. It is colder, deeper, and it lives in the curve of that kissable mouth. The unspeakable: the gentle slope of his cheekbones, narrower than most men, but seeming to come to a delicate point -- so easily shattered, but there is a strength there, a steel which has risen unencumbered by this strange sort of beauty. Cat-tilted eyes seem to glint like lightning in the dark, but it cannot possibly be: there is only the one, yes, you've read that, the one, the left which burns and turns and watches your every movement. It burns like fire, with tight circles of bright bistre, green and yellows. There is a slit of a pupil hidden amidst the dancing circles, but it is rarely dilated, always pointed as if in stress. What of the other? Hidden, destroyed? Nay, nay, there is only blindness to be had in the opposite direction. He had been struck by lightning -- and it had slackened the other half of his face, made his eye blind to the world, clouded with whites and yellows, as if a fog has been risen. Yet there is sight there: he claims to see magic, to be able to watch the currents of it moving through the world. Who knows what is true and what is false?
Drii's ears are pointed, proof of the extent of his powers, but it means little to him, who has lost everything, even, perhaps, his mind. The tip of the right ear has been chopped off with a sword. He is no newcomer to bloodshed and war. So many scars! A jagged crossing of burned, broken skin knots around the right temple, lingering like a lover's caress so close to his pale, terrible eye -- but that is not all. His hair, grown in long tendrils, hides the horror of scars which riddle the right side of his face where lightning struck, where only brute strength and perserverence had given him back the motion of mouth and nose and cheek. No point: he never smiles. Hair chopped short in spiky layers to hide the monstrosity, he is viewed through the left side, through the slightly tanned glimpse of what had been so gorgeous: there is sorrow and hate in his gaze. There is numbness and want, conflicting disinterest and vengeance mingling over your skin where he touches your body with his gaze.
There is a scar along the edges of his neck, wretched and horrible, marring his neck as if a collar had been locked about him for years and the chaffing healed only to be broken and ripped open again, and again. Medium build: this is no monster come hulking, but only semi-broad of shoulder, dexterous on his toes, and with long digits of fingers. He has clever hands and silent feet.
Drii has been tortured -- the story lives on his skin when he takes his clothes off, when the long lines of whiplashes and knife cuts, when the glimmering surface of magic-broken skin and flayed (and later resewn) bits are staring right back at you. Yet one thing remains the same: stillness runs deep.
the personality,
»»likes:
**Death
**Winning
**Getting closer to his goal
**Destruction
**Efficiency
**Calm, collected heads
**Rationality
**Strategy
**Having a purpose
»»dislikes:
**Losing
**Living
**People getting in his way
**The misguided
**Ignorance
**Stupidity
**Hot-heads, cockiness without evidence, rash, impetuosity
**Youths
**Reckless charging (ie: no plan, no idea, just "winging it")
»»strengths:
**Scheming (Drii is excellent at making battle plans)
**Fighting (He is agile, and focused; he does not play with his opponent, but kills efficiently and cleaning, moving on with merciless fixation to the next)
**Strategem (Excells at warfare)
**Dependable (one can depend on him in battle, insofar as your goals coincide with his own)
**Stoic and Silent (does not break down, or yield)
»»weaknesses:
**Selfish and single-minded (He only thinks about how things can be used for his own singular pupose)
**Does not listen (one can give him an order, and though he may not outwardly say anything, he will rarely listen if he thinks there is a better way to do it)
**Obsessive (He does not let certain things go)
**Insane (hears voices)
**Merciless and without compassion (whether it's his own side, or the enemies, if they can be sacrificed for victory, he doesn't even bat an eyelash)
»»secrets: **He has a lot of secrets, among them is his ability to use his magic to eavesdrop on people, and that he plays down exactly how powerful he is. He used to be on the side of good, before falling from grace, so to speak. His former beast is dead by his own hand. He is a traitor, and is seeking vengeance on a fool's errand. His real name isn't Endrit, but he has forgotten it. His whole life is a knot of intrigue and confusion. The list goes on and on and on.
»»general personality:
To understand Drii, you must first detach yourself, step back, back, back, careful of the precipice that comes to your feet. First, you must plunge into madness, lose yourself from the touch of warmth and feel nothing but the cold currents of vengeance, the cold, unrelenting tides of water as it rises up over your head. You must know loss and betrayal. You must know heart break. You must know fear, most of all, fear -- what it is like to be on the brink of death time and time again, to see it's tongue slipping over your face and panting hot breath -- the only warmth in your world! You must walk along the dark corridors, see the memories as they flitter past: little children holding hands, a wife, a woman, a friend in the form of a beast. You must know honor, and love. You must know laughter --- and what happens when it is ripped from you. There is so much pain in this man, hidden among the rocks and cliffs, among the crevices and crags that scar themselves across his skin.
His body is a story, and he is without the means to read it. He is a creature of good, who had been burned and hurt and destroyed. He was hollowed out by the thin blade of necessity and filled up with something other, something darker. In his burning, chartreuse eye, there is a story of love and hate, of a vengeance that is deeper than bone and reaches into the semblances of a soul that he has lost on the other side of death. How many times does it take to die? So many, too many, he cannot count. Endrit has given it all away, and the rewards that he has attained has warped him, broke him, changed him into a weapon to be used: the catalyst to an upcoming apocolypse, an extermination of the elfen race.
Stillness runs deep -- this is his expression, the words that string together to describe his very existence: the outer seeming does not match the inner. He has lost his heart and soul in a gambit for happiness, and was left with only ashes and madness. He destroyed his sanity, took the pieces and sewed them back together with such ruthlessness, it is no wonder he is missing pieces. Manipulative, cunning, broken -- he only has bits and pieces of his former self: the ability to think, to hold back emotions as they rise and fall, and fall away into the endless sea of his empty heart, the empty cavern where his soul should reside. There is only anger there, cold, dark, frigid; no hot fire this, but of ice and water, running through his veins. He lost himself in this sea and has never been the same. So he never smiles, for there is no need; he is only the purpose, only the goal: to destroy everyone. To take each life that comes to him and slit their throats -- take from them what they have taken from him: the ability to live. He wants nothing of women, nothing of men, of steeds, of warmth. He is the cold night, watching in silence, waiting to devour the death in the cold, oblique dawn.
It does not matter that when he speaks, he speaks in garbled riddles, unable to stop the flow of misguided words that gush over his tongue. There is danger in him -- for it does not matter whether it is friend or foe which falls before his blade. He gave up the friendship of his beast for this chance at vengeance, and it has marked him well. He loved, once. Now, he is emptiness. Now, he is the wriggling of suggestions and voices that have broken away and talk to him. Insane in ways that no one has ever predicted, he holds tight onto his delusions, his walking ghosts which scream out his name with their mouths ripped open by his blade.
He falls, and spirals into the calm realm of white static where only coldness and death can reside. No life, no memory -- for he is a person who has rebuilt himself twice. What is one more fall for someone who has evaded death so many times? For one who does not fear that which has already befallen? For surely though his heart is a physical thing and it beats within his chest, there is no compassion left, only a cold, hollow emptiness that rings through the beautiful, glacial touch of the left side of his face. Who cares that the right is so mottled when it hides behind such glorious hair? Who cares that there is madness inside of him, like maggots squirming in the rotted flesh to feast, when there is truth and efficiency in his actions when he kills? He is good for nothing else, and even if it will only be one person at a time, it will be done. Twice a traitor, with no allegiance but to himself, he will destroy all the good, then turn around and destroy the bad.
It is because of them that he lost everything, so he will make sure that they too, know what it is to love and lose, to fall into the ubiquitous darkness of eternal damnation.
the history,
»»mother: Eiglori (45, living)
»»father: Svander (deceased)
»»siblings: Cleomil (sister, 20) Dredys (brother, 18) Morine (sister, 15)
»»others: Wife: Varissa (deceased) Children: Maika (female, 4) Ailyr (female, 2 years, 6 months)
»»background: What is faith and love when it is compared to the ruthlessness in elf nature? A King has two daughters and one is condemned and exiled because she read a book. A son is granted a piece of land by his father when he passes away, leaving the son to administer and tend to it. To love it, to shelter and protect the people who work the land and keep him and his family well. Faith -- it is nothing but that little bit of kindness and loyalty. Endrit, gave himself to his land, to his family, sacrificing whatever dreams he may have dreamt when he was younger to take over when his father passed, to hold onto the strength of the family he had been born to. His Vassal lord deserved to be served faithfully --- and so he would.
He loved and married, spawned two beautiful little girls that had his eyes, but her hair and his mother's crooked nose. They laughed and lived and grew -- and it was, a portent of their future. No sons, but what did he need of sons when he was only twenty? When he had the rest of his life to love and adore his wife? When he had the rest of his life to watch his daughters grow and his land to grow with them. These were gifts, and he cherished them, worshipped them, humbled in the face of his good fortune.
Until his world split in two. A son is granted a piece of land -- a daughter is spurned because of a book. She gathers an army and so commences the war. So bloodshed, and mercilessness, and terror. Elf against Elf, son against father, sister against brother; it did not matter your allegience: blood was spilled, brutality and cruelty spread with it. The horrors he saw when he was swept up in War's path, lead by his Vassal Lord, taking his legion of men with him. They fought well, even if they died, one by one. They gave their lives for him, to protect the future of their land, their own daughters waiting back home, their own wives crying at night, wanting their husbands to come back safely. Endrit was more important -- so he was moved, pushed, shoved aside and kept alive, scarred by the ferocity of battle. Twenty years old and he felt old in his bones. His beast, Aerani, a black pegasus was his only solace, nuzzling her master when the nightmares were too much. His hands in her mane were often the only surety he had in life. Did his wife still live? Did the dark elves find a way around to circumnavigate the giant army built for the King? Was one Princess more powerful than the Regnant? Endrit despaired of ever returning.
When news reached him that his home was in danger, he separated from the army, and traveled long and hard to reach -- to burst through the doors of his home and hold his wife and daughters, to desperately ask them to leave, to go anywhere, as long as they were safe. But they had faith in him. As he had faith in his Vassal Lord. When pleas were urgently sent, they were swiftly and brutally ignored. What was one fief when the whole of the kingdom was to be destroyed? Sacrificed, without a thought, there was only so much that Drii could do when the dark elves knocked down his defenses and swarmed him.
Endrit was chained like a dog, forced to kneel by his newly acquired master's side as his wife was stripped and raped, as she cried out for him, pleading, wanting to die instead of bearing this shame in front of her husband. He was forced to listen, to watch as they destroyed her -- to hear the echoes of her tears as they dragged her away to be hanged. Of his daughters, he never saw --- were they, too, killed out of hand? Or would they be raised by treacherous hands? He had been abandoned, stabbed in the back and left for death. It was his family who suffered, while he, tormented, could do nothing.
For a year, he was chained to his master's side -- fighting alongside him on a leash. For a year he cut at his allies' faces picturing in their stead his vassal lord and that betrayal. He lived, but died inside, a dog that raises it's head and snaps at the hand that feeds it. Anything was danger. Anything was death -- so he snapped and grew feral, his world held at the ends of the leash, the rattling chains that locked him beside his master. Eleven months of insanity passed before Fate came and sent him on a new path: he fought beside his enemy, destroying whatever crossed his path, laying all low for the sake of his unrepentent thirst of vengeance. He nursed this need, and it was his undoing -- he was struck by lightning, his world dazzled and numb, before blackness surrounded him.
Left for dead, he woke to find that his beast, having hovered on the fringes of the army, nuzzled and mouthed at his hair -- but he was disfigured. Scars dripped from the right side of his face where nothing moved: when he spoke, his words came out garbled and wrong. What he meant to say, was never said. Tongue-tied and scarred, his memory completely blacked out, he picked himself up and started a new life: one without his wife and children, women he did not remember. He slept fitfully, woke hungry, and slowly, ever so slowly, survived. He joined up with roudy bandits and tried to reconstruct his life around the things he knew: Endrit could weild a sword, he could kill without pain in his heart. It was as if the lightning had carved out his pain and let it fall to the floor. Who knows how long truly passed as he pillaged and stole from the King's citizens in the wake of the Rebel's army? Weeks, months -- it did not matter to him. He contented himself with being full, warm and sexually sated.
It was only when they were surrounded by a scouting party from the Rebels that he remembered so painfully his past, where the silent black became bloody turmoil. He remembered his betrayal, remembered his beautiful wife laid low by these men who now surrounded him. He remembered being abandoned and left. The anger consumed him, the rage ignited his sense of justice. While the bandits dispersed among the slave pens, Endrit did not bow, would not be cowed. Instead he asked to join, that rage so terrible in his eye. When they laughed at him, he said he would prove his loyalty --- and snatched the knife hidden away in his boot. Whistling to Aerani, he took that tender muzzle in his hand, and held her so carefully against him. When they stared, he smiled grimly and said he would join their ranks: and slit her tender throw.
Cut from their link, lost and broken, Endrit descended into madness. His memory became blotchy -- like fog rolling in it would hide his pains and then just as suddenly he would remember each vivid curve of his wife's mouth. He lost himself to sensations -- to the voices of the dead who he had killed, nameless and terrible, familiar and completely strange. Only one thing remained in tact: his desire to kill absolutely everyone.
the player,
»»alias: Alicia || Drii || LadyMika (chatango)
»»age: 21
»»contact: AIM, pm system, email, or chatango messages ;3
»»rp sample:
The heart faltered, the child cried out and held out it's arms for it's mother -- swept up among smiles and cuddles, and little lullabies that sing them to sleep; no, lies, all of it. Wretchedness had never had such kindness bestowed upon it. Sin had never had a face of good; love had never been pure when it came the selfish ambition of Wolf and Woman -- when it came from the start, from the purity of it's beginning. Yes, let's walk that path, that delirious thought that slips in an out of her consciousness, leading her along, yes, along that stupid little fucking path into her heart. What was this mask, this self that burns so fiercely so that none could get close? She pushes and shoves, leaps forward and clings: there are dual needs within her raging and purring and slipping out of control. This is the play, these are the words, the murmurs, the hymns, the pledge of loyalty: this is the little sound of her heart -- thump, thump, thump-thump-thumthumpthump slurring together vowels and consistencies. Where there is a path that should be walked, where the heart should be clear and bared, there is only barriers.
Rin had lost her ability to trust, and had been forever scarred and broken since.
The mirror had been shattered, and forever the shadow had been caught, the ugly, the scar that runs from the inside of her bleeding eyes to the lips which have been sewed shut in death. Let her never speak a word, for only falsehoods would fall from her purring, lying, dying tongue. Was she all that was bad in the world, or was she all that was good and victimized? The little girl only reaching out for that mother, for her mother, brother, lover? Her arms were around him, but she was far, far, away. Rin was drowning, as he was drowning, choking on her hair -- the knots of her infidelity. Soon they would grow and loop around her neck and let her swing, swing, her shadow racing with the sun under her bare feet. What was sand and pulse and life to the hollow swinging of death's lyrical threnody? Had she not the voice for it? Does she not lift that unholy mouth and lying, sweet, so sweet, voice to be heard amidst the darkness of night?
The Girl and Wolf are neither separate, nor together, a tangle of chains and loves and hatreds -- what was the good? Was the Wolf everything good, or was it the girl who was the good and the Wolf the antagonist come snarling terror in your dreams? So easy to mistake the face of truth for lie, to see lie as nothing but a parade of a secret wish -- the girl is small, a doll under the weight of his body, until the touch his melting, fiery touch: where he pressed his body to her, she burned, and he burned with her. Would he die, with her, in this cycle of hate she has brought to his door? Was she truly the huntress, and he the prey? Or did she secretly wish for this filth to spread, this contagion, this parody of love and devotion to continue onward? After all, the play must continue -- the audience must be entertained.
So she smiles, when she feels like she is nothing but death; she laughs and moves, constantly running, constantly hiding, weakened by the very thing which should be her source of strength. The heart falters and the child reaches out for it's mother: there is only pain and neglect in a world full of brothers and sisters, all looking alike, all talking alike, holding each other as their dearest mother becomes a blur of memory.
What did home look like? What was her life before this? Rin was a flower, closed to the world, but she was opening up -- acidity dripping down each delicious curve, poisoning the very world she wants to invite. The Venus Fly-trap, the Wolfsbane, so innocuous and beautiful ground to a fine pulp and added to dinner. Rin is caught by gravity, her hair sprawled out like a net, her eyes almond-shaped and piercing as she stares with fierce intensity at his face, at the sensation of her emotions palpable on her tongue: so bitter this taste of victory, but it is all she knows -- to bring out the worst in others to match her own. She can never be better, so she must equal their natures the only way she knows.
A bitter victory is a victory nonetheless: his chains are fraying, his control breaking, shattering under the weight of his disgust, under the bending, clawing, killing need to claim to her: she has possessed him, and she wants him this way, begging on his knees. She wants him, to feed the metamorphosis of her changing, to bring her to the path of this darkness.
It is all unconsciousness -- all shadows that parade before her eyes. All of it actions taken because of fear. Can she help that she reacts with only subconscious want? That she shifts her body in the most pleasing way, that she draws him out to her because it is the only way he would notice? Rin is beautiful when she smiles, when she is brilliant and reminiscent of innocence -- this play will continue on, though she will be bruised, though the smut in her soul allows her only to crawl when she wishes to fly. The Wolf is flaming, beautiful creature, full of purity and rage; the girl is brimming over with the cold heat of revenge. There is a hunger gnawing in her belly, a plague that has caused what was good to wilt, to sew in it's place deadly poison, ivy that climbs up and restrains all that burns.
So the girl burns, and dies, and wakes to burn all over again -- caught in a cycle that she shares, that she hands over to him: he is enthralled, by what means she cannot possibly know. She is no innocent, though the path he has been cornered and forced to take is not one she has known.
The image portrayed: twisted, convoluted boy, heart full of thorns. Broken, manipulative, girl, a succubus, mouth full of fangs. This picture that must be burned into the eyes, into the mind, the question that must be asked as the balance shifts and turns, Wolf against Woman, wholly different, wholly inseparable. Consciousness has become too intertwined but natures must be judged and in this eye, the eyes of Fate, the eyes of Gods, there is that feather weight of truth and justice: who will weigh more in the end? So weak, this girl. Given to temptations and terrors. In love with bloodshed for the mere sake of it, while the Wolf tempers. Is this the truest image? Or will you remember the savage brutality of flames, and the little girl cowering from it's heat?
Between them, between male and female, there is filth and madness -- but which will outweigh the other? Which will rule their actions? Rin is fire, boiling, heating up as their friction opens up her mind to the sins of the flesh: pleasure peaks and forms in her mind -- like the shore, she is bombarded, constantly separate from it, but yearning for that touch. It is something new she has learned. It is not always the sea which is yearning, wishing, wanting -- no, no, it is the shore which cannot move, which is held under the spell of the sea's motion that is yearning, that is burning. Her lips move, images rising unbidden as Dimitri's weaves his spell: his voice is soft but dangerous, and they invoke in her emotions and feelings, of images blossoming behind her eyes of Luke, of gentility, of goodness. Theirs is not a relationship of scum, but like hands reaching out through the dark to clasp in the light, they are inadvertently drawn.
Against the force of Dimitri? Rin is but flotsam floating up, crashing and lying still. Is there seaweed in her hair? Will they ever be caught? The undertone of anger cuts through the dirt -- she is sick, turning down a dark road, but still, Rin is at the crossroads, and Luke reminds her of her goodness, of the smiles, of the laughs. Dimitri reminds her of Luke with every possessive word he speaks, with each claim on her body he makes, her thoughts suddenly lurch forward, frightened of the change in her: frightened of the want in her. What fire could ever purge this plague from her veins? Not the physical act of love, no, no, but this mistrust of humanity, this need to push and push, to prove that they are as filthy underneath their clean clothes as she is. That they are as primitive and broken and immoral.
He pushes her down, dirties her, defiles her with his hands, with his weight, with the gleam in his eyes as he goes mad for needing her --- a need she had planted in him, wanted from him. Beg, beg, she had whimpered, wanted, needing to see someone as weak and pathetic as herself. Become like me, and she did not realize she had not wanted Dimitri as a companion, but someone to break, to rub and cajole, to hurt and destroy and be destroyed in turn. The Wolf is snarling, foaming at the mouth, but for once, she has no power. For once, the utter despair in Rin's heart has sealed her own doom -- Dimitri plunges forward, severing her from the unfurling hope which had been growing in secret.
Pain makes her bleed; blood makes her mad: the Wolf surges forward, but it cannot move past the vines of this self-loathing, cannot step foot where the Fire cannot walk. He destroys her, claims her, but as tears rise up, as he fills her up to splitting, she cannot feel anything but the suffocative hurt of one who has finally, finally gotten what they deserved.
Relief makes her heart hurt; the physical brutality numbs her body.
Punishment, at last -- defile me, she thinks without thinking, a small little smile curling the very edges of her lips as she realizes the dream she had ever been searching: for someone to hurt her, to give her the means to be punished for what she had done, for what she had become. What could thoughts of Luke do to her, now? What could her goodness mean when all of her has been taken and soiled? Defiled and broken, she feels the trail of her tears dry up in a calm collective breath: yes, yes -- she reaches for that coldness, for that center that had ever been part of her.
Rin, that was her calling, that was what they had deemed her the moment her other self had died in their eyes. Rin, the cold one. Rin, the distant one. Little did she know how much she had lived by that name, how crippled she had become. For this, she had no words, only a steady regard as she stared up with her black, pitiless eyes; stared up as her blood was spilled, as her heart contracted, and all that was Rin shattered into a thousand tiny shards.
------------------------------------------------------- and all of her chaos quieted, and stilled.
word count;; 1912
tags;; Dimitri
OOC;; holy mother of GOD! Should we fast forward, so we don't rp the icky parts that are not allowed amidst this forum? Or do you simply wish to create another thread?
I'm good with either. Rin has just become very complicated >.< and ... evil, if that's the right word. Password: ~Admin Edit~
How did you find us?: Andee!
