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Thread: June 2017 Vignette

  1. #1
    Der Geächteter zerrissen
    EXP: 58,044, Level: 10
    Level completed: 37%, EXP required for next level: 6,956
    Level completed: 37%,
    EXP required for next level: 6,956

    Shinsou Vaan Osiris's Avatar

    Shinsou Vaan Osiris
    Hair Color
    Eye Color
    6'0", 155lbs
    "Executor" (Leader) of the Brotherhood

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    June 2017 Vignette

    Out of Character:
    Your characters alignment has flipped completely. Good characters are now evil, evil characters are now good and neutral characters are wildly unpredictable. Write a scene to show how this new found point on their moral compass takes form on Althanas.

    Althanas Operations Administrator

    "Yes Baldrick, but you never said 'wibble'."

  2. #2
    Cinnamon Smol
    EXP: 11,110, Level: 4
    Level completed: 43%, EXP required for next level: 2,890
    Level completed: 43%,
    EXP required for next level: 2,890

    FennWenn's Avatar

    Fennik Glenwey.
    Looks eight. He's definitely older.
    More or less male.
    Hair Color
    Light blonde.
    Eye Color
    A bright, pupil-less green.
    4'1" / 52 lb
    Picker of Pockets.

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    Fenn Finally Learns How Recipes Work And Uses Them For Evil

    The bells attached to the antique shop’s antique door chimed pleasantly as Fenn breezed his way into the shop. A front of cold air billowed out along with his entrance, an accidental side effect of his excitement. Fenn peered out from the doorway, his gaze skimming across the tables and their dusty wares. It was a homely little store, stuffed with stacks of odd valuables and creaking antiques. The only light was what sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows. What organization there was to the accumulation was by type of object; a wall there was dotted with old clocks, an aisle here displayed worn chairs… so was how it went.

    All in all, it seemed the perfect place to hunt for old books on Frost Fae. Finding anything credible since his… interesting visit to the Clemonts mansion was damn near impossible. Maybe this time, this time, he would find what he needed.

    There was a jar of candied nuts left on a table next to the door. Treats for anyone browsing the store, he supposed. Fenn slyly tipped it into the front pocket of his satchel and stared skywards at a curious dangling instrument, one of planets attached to wires spinning around a round lantern. Neat! Perhaps, he decided, he could take his sweet time looking for the book section. He was in no hurry today.

    “Hey,” a stentorian, nasal voice called out. Fenn turned on his heels to face a bony blonde woman sitting behind a desk. Her hands absently stroked the pages of a flaking book, and she gazed out at him with a furrowed brow and and uncertain frown. “I don't know what brought a you here, but welcome, I suppose? You can look around if you want, especially if you have it in mind to pay for something, but don’t touch anything. I didn’t set up shop here babysit little elfen brats. You understand?”

    Nodding sweetly, Fenn put on his most angelic face. Of course he wouldn’t cause trouble!

    “Good.” The lady turned back to her book and yawned. “Lemme know if you need something.”

    Fenn gave her a curt shrug and went back to exploring. Let's see… table of old necklaces -- cheap ones, he could tell at a glance thanks to make years of stealing and selling them himself. There was an open wardrobe displaying old robes and dresses. The fabric had that distinct old-people-smell that never seemed to wash out of things. Fenn pulled out a faded red shirt and wondered if he ought to shop around for some new clothes. His current ones were threadbare from years of abuse. He shrugged and hung the shirt back up. Maybe another time.

    What really caught the little Fae’s eyes was a mirror hanging on the inner door of the wardrobe. The black frame inlaid with quartz seemed normal enough, if a bit fancy. But, his reflection was just wrong! A moment of puzzling over it gave him the right words for the wrongness. The colors were muted and murky, as if he were seeing himself through a haze or a fog.

    Fenn wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out at the distortion, marveling at how his tongue seemed more brown than pink. His eyes looked almost black!

    The boy ducked over toward the main desk and tapped his knuckles against the wood, getting the shopkeeper's attention. "Yes?" she asked, looking up from her read. "What is it?" Fenn cocked his head and gave a sweeping two-handed gesture to the mirror inquisitively. She leaned over to peer around the corner at his object of fascination. “Oh, that? I’d be careful about touching that one if I were you,” the antique woman told him with a shrug, leafing to the next page of her book. “For one thing, I’d love it if you didn’t contaminate my wares with smudgy fingerprints. For another, that one’s enchanted.”

    Enchanted? If that didn’t intrigue him, he didn’t know what would! Fenn sighed and pointed again, a wordless plea for more detail.

    “Mmm, yeah, that one’s got a curious history,” the antique keeper droned on. She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Last owner was real happy to be rid of the thing. I don’t know the specifics of the enchantment, but it’s supposed to give you a glimpse of the future. Or was it an alternate world? For all I know, it gives you a look at the future of a different world. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clue as to how to work the damn thing. Any old wizard could probably power it by touch alone, but I haven’t a lick of magic in me. So, uh, don’t touch it.”

    Fenn’s ears were pricked now, twitching in curiousity. His bright gaze swiveled back to the mirror’s gloomy interior. With an agreeable dip of his head, he backed away from the desk, leaving the shopkeeper to her reading.


    To hell with dire warnings, he wanted to see this other-future-world thing! After glancing back to make sure that the shopkeeper was still engrossed in her book -- she was -- he slunk over and lifted a finger to its surface. Only a touch, she said? Gently, he prodded it. Frost shivered up the glass.

    A few seconds passed. Hmm? No response? How disap-


    ~ § ~ § ~ § ~

    The circle had been made. The blood had been laid down.

    Deep in the bowels of an abandoned mineshaft, Fenn sat amid his doings and studiously went over the open page of a black-bound book, his Grimoire. Surrounding him was a meticulously prepared altar of sorts. Several silver bowls held offerings he had gathered himself. One to his left pooled with crimson blood. One to his right was brimming with powdered bones. The last was a frothy black potion that lay before him, a potent mixture of mushrooms, oleander, and snakeroot. All the bowls were surrounded by circles of blood, and around those circles was a larger one which encompassed Fenn as well. What paltry light there was in the room came from flickering purple-black candles placed at specific points on the edge of the greatest circle. It wasn’t particularly good light to read by, barely penetrating the thick dark between him and the glistening walls of the shaft, but it was necessary. This was the only light permitted to touch this sacred space.

    He had gone back to the Clemonts mansion. Foolish, perhaps, after his first venture there had gotten him killed, but in hindsight he considered it a victory. Her Grimoire was the key to everything. He understood now why the professor had done what she had.

    There were laws. There were rules. There were rituals that had to be performed. There was power to be taken.

    He knew better than to stray. When mistakes were made, it all went awry, and nothing would ever get done. Yes, mistakes were costly. Clemonts had made mistakes, and now she was dead. Fenn’s first mishap had lost him his mount, and another had threatened to take his head. But, he was practiced now. He had communed many times with his new masters. They needed him to perform one final task to aid their descent into the realm that was Althanas.

    Fenn licked his lips and flicked through the pages, turning over to the final step of the ritual. Right, right, the components.

    He gently laid the book down outside the circle. A measured pinch was taken from the ground bones and sprinkled into the black potion. Afterward, Fenn dipped his hand in the blood. One, two… eight drops of blood went into the potion. Mmm. There was blood on his hands now. It was starting to congeal and freeze over. Fenn considered the dark liquid with a sigh, knowing that it wouldn’t do to taint his grimoire nor altar with the touch of such an excess. It might muddle the ritual. Shrugging to himself, he slurped the glistening red ooze off of his fingers as one might honey. Waste not, want not.

    ̯̝͍̳̳͇̪̊̇ͯͦ̌ ̨̫̮̭̲̭͉͇ ̵̠̞̖̩̿ ̺̗̙̯̋̀͋ͯͤ͊̕ͅ ͚̫̻ͥͯ̅̽͐̓ ̲ ̖̘̩̞͛̆̀̅ ͇̲̜̉ ̘ͥͭ͟ ̧̖͍ͦ͌͒ͩ̎̈́͆ ̙̟͈̜̣̝̆̃̀ͯ͂ ̛͚̙̖̫̘̖̔ͥ̊̏̌̓̆ͅ ͇̱̥̲̱̦ͪ̈́͗̽ͭͮ͆͘ ̥̘̻̽ ̩͌͒̀ ̊ ̠̦͈͍̯͕̀̉̽͢ ̵̮͆̔̋́ͤ ̖̬̖̠͉̆̓̏ͬ͐̎̈́ͅ ̡͈ͤ̐ ̫̣͉̮͈̜ͥ̀́̽̀ ̥̬͍̤̼̆ ̝̩̥̝̣̻ͧͣͥ͂̍͝ ̠͍̤̪̗̭ͤ͞ ͍͈̓͋̒ͣ ̶̖̓ͧ̓͊͋̑̑ ͥ̍͢ ̬̱̹̥̬͗ͭ͗ ̧̖ͩͮ ͇̊ ̣̱̭͕͇͘ͅ ̟͕̫̋́̈̑̃̑̓ ̸ ̡͔̲̦̟̫ͤ͐ͦ̈́̊ ̓ͫͧ ̯̣̭̱ͮ̍̈́̔ͅͅ ̵̘͖͓̘̤͙ ͐

    Where there had once been the black potion, there was now a gap in time and space. The room became markedly warmer.

    A darkness felt its way out of the rift on twisted claws, bearing gnashing teeth and rasping drool. Milky white eyes pried open. They oozed and shuddered, focusing on the small vessel offered up before him. The abyss had stared into him, and he stared back, his lips spreading into a wide toothy smirk. Althanas would be host to his gods now. Oh! If only Amari could see him now. She'd be so proud. Perhaps, he pondered with a ghostly smile on his face and a lost look in his eyes, he should go looking for her sometime. Perhaps he could persuade her to ditch her current master for his.

    None would call him small nor weak. Fenn would tower above all.

    ~ § ~ § ~ § ~


    The shattering of the mirror broke the shopkeeper out of her reverie, startling her so much she dropped the book she was reading under her desk -- which would be a shame, as the binding was already loose enough as it was. It wasn’t a common book either; no book on the northern Fae was “common”. Without bothering to peer around the corner, she could easily guess what had been broken, and who had done it. That was it. This was the last time she was letting a little kid into her shop unsupervised. Where was that kid’s flipping parents?

    “I told you not to touch the mirror!” she called out, her face livid with frustration and she bent over to retrieve her fallen tome. “Wait right where you are! Don’t move, and for the Thayne’s sake, don’t step on the glass. I need to see just how much damage you’ve caused and what it’s going to cost.”

    But, by the time she had gotten up and walked around to see the mess by the wardrobe, she could hear the chiming of bells and the echoed slam of the door. The little elfen boy was gone.

    He had left nothing behind but the broken glass and the bent frame. The floor was made treacherous broken glass, and oddly enough, a crystalline hunk of melting ice. Would breaking such an ominous mirror cause seven year’s worth of good luck, or misfortune? If it was the latter, she dearly hoped the kid was at the receiving end of it, not her. “Imp,” the shopkeeper grumbled under her breath, feeling a scowl coming on. She’d have to find a broom now, and waste some of his precious time taking care of this. Worse, she probably wasn’t going to be compensated for this, was she? How she hated it when her customers broke the valuables...
    Last edited by FennWenn; Yesterday at 03:33 PM. Reason: COMPLETE

  3. #3
    EXP: 3,240, Level: 2
    Level completed: 42%, EXP required for next level: 1,760
    Level completed: 42%,
    EXP required for next level: 1,760

    Flamebird's Avatar

    Felicity Rhyolite
    Neanderthal/ Human Hybrid
    Hair Color
    Eye Color
    5"3/ 209

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    There she lie.

    Shaking, the warrior rose to her knees. Eyeing the person walking towards her, swinging his deadly morning star, she experienced burning hatred.

    Wrath made her stronger.

    She growled. She wanted strength. She needed strength. She had followed all her mentor's teachings. She followed every dark word. She knew it would take every means necessary. She drew her sword, eyeing her bare arm. Every means necessary. Would it require pain? Every means necessary. She could not lose. She refused to lose. Revenge. She needed revenge!

    Every means necessary.

    Blood. Blood fell to the ground. Onto the pure snow dropped red blood. Like this man, every human in her own town, dropped dark on her innocence. They made this monster. Another drop of blood. They molded this monster. A puddle of blood. She was a monster. Blood!

    She loved the monster she had become.

    Against the harsh cold air, red energy swirled around her bleeding body. She was willing to destroy anything, even herself, just to strike them down. His face she knew not. His name she knew not. She just remembered his violence. Thus, she fought violence with violence. It was an eye for an eye. It was a tooth for a tooth. Below the cloudless, starless winter sky, against the snowy backdrop she barely processed, against whatever consciousness she had left, fire burned. It was fire with fire.

    She knew it was wrong, but her selfish flesh wanted this. She succumbed to the monster inside, she let the energy drown her in blind madness as she outstretched her crimson dirtied hands towards his neck… She was gone and she knew it.

    She loved being insane.

    A sick laugh was heard cracking from through the pine tree forests beyond.
    "Throw me at the wolves and I'll return leading the pack." ~ Unknown.

    "I thought they were make believe; like dragons or people who like anchovies." ~ Bacon Bill.

    Songs of Felicity.

  4. #4
    EXP: 57,039, Level: 10
    Level completed: 28%, EXP required for next level: 7,961
    Level completed: 28%,
    EXP required for next level: 7,961

    Philomel's Avatar

    Philomel van der Aart (+ Veridian)
    Hair Color
    violet (dyed)
    Eye Color
    6ft / 156kg
    Assassin-Whore, Matriarch (Gilded Lily), Master of Secrets (Crimson Hand)

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    Neutral Good: The Irritations Of The Unfamiliar

    The air hung with the rich scents of a myraid of spices; za'atar from Merian, Keribas, cardamom from Amonuum, Haide, majoram from Survani's Oasis, Fallien. Bright colours of livid saffron, scarlet, lemon and golden yellow and brilliant green filled the open caskets lining the stalls. Other products, such as the carefully made fine china spice bowls, lined shelves, whilst hand-woven cloths and tapestries hung from the ceiling. A curved continuous archway made the bright, lively place a home for the exotic - all of the essences from across the hot, humid centres of the world contained into one singular market.

    Slowly she breathed in, a smile coming to her lips. So luxurious, so unique. A world which she hardly experienced, which she hardly knew. For the first time her hoof had stepped upon sand, and carved a mark into the Fallien soil, strode through the sandstone streets of Irrakam and experienced the flavours of the fiery foreign.

    "Hi," she said, rather embarressed to a man with tanned skin - the natural tone of this area - who was staring at her.

    Humans here, apparently, had not seen the few fauns that existed in the world. Which was entirely understandable, seeing as they rarely ventured from their home of Paradisia in the forests of the Jagged Mountains. Philomel was a great exception, and though she was quiet about her exact heritage she did not shy away from being proud of her ancestry.

    "Your fabric there," she gestured to a soft purple silk that was printed with small images of desert deer and harpies, "How much would it be?"

    His eyes blinked wide with surprise as he realised that she spoke the common tongue of Althanas. His own voice was in a gorgeous stacatto tone of his land, "Uh ... So you ... Right." Feeling somewhat annoyed by the man's reaction the faun began to frown before he continued. "Where you come from? I can give you good price based on this. Yes?"

    Blinking at his forgetting of definite articles, Philomel was taken aback slightly but knew that the man was trying. So she kept her patience and answered in a polite, though frank, tone. "Corone. I have coins from there, but I have things to trade, as I know-"

    "20 Corone Crowns," the man beamed. He had dimples on his chin that prodded in like tiny sinkholes.

    "But I have ..." she began to say, reaching for her bag where she had stored her items.

    For in Fallien she knew that they traded in stock more than anything. Currency of other realms and cities was accepted, but they preferred their ways. Thus she had brought with her all the herbs and fabrics and artistry of her world that they might find interesting. Basil from Underwood, holy fleece from Akashima and scrolls from the Am'aleh religion in the Tylmerande barony were all in her possession.

    The man, however, waved a cinnamon coloured hand at her nearly sickly pale face. Which matched her white cotton travelling shirt, her ivory over skirt, the blades of her five mythril daggers that were stuck into her belt. Immediately her face fell and she couldn't help but feel slightly put off by him. In all honesty she had been wanting to buy the silk for her mother, who was into brighter things than her, and certainly needed cheering up after her recent ordeals. Rape, a bit of murder, politics. Gods, if anything please not let it be politics.

    "20 Crowns and no less."

    "I am not interested," suddenly she said, twisting around on hoof. "I am sorry, but its fine." She had to do it, had to pull out. She could not deal with this man, and before she ending up swearing in his face she wanted to be away, to offer her wares to another trader.

    The man tried to call after her, but the faun was hurrying now, clutching onto her bag. Her knuckles were white, her face was hard, but she did not want to make his day worse. So she left, and exited. Keeping her eyes wide for another opportunity.
    "Tol. Mela. Othor." "Versh. Sai. Memnae." Come. Love. Conquer. - Philomel in Tolkein Sindarin, Faunish and Tradespeak

    Very grateful winner of 2015 Althies Awards: Friendliest Member, Mrs Althanas, Best IC Rivalry (with Doge), Best Judge and Most Helpful/Friendly Mod and Admin Award of Moderator of the Year.

  5. #5
    EXP: 14,165, Level: 5
    Level completed: 3%, EXP required for next level: 5,835
    Level completed: 3%,
    EXP required for next level: 5,835

    jdd2035's Avatar

    Captain Cain Jodin
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    Merchant Sailor/ Privateer

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    Cain looked out upon the deck of the Vulture a disgusting mural of filth, garbage and tobacco stains. His crew glared at him in a combination of fear and hate. They hated him because he was the type to order out a hundred lashes for the most innocuous offense they feared him because of his skills and strength. Stepping off the quarter deck the few ships boys cowered deferentially as they scurried out of his way. The tension on the waist of the ship was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

    "Cap'N" The oafish clumsy orcish first mate. A black guard of a brute useful only for boarding an unsuspecting ship.

    "WHAT!?" Cain roared his head snapping in the direction of the oaf.

    The orc clenched his jaw and glared back his eyes full of malice toward his captain "Ships ready to be underway."

    This irritated Cain raising the hair on his neck as he snapped "Then what are you telling me for you clumsy get?!" a rhetorical question "Weigh the bloody anchor and get us under way! We aint going to be sitting in port all day drownin in booze and whores! If we're not sailing in the next five minutes I'll keelhaul the lot of you!" Cain picked up an empty bottle of booze and threw it against the mast the bottle shattering near a pair of idling crew members. "I said move it! Move it now!"

    The anchor rope began feeding into the haws pipe while the rest of the crew scrambled up the shrouds and stays ready to make sail.

    "Cap'N, the anchors fouled!" one of the Vultures crewmen exclaimed.

    Annoyed Cain shot the barer of bad news. "I said get this ship moving!" Grabbing a boarding axe he cut through the hawser line letting it slip from the windlass and smoke out of the hawse hole.

    The Vulture finally made sail in a clumsy almost lubberly fashion and made its way towards the shipping and merchant lanes. They had found their first kill of the day an unarmed merchantman with a crew of about twenty five compared to the Vultures crew of closer to one hundred twenty five

    Cain snarled bitterly at his crew, he hated the lot of them. Each one of them would demand payment for this little action and he would be grudged to pay them. Spitting on the deck the pirate donned his sword belt and shouted to his crew "I will have the hide off of any one who does not fight!" he growled.

    "She's struck her colors!" shouted someone from the tops victoriously.

    Cain replied "I don't give a shit! Ready grape and chain shot! Aim for the deck!" Cains plan was to completely annihilate any opposition before boarding. The Vultures guns went off in a semi-regular fashion. Blood ran from the merchantman's scuppers in a thick sheet. "Fire again!" Cain ordered and for good measure the Vultures guns rang off again. Another sheet of blood ran from the scuppers and the Vulture crashed ad scraped against the merchantman's hull.

    When the Vulture's boarded most of the merchantman's crew was slaughtered and what was left was easy pray for the vastly over numbered crew of the Vulture. After the blood bath Cain ordered the merchantman looted and burned and the Vulture to set sail away from an approaching man o'war.

  6. #6
    EXP: 13,533, Level: 4
    Level completed: 91%, EXP required for next level: 467
    Level completed: 91%,
    EXP required for next level: 467

    Good for Nothing Captain's Avatar

    Victor Valentine
    Hair Color
    Jet black
    Eye Color
    5' 11" / 195lbs

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    "I suppose it has been long enough. I suppose the time has come for this charade to end. The shell known as Victor Valentine has lived out its usefulness. Now all that remains is the beast, the red demon. . . the Raukorad. Like finally scratching an itch after centuries of waiting. I thank you all for your sincere effort! The performance was satisfactory."

    Victor Valentine stood in 'Nova's Rest,' the bar under the apartment he had been living in for years. Nova, his savior and benefactor, lay on the bar. Her crushed head no longer resembled anything human. Viscera spilled out of her gut, where claws left marks like opening a pistachio.

    Anthony, a young teen with brown hair, hung from the ceiling. His legs, broken from his pelvis, dangled awkwardly while his body softly swayed. The young boy's spine, exposed and broken, hung from the ceiling by a thin rope of intestine. He had not died immediately, though. He gurgled, almost drowning in his vomit and blood several times. But the demon cut a hole in the throat so that the liquid could escape.

    A man at the back of the room groaned, pinned to the wall with his severed arm. A woman next to him wept quietly, the front portion of her dermis entirely removed and various utensils were sticking out of her muscles. Another man's appendages had been turned to string, each digit on his hands and feet having been pulled apart, and left to dangle.

    A pool of blood had formed in the center of the room, where a group of five hung from the ceiling. Each of the five, horrifically attached to the other in a 'man-made' pentagram. In the pool sat a girl with orange eyes. Eliza Day had survived her previous encounter with a demon. Well, survived is the wrong word. Her spirit had not broken. Getting killed is easy, and she died with flare. But this was different. He had forced her to help, torture, maim and kill everyone for whom she cared. Even her father, skilled as he was, met his end against the demon's might. The demon forced her to watch, as he debased every notion of humanity with her father's body. She lay in the pool, wide-eyed and screaming. Knowing nothing, and thinking nothing, and broken in every conceivable way, she wept.

    "Archen falls," the demon sighed, almost bored. "Hopefully the other heroes of this world make for a more exciting challenge."

    Victor woke up, sweating profusely and bleeding from his torso. The man with red eyes panted heavily, as though he had been running for hours. The marks on his chest were self-inflicted, like he was trying to rip something out of himself. The jack-of-all-trades could feel that thing inside him, like a brand on his soul. He could feel the pull of evil, urging him with dissonant whispers to commit the truculent evil he saw in his nightmare. The nightmare now amalgamated with the rest of Victor. He knew, somehow, that he was capable of all that. He could feel it.

    Victor walked to the door and stepped outside onto his balcony. He stood in only his lower undergarments in the cold Archen night. Below, sounds of indistinct conversations and laughing came from 'Nova's Rest.' Victor sighed.

    He could still feel the urge, as a very real, tangible tugging somewhere in his chest and head. Victor admired the bright, full moon. He admired how free and pure it was. He tried to reassure himself with the thoughts that it had just been a dream. It did not work.

    As if I would make it that easy for you, he thought. Victor felt a churning inside, like a great beast growing anxious of waiting, itching for freedom. Like standing at the northern gate of Archen, between the chaotic North and the tame south, and being called in both directions. But this dichotomy is nothing new for the red-eyed jack-of-all-trades. The beast of vengeance whined inside him since the War of the Flesh. The same way all people were always pulled apart by their devils. His compass would spin, as would everyone's, from time to time. But it was up to Victor to choose the heading, regardless where the compass pointed.
    Last edited by Good for Nothing Captain; 06-18-17 at 02:58 PM.
    “Excellence is never an accident. It is always the result of high intention, sincere effort, and intelligent execution; it represents the wise choice of many alternatives - choice, not chance, determines your destiny.”
    ― Aristotle
    1. Elven; Red Demon
    2. Victor Valentine

  7. #7
    Hand of Virtue
    EXP: 81,557, Level: 12
    Level completed: 36%, EXP required for next level: 8,443
    Level completed: 36%,
    EXP required for next level: 8,443

    SirArtemis's Avatar

    Artemis Eburi
    Human (+ Dovicarus)
    Hair Color
    Dark Brown and Gray
    Eye Color
    Piercing Blue

    Artemis stared as blood rolled down the black matte finish of his dagger, the corner of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk as the trail it left dried on the flat of the blade.

    'It never gets old,' the assassin mused, sitting on the edge of a bed where his victim slept eternally. The blonde girl had yet to experience her first cycle, and now she never would. The skin of her throat had parted ever so elegantly. He reached across the bed and ran the back of his hand across her soft cheeks.

    "You would have been so beautiful," he told her as he looked into the dead hazel of her eyes. "It's a shame you won't have a chance to break any hearts."

    He rose from the bed with a slight squeak of the poor wooden frame, leaving the tiny room and descending an equally creaky flight of old oaken stairs. The girl was the daughter of the mayor of this tiny town, who remained hunched over in death at the small kitchen table where he'd been up late smoking and reading. Artemis had walked up behind the man and ran his dagger straight through from spine to throat, so quickly that the old mustached man hadn't even noticed the pain. His own blonde had long since faded to a rich mane of gray that now soaked up the red of his demise, as did the newspaper he'd been reading from nearby Radasanth.

    Artemis walked out the door, gently closing it behind him as he walked out into the dead of night. A sliver of the moon hung high in the sky, just big enough for a fisherman to sit.

    The sound of crickets scraping out their tunes and the whistle of the wind as it rolled through with a song of mourning were the only sounds this night.

    Because on this night, long after all had gone to bed, including the drinkers and the guards and the insomniacs and the travelers, Artemis had silently swept through the streets and wiped away every life that had filled the town. Like death itself, house by house, he silently approached, invisible and unheard, and quietly ended their pathetic existence.

    That was his vice. He relished the power of taking life, and couldn't help but enjoy how easy it was. Unfortunately, witnesses made his little hobby difficult. So he took advantage of the isolation of these tiny little places all over Althanas where only a few dozen families lived at most. Sometimes he'd just end a single farmer's home.

    It never dawned on him that he was wiping away little settlements very much like where he'd grown up. And if it had, he might not have cared all the same.

    He walked along the cobbled street and noticed a man who had passed out against the wall of the tavern. He'd left this one for last, like a slice of cake for dessert. The man snored in his peaceful drunken stupor, unaware that everyone he'd known and loved in this town had already left this plane. Artemis walked over and slid his dagger into the man's heart, quickly coming up from just beneath the opening of the ribcage. A quick in and out, a wide-eyed stare, a gurgle and a cough, and the man was gone.

    Artemis fixed the lopsided hat atop the man's head, righting it so that he looked proper for his appearance in the afterlife, and wiped his dagger clean on the man's trousers. His work for the night had ended. He would resume his everyday life where appearances of normality had to be kept up. His hunger had been sated.

    At least for now.
    Last edited by SirArtemis; 06-18-17 at 08:38 PM.
    2011 Althy Winner - Most Realistic Character
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