Sicarius
09-07-09, 02:11 PM
"Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick
Whirrr
Whirrr
Rustle
Hiss
Tock.
Silence. Silence that is deafening. All around there is only the sound of silence. This silence is one of three parts. The first part is the gentle whirr of the wind, continuously flitting through the oxygen heavy atmosphere. The second part is the continuous shifting of the leaves, only defined by rustling, that undefinable sound which follows the whirr of the wind. The third part is the hiss of life as one takes a breath. And the clock of life continues on, ticking and tocking, its sound filling the silence and eating away the darkness."
"Can you feel my breath
Like the chill of a winter’s breeze,
Drifting across your neck,
As lightly as a whispered please?
Oh, yes, you can feel the heatless breath
For it envelops your every pore
Like another lilting chill,
The frozen wind of death.
But that is only the beginning.
Yes, the start of this race we call life.
I am like a fairie,
Never seen but always sought,
The only thing you money hasn’t bought.
I am a man,
A whisper in the night.
I am Winter,
For you can feel my icy bite.
My life begins in the fall
With the leaves commence to change,
And autumn is when start to breathe,
Every breath in time with the changing leaves.
My heart beats slowly,
Its rhythm keeping time with the falling trees,
The icy chill of time gone by,
Encasing it in a shell of lies.
Ah, can’t you see
What life has done to me?
Take a man born from humble origins,
Turn his soul and twist his mind,
Tell him he’s the last of his dying kind,
Give him a knife and beg him to kill,
Watch as he turns from gentle giant
To the darkest swill
Left on the bottom of the barrel,
Mixed in with the trash on the street.
It is a poisonous concoction
That damages both the one who drinks it
And the one who brews it.
The path of life is never straight,
Sometimes it twists and turns,
Detours into events only imaginable by authors,
And then it brings it back to the beginning.
But never the end.
Life is a fickle a changing path,
Slithering silently along undisturbed,
At least until one faces its wrath.
Power can corrupt, though mine may chill,
Breaking bones frozen and brittle,
Turning loving wives to widows,
Twisting and turning until it kills."
"I was born a man,
Weak and sniveling,
A fool by any other name,
But that didn’t stop me from growing,
And oh did I grow.
I grew into something greater than a man.
A shadow of sorts,
And the worst kind at that.
The shadow that engulfs,
Doing endless battle against the light,
Never fearing the embrace of the night,
Always churning and creating fright,
Yet always staying just out of sight.
The first steps I ever took
Slipped and slid outside the brook,
The icy pavement cold and hard,
Winter’s chill is the everlasting bard.
As I grew older so did my body grow stronger,
My limbs thickened to the size of a table leg.
My legs lengthened to quite a striking height.
My body changed as it underwent its metamorphosis,
My eyes began a vibrant sapphire,
My skin began an ashen pallor,
My heart shriveled to dusk and night.
The path I walk is twisted and hewn
As I walked the shifting sands of time,
Keeping beat with the heart of life,
Striking fear into those corrupt with lust.
I have laughed in the face of death,
Blood profusely pouring out of opened flesh,
The heat of the liquor bringing steam to the air,
Bringing my never beating heart to bear.
Yet that experience hath enlightened me,
Given me wisdom to match that of our elders,
Taught me that not all foes can be fought
With the frozen steel of Winter.
My blade is sharp,
My wrists are quick,
My tongue a razor,
What pray tell is this,
If not the perfect combination
For Winter’s wisp?
The silver sword strikes swiftly,
When held in the hand led by a nation,
Given the power of many legions,
The strength is unbound
When held by Winter’s grip of iron.
The bloodied blade digs the deepest trench,
In the heart of the beholder.
For what weapon is deadlier
Than the cold frozen steel
Wielded by the man who dwells
In the spokes of a wheel.
Years pass my by,
Leaving traces of harsh aging,
Dwindling my strength,
And leave me nothing but wagering.
For those who finish last are the ones who truly finished first."
"But that is not a tale for now,
No, you want to hear about how I appear,
For truly I must look like an atrocity,
An abomination worth scorn and fear.
But alas, that is not how I jeer.
I look like a man who has been wearied by years.
Like the unassuming fellow working at the local pub.
Like the man who sits up in a business suit.
Like the man who wears a cold steel mask to cover the bottom of his face.
Why do I wear that mask?
It strikes fear into the hearts of those who see it.
The chill of the metal highlights my eyes.
And it is only a mask to those who see it as such.
To me it is my face.
It is my mouth.
It is my chin.
It is me.
For I am the fear that haunts the dusk,
The shadow that hides in every man’s lust,
The darkness that lives only for fright,
The being that creeps along in the night,
The creature that all wish to hinder.
I am Winter."
"Brrr....
Is it me?
Or is it cold in here?
Willowy winds whisper wistfully through Winter.
Purgatory plunges playfully into pain.
Slithering shadows silently slide towards the shade.
Deafening demons dive diligently into darkness.
Such simple words make little sense yet can become prophecy to to trained ear. When the winds whisper words of heat into the winter, one will know spring is coming near. When one who has committed both rights and wrongs during life, the afterlife will be ripe with suffering. One shadow always wishes to join the others for a single patch of shade isn't enough for any sentient to seek solace. And those who take a single step away from the life end up falling into darkness willingly. See? Any words can be taken as fortune or prophecy. One could say that when twelve and ten meet the sun will rise high into a cloudless sky and that could be taken as the time of day when two lovers meet or when some asdistrous event occurs."
"When the clock in the heart beats slow,
The summer's heat begins to know,
December's rain turns to snow,
And Winter's wrath begins to flow.
Tick tock went the clock,
Rustle went the stream,
Pound went the heart,
Bang went the gun,
Your life ended with a wordless scream.
Exile. Such a sweet little word,
Used to describe punishment of a higher caliber,
Intended to cause pain
To be inflicted by thy lord.
Yet what happens when it fails?
He who doth not play by the book cannot be punished by such,
Or when the land around him pales,
Deep in the throes of death,
Deep in the hold of Winter's breath.
So my journey has gone unnoticed,
My passage through time unmarked,
For who could catch the killer
Weened on anarchy and chaos?
The killer whose eyes were filled with evil.
The assassin who didn't use the shadows.
And the snow that didn't hide in the shade.
Along the surface of a planet did I tred,
Away from my people where I fled,
Many I left cold and dead,
Lacking a heart a many a head.
Some have wondered have I would fare,
Walking along the planet dashing and dare,
Wandering along, the wind in my hair,
Hands at my side and tachi held on bare.
I am a survivalist, frozen and cold,
I am the Winter, icy and bold.
So I slithered along,
Across the surface of stars,
Into the maw of injustice,
Through the perspective of ants,
The bowels of death,
And thus ends my rant."
Under the stars I lay,
Within the confines of my human prey,
The light shining along my eyes,
Matches the fire blooming inside my mind,
Allows me to see everything around,
Giving me the power to sense all of their lies,
Showing everything left for me to find,
Killing the masses without blood on thy hand,
Lying in wait, breathing without a sound.
And then the heat....
Such a powerful inferno.
Blossoming up within my heart,
Igniting my eyes and encompassing my soul,
Filling me up until I'm sated and full.
Never before has such power taken me,
I was dead to it, my mind bleak and dull.
So why now can the fiery winds take me?
Melt the frozen sheet of my icy armor?
Drip into my reserves of emotionless calm?
Change my very being all along?
When the winds blows with whispering passion,
Icy tendrils of snow shall fall,
Never to warm, only to chill,
Tethering the ropes of frozen swill,
Ever to hold the khaki grass,
Reaching without only to gasp.
Say me name,
Like a caress on the wind.
Speak my will,
For you hold the key to my heart.
Winter"
http://i385.photobucket.com/albums/oo296/Lledri01/_by_rogierius.jpg
Name: Winter
Age: 29
Race: Human
Hair Color: Raven
Eye Color: Crystalline Blue
Height: 5’ 9”
Weight: 152 lbs.
*Occupation: None
*Personality: Ice is warmer and a knife has less bite than Winter. He can be rigid and formal to the point. The end of a sentence is the end of a sentence. An exact hiatus of one second before continuing. He feels next to no emotions. Or at least he gives off this exterior appearance. On the inside, boiling rage ignites a fiery passion that melts the ice in his eyes into something both hot and cold. He keeps his temper reined in under a tight grip. Formality is his shield, punctuality his spear. Otherwise he is just a prick. Cold, cruel, and unsympathetic to anyone else’s pain.
Appearance: Deep, crystalline blue eyes stand out most of all on this pale figure. At times they glow, the iris consuming the pupils with an almost demonic or angelic effect. Fire or ice, it can be hard to determine which one his eyes will appear. Though the rest of his face is stoic and reserved, his eyes give away his emotions with aplomb. Reveal his thoughts to the canny and watchful. His skin is pale and cadaverous in appearance and covers a gaunt, hollow face. The raven hair that frames that face is long and dark enough to make his eyes startling in contrast both to his skin and hair. His frame is lean, covered in sinewy muscles structured for speed rather than strength.
Skills: Winter is considered a good swordsman, above average in most fields of swordplay though he truly excels with parrying and dodging with agility. His strength is his speed, not strength. He knows a bit about tracking but not enough to commit to impossible trails or even moderately hard ones. Stealth is one of his strengths but still nothing amazing. He is more of an orator and a boisterous one at that.
Temperature Control: (Below Average) Within his repertoire of spell craft, Winter has an instinctual spell that changes the temperature directly around him depending on his mood. Sometimes he has been seen in the middle of summer, lips pale and breath frosting as he exhaled. This doesn’t have much of an area though it could expand depending both on the force of the emotion and the motive behind it. As he is untrained in the arts, Winter is inept with this spell and as such it is less than mediocre in strength. Usually this effect is triggered by any extreme emotion within him and as such he can't control it. More of a personal temperature change than any great area temperature change.
Equipment: A slender two and a half foot iron sword is strapped to his left hip with a khaki leather belt that keeps up comfortable obsidian trousers. The legs of these pants are sometimes tucked into boots of a single shade darker. In his right pocket there is a simple folding knife with a serrated edge for cutting meat. His pack hides quite a few necessities. Lantern, flask of oil, flint and steel, and a few days worth of travel rations. Otherwise he has another shirt of white linen in the case that his regular shirt is unavailable or ripped. Basic necessities and nothing more. Winter isn’t a very worldly man.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick
Whirrr
Whirrr
Rustle
Hiss
Tock.
Silence. Silence that is deafening. All around there is only the sound of silence. This silence is one of three parts. The first part is the gentle whirr of the wind, continuously flitting through the oxygen heavy atmosphere. The second part is the continuous shifting of the leaves, only defined by rustling, that undefinable sound which follows the whirr of the wind. The third part is the hiss of life as one takes a breath. And the clock of life continues on, ticking and tocking, its sound filling the silence and eating away the darkness."
"Can you feel my breath
Like the chill of a winter’s breeze,
Drifting across your neck,
As lightly as a whispered please?
Oh, yes, you can feel the heatless breath
For it envelops your every pore
Like another lilting chill,
The frozen wind of death.
But that is only the beginning.
Yes, the start of this race we call life.
I am like a fairie,
Never seen but always sought,
The only thing you money hasn’t bought.
I am a man,
A whisper in the night.
I am Winter,
For you can feel my icy bite.
My life begins in the fall
With the leaves commence to change,
And autumn is when start to breathe,
Every breath in time with the changing leaves.
My heart beats slowly,
Its rhythm keeping time with the falling trees,
The icy chill of time gone by,
Encasing it in a shell of lies.
Ah, can’t you see
What life has done to me?
Take a man born from humble origins,
Turn his soul and twist his mind,
Tell him he’s the last of his dying kind,
Give him a knife and beg him to kill,
Watch as he turns from gentle giant
To the darkest swill
Left on the bottom of the barrel,
Mixed in with the trash on the street.
It is a poisonous concoction
That damages both the one who drinks it
And the one who brews it.
The path of life is never straight,
Sometimes it twists and turns,
Detours into events only imaginable by authors,
And then it brings it back to the beginning.
But never the end.
Life is a fickle a changing path,
Slithering silently along undisturbed,
At least until one faces its wrath.
Power can corrupt, though mine may chill,
Breaking bones frozen and brittle,
Turning loving wives to widows,
Twisting and turning until it kills."
"I was born a man,
Weak and sniveling,
A fool by any other name,
But that didn’t stop me from growing,
And oh did I grow.
I grew into something greater than a man.
A shadow of sorts,
And the worst kind at that.
The shadow that engulfs,
Doing endless battle against the light,
Never fearing the embrace of the night,
Always churning and creating fright,
Yet always staying just out of sight.
The first steps I ever took
Slipped and slid outside the brook,
The icy pavement cold and hard,
Winter’s chill is the everlasting bard.
As I grew older so did my body grow stronger,
My limbs thickened to the size of a table leg.
My legs lengthened to quite a striking height.
My body changed as it underwent its metamorphosis,
My eyes began a vibrant sapphire,
My skin began an ashen pallor,
My heart shriveled to dusk and night.
The path I walk is twisted and hewn
As I walked the shifting sands of time,
Keeping beat with the heart of life,
Striking fear into those corrupt with lust.
I have laughed in the face of death,
Blood profusely pouring out of opened flesh,
The heat of the liquor bringing steam to the air,
Bringing my never beating heart to bear.
Yet that experience hath enlightened me,
Given me wisdom to match that of our elders,
Taught me that not all foes can be fought
With the frozen steel of Winter.
My blade is sharp,
My wrists are quick,
My tongue a razor,
What pray tell is this,
If not the perfect combination
For Winter’s wisp?
The silver sword strikes swiftly,
When held in the hand led by a nation,
Given the power of many legions,
The strength is unbound
When held by Winter’s grip of iron.
The bloodied blade digs the deepest trench,
In the heart of the beholder.
For what weapon is deadlier
Than the cold frozen steel
Wielded by the man who dwells
In the spokes of a wheel.
Years pass my by,
Leaving traces of harsh aging,
Dwindling my strength,
And leave me nothing but wagering.
For those who finish last are the ones who truly finished first."
"But that is not a tale for now,
No, you want to hear about how I appear,
For truly I must look like an atrocity,
An abomination worth scorn and fear.
But alas, that is not how I jeer.
I look like a man who has been wearied by years.
Like the unassuming fellow working at the local pub.
Like the man who sits up in a business suit.
Like the man who wears a cold steel mask to cover the bottom of his face.
Why do I wear that mask?
It strikes fear into the hearts of those who see it.
The chill of the metal highlights my eyes.
And it is only a mask to those who see it as such.
To me it is my face.
It is my mouth.
It is my chin.
It is me.
For I am the fear that haunts the dusk,
The shadow that hides in every man’s lust,
The darkness that lives only for fright,
The being that creeps along in the night,
The creature that all wish to hinder.
I am Winter."
"Brrr....
Is it me?
Or is it cold in here?
Willowy winds whisper wistfully through Winter.
Purgatory plunges playfully into pain.
Slithering shadows silently slide towards the shade.
Deafening demons dive diligently into darkness.
Such simple words make little sense yet can become prophecy to to trained ear. When the winds whisper words of heat into the winter, one will know spring is coming near. When one who has committed both rights and wrongs during life, the afterlife will be ripe with suffering. One shadow always wishes to join the others for a single patch of shade isn't enough for any sentient to seek solace. And those who take a single step away from the life end up falling into darkness willingly. See? Any words can be taken as fortune or prophecy. One could say that when twelve and ten meet the sun will rise high into a cloudless sky and that could be taken as the time of day when two lovers meet or when some asdistrous event occurs."
"When the clock in the heart beats slow,
The summer's heat begins to know,
December's rain turns to snow,
And Winter's wrath begins to flow.
Tick tock went the clock,
Rustle went the stream,
Pound went the heart,
Bang went the gun,
Your life ended with a wordless scream.
Exile. Such a sweet little word,
Used to describe punishment of a higher caliber,
Intended to cause pain
To be inflicted by thy lord.
Yet what happens when it fails?
He who doth not play by the book cannot be punished by such,
Or when the land around him pales,
Deep in the throes of death,
Deep in the hold of Winter's breath.
So my journey has gone unnoticed,
My passage through time unmarked,
For who could catch the killer
Weened on anarchy and chaos?
The killer whose eyes were filled with evil.
The assassin who didn't use the shadows.
And the snow that didn't hide in the shade.
Along the surface of a planet did I tred,
Away from my people where I fled,
Many I left cold and dead,
Lacking a heart a many a head.
Some have wondered have I would fare,
Walking along the planet dashing and dare,
Wandering along, the wind in my hair,
Hands at my side and tachi held on bare.
I am a survivalist, frozen and cold,
I am the Winter, icy and bold.
So I slithered along,
Across the surface of stars,
Into the maw of injustice,
Through the perspective of ants,
The bowels of death,
And thus ends my rant."
Under the stars I lay,
Within the confines of my human prey,
The light shining along my eyes,
Matches the fire blooming inside my mind,
Allows me to see everything around,
Giving me the power to sense all of their lies,
Showing everything left for me to find,
Killing the masses without blood on thy hand,
Lying in wait, breathing without a sound.
And then the heat....
Such a powerful inferno.
Blossoming up within my heart,
Igniting my eyes and encompassing my soul,
Filling me up until I'm sated and full.
Never before has such power taken me,
I was dead to it, my mind bleak and dull.
So why now can the fiery winds take me?
Melt the frozen sheet of my icy armor?
Drip into my reserves of emotionless calm?
Change my very being all along?
When the winds blows with whispering passion,
Icy tendrils of snow shall fall,
Never to warm, only to chill,
Tethering the ropes of frozen swill,
Ever to hold the khaki grass,
Reaching without only to gasp.
Say me name,
Like a caress on the wind.
Speak my will,
For you hold the key to my heart.
Winter"
http://i385.photobucket.com/albums/oo296/Lledri01/_by_rogierius.jpg
Name: Winter
Age: 29
Race: Human
Hair Color: Raven
Eye Color: Crystalline Blue
Height: 5’ 9”
Weight: 152 lbs.
*Occupation: None
*Personality: Ice is warmer and a knife has less bite than Winter. He can be rigid and formal to the point. The end of a sentence is the end of a sentence. An exact hiatus of one second before continuing. He feels next to no emotions. Or at least he gives off this exterior appearance. On the inside, boiling rage ignites a fiery passion that melts the ice in his eyes into something both hot and cold. He keeps his temper reined in under a tight grip. Formality is his shield, punctuality his spear. Otherwise he is just a prick. Cold, cruel, and unsympathetic to anyone else’s pain.
Appearance: Deep, crystalline blue eyes stand out most of all on this pale figure. At times they glow, the iris consuming the pupils with an almost demonic or angelic effect. Fire or ice, it can be hard to determine which one his eyes will appear. Though the rest of his face is stoic and reserved, his eyes give away his emotions with aplomb. Reveal his thoughts to the canny and watchful. His skin is pale and cadaverous in appearance and covers a gaunt, hollow face. The raven hair that frames that face is long and dark enough to make his eyes startling in contrast both to his skin and hair. His frame is lean, covered in sinewy muscles structured for speed rather than strength.
Skills: Winter is considered a good swordsman, above average in most fields of swordplay though he truly excels with parrying and dodging with agility. His strength is his speed, not strength. He knows a bit about tracking but not enough to commit to impossible trails or even moderately hard ones. Stealth is one of his strengths but still nothing amazing. He is more of an orator and a boisterous one at that.
Temperature Control: (Below Average) Within his repertoire of spell craft, Winter has an instinctual spell that changes the temperature directly around him depending on his mood. Sometimes he has been seen in the middle of summer, lips pale and breath frosting as he exhaled. This doesn’t have much of an area though it could expand depending both on the force of the emotion and the motive behind it. As he is untrained in the arts, Winter is inept with this spell and as such it is less than mediocre in strength. Usually this effect is triggered by any extreme emotion within him and as such he can't control it. More of a personal temperature change than any great area temperature change.
Equipment: A slender two and a half foot iron sword is strapped to his left hip with a khaki leather belt that keeps up comfortable obsidian trousers. The legs of these pants are sometimes tucked into boots of a single shade darker. In his right pocket there is a simple folding knife with a serrated edge for cutting meat. His pack hides quite a few necessities. Lantern, flask of oil, flint and steel, and a few days worth of travel rations. Otherwise he has another shirt of white linen in the case that his regular shirt is unavailable or ripped. Basic necessities and nothing more. Winter isn’t a very worldly man.