Narran
04-08-12, 03:52 PM
An Unwelcome Return (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0E1bNmyPWww)
2628
Closed to the Mystics and their Kin.
Narran strolled across the rugged landscape, lost in thought, and driven by greed. Something called to him, and he had no choice but to answer. The reunion of his lost brothers was soon to occur, and with style, relish, and haste, he made his way to the city of Radasanth to welcome his kin. The soft touch of sunlight warmed his skin beneath its silken garb, and his scythe clipped against the dirt in between heavy strides. With every foot of ground covered, the Fallien nomad became more and more aware that here, he was a pauper as far as knowledge was concerned.
“I know nothing of these lands,” he affirmed, his hoarse voice dripping with self-loathing. He had spent so many years in the desert, his mind had swelled with the flora and fauna and customs of his new found home. All the courtly regalia of Corone had fallen by the wayside. He had, for all intent and purpose, forsaken the mystic heritage he had been gifted with as a child. “I will learn, however,” he snarled, too complacent in his own strength to let his exile get the better of him.
Two months ago he had heard a cry on the wind. The soft, saintly, and succulent cry had belonged to one of his family. He had heard glass shatter in his dreams, stars fall in his nightmares, and the ties that bound him to the Orlougne clan sever. He had waited for many weeks to consider these occurrences, and when he had dreamt it again, he had become certain his current course of action was the right thing to do.
He looked ahead to the cityscape, and traced the rise and fall of the battlements and tower spires eagerly. Unlike Fallien, there was potential here. Each peak and trough of the capital afforded a degree of possibility to the mystic, who longed to find more and more potent methods of destruction to acquire before he came to encounter his brother. He was the pariah of his family, but he would be an outcast no more. Though he was unheard, unread, and oft unspoken by even his parents, Narran Orlougne, who had once been Orlouge, would suffer his exile no more.
Continuing on his journey, Narran tucked his free hand into his robes, and began to whistle a tune he had learnt whilst living amongst the Bedouin of the Nirakkal. Glass, splinter, and heat had become his livelihood, and the songs of the desert had sedated his pain during his long years of trials and testament. The song was odd at ease with the lush grass, sunny mountain range, and the winding road of promise that lead to his destination. It was mournful, like a lament for lost times, but hidden in its melody rested a potent message.
“The sand worm rises, and the sun sets.” He mouthed, eager to instil a sense of calm into his emotions as he crossed the distance of a mile until he reached the city walls. “In the dance, the swell, and the deliverance, Fallien and the Mother call to her children.” He spat a gobbet of foamy spit which covered a boulder, and continued on. As was customary for a follower of the Cult of Mishra, Narran crossed his free fingers in a strange rune, and looked up at the sun. He idolised its glare, its heat, and its scouring caress, and looked ahead complacent. Despite its luminescence, the bright white light made no impact on his retina. A lesser man would have been blinded for such tomfoolery.
With the Null Croix by his side, a totem of his home, Narran continued to advance towards the city. Somewhere in the forest behind him, the verdant evergreen sprawl, he could hear the distant mourn song of his brother taunt him. Though he had every desire to stride into the Concordia wastes and confront Sei Orlouge, now, he knew, was not the time. He had been distant for too long. He had grown idle for a great deal of time. He snarled, pressed his mind out into the wild, and felt welcomed by the hum of radix that swarmed around him.
The Glass Shard Pariah had arrived in Corone.
The family that had abandoned him for his providence would learn his name once more.
2628
Closed to the Mystics and their Kin.
Narran strolled across the rugged landscape, lost in thought, and driven by greed. Something called to him, and he had no choice but to answer. The reunion of his lost brothers was soon to occur, and with style, relish, and haste, he made his way to the city of Radasanth to welcome his kin. The soft touch of sunlight warmed his skin beneath its silken garb, and his scythe clipped against the dirt in between heavy strides. With every foot of ground covered, the Fallien nomad became more and more aware that here, he was a pauper as far as knowledge was concerned.
“I know nothing of these lands,” he affirmed, his hoarse voice dripping with self-loathing. He had spent so many years in the desert, his mind had swelled with the flora and fauna and customs of his new found home. All the courtly regalia of Corone had fallen by the wayside. He had, for all intent and purpose, forsaken the mystic heritage he had been gifted with as a child. “I will learn, however,” he snarled, too complacent in his own strength to let his exile get the better of him.
Two months ago he had heard a cry on the wind. The soft, saintly, and succulent cry had belonged to one of his family. He had heard glass shatter in his dreams, stars fall in his nightmares, and the ties that bound him to the Orlougne clan sever. He had waited for many weeks to consider these occurrences, and when he had dreamt it again, he had become certain his current course of action was the right thing to do.
He looked ahead to the cityscape, and traced the rise and fall of the battlements and tower spires eagerly. Unlike Fallien, there was potential here. Each peak and trough of the capital afforded a degree of possibility to the mystic, who longed to find more and more potent methods of destruction to acquire before he came to encounter his brother. He was the pariah of his family, but he would be an outcast no more. Though he was unheard, unread, and oft unspoken by even his parents, Narran Orlougne, who had once been Orlouge, would suffer his exile no more.
Continuing on his journey, Narran tucked his free hand into his robes, and began to whistle a tune he had learnt whilst living amongst the Bedouin of the Nirakkal. Glass, splinter, and heat had become his livelihood, and the songs of the desert had sedated his pain during his long years of trials and testament. The song was odd at ease with the lush grass, sunny mountain range, and the winding road of promise that lead to his destination. It was mournful, like a lament for lost times, but hidden in its melody rested a potent message.
“The sand worm rises, and the sun sets.” He mouthed, eager to instil a sense of calm into his emotions as he crossed the distance of a mile until he reached the city walls. “In the dance, the swell, and the deliverance, Fallien and the Mother call to her children.” He spat a gobbet of foamy spit which covered a boulder, and continued on. As was customary for a follower of the Cult of Mishra, Narran crossed his free fingers in a strange rune, and looked up at the sun. He idolised its glare, its heat, and its scouring caress, and looked ahead complacent. Despite its luminescence, the bright white light made no impact on his retina. A lesser man would have been blinded for such tomfoolery.
With the Null Croix by his side, a totem of his home, Narran continued to advance towards the city. Somewhere in the forest behind him, the verdant evergreen sprawl, he could hear the distant mourn song of his brother taunt him. Though he had every desire to stride into the Concordia wastes and confront Sei Orlouge, now, he knew, was not the time. He had been distant for too long. He had grown idle for a great deal of time. He snarled, pressed his mind out into the wild, and felt welcomed by the hum of radix that swarmed around him.
The Glass Shard Pariah had arrived in Corone.
The family that had abandoned him for his providence would learn his name once more.