Void
11-16-14, 01:29 PM
Solo between Philomel, and Void, my alt. How they met, its going to be short.
He was used to being "that ugly thing," "the thing that hides in the doorway" or "that which everyone hates." He was excellent at skulking, perhaps that was part of the art of it, and he was also an artist when it came to making people dislike him. Stabbing them seemed to be part of it, also mercilessly berating them about the head just because they made some inappropriate comment about his short height, also seemed to be connected to the idea of these names. Another part, also, was the fact Yakob rarely ever spoke back, declaring his true name, or his true desires, before he was ever given the time to endorse himself. Instead the names were given, they were bestowed like blessings on a babe at birth, with no possiblity of return and no receipt.
Yakob, for many understandable reasons, did not care for many of these names. Reactions came around in the form of short bursts of violence, or a single howl, or a disappearance into the shadows, if he thought his chances of victory were limited. In fact, his annoyance of meeting these people that might grant him use of these titles was such, in the season, that he took the only sensible option. He avoided them entirely, going somewhere on the island nation he had come to explore that had no one else but deer and boar around. Somewhere where he could hunker down beside the trunk of an old oak tree and stare at the ground, right in the middle of a vast forest.
Unfortunately, however, his calculations had not taken into account the possible presence of a curious dragon. The Voidling just stared as the scaly head appeared around the side of a tree. Gentle red eyes blinked, looking straight back at the curious half-sized elf leaning back against a tree, and the beast let out a small "gruckle." Yakob frowned somewhat, furrowing his brow at the noise. It was a soft, calm one, full of cheeriness let also caution, saying, "Are you a friend? Will you harm me?"
Wrinkling his nose Yakob placed his flesh hand over his brass forearm, cupping it lightly but in no way, yet, aiming for the creature. He leaned forwards, tentative, thinking, How can I win 'gainst a dragon? The reptile watched him move, tilting his head slightly, and made the same noise again. Quickly, the Voidling thought, considering his choices of action. Here, watching him, was a dragon. It was a small one, by the size of its head, and perhaps only a youngling. However, Yakob still knew that even hatchling dragons could breathe a sizable tongue of flame and destroy a field. He also could see the wickedly sharp canines that could tear out a throat in seconds. It was also covered in scales from nose and beyond, likely to its tail that was hidden with the rest of its form behind the tree; scales which might as well be indestructible metal armour.
A fight would last but brief. Likely, very likely, Yakob would be reduced to two bolts for his crossbow, Cravasse, and have to resort to close combat. His knives would just glide off the dragon's hide, and unless he could sepcifically slash the wings to a million pieces or lodge a stab into the mouth itself, the Voidling would die. Of course he could stand and disappear, as there were plenty of shadows around, but that would lower the momentum of the moment. Thinking as fast as he could, with his extraordinary fast-paced engineering mind, Yakob tried to find the best way of escape or victory, calculating the times between melding with the darkness or running away - yet it was not quite fast enough. His numbers fell to nothing in his mind, his mad equations melted as the child dragon took the initiative and waddled into the light.
Black. Pure, lucious jet black, but with a shine of emerald so divine it would make tree-nymphs jealous. Altogether the dragon was around five foor in length, and swung his tail like a pendulum of perfect grace. Ivory talons scrapped the earth, leaving shallow gorge-marks in it, and his wings were folded origami paper, resting against his back.
In that moment the Voidling was lost. His desire to flee or fight, his irritation at the impetuous but scared nature of the beast, his anger at having his peace disturbed - that was suddenly all gone. Like a young maiden snatched in the night, carried away by the fair folk, he was lost to all but the beauty. Eyes widening, the small mass murderer was enchanted, suddenly, in the wonder of the scales, the majesty and the magnificence, and suddenly he knew that killing a dragon was very, very wrong.
He was used to being "that ugly thing," "the thing that hides in the doorway" or "that which everyone hates." He was excellent at skulking, perhaps that was part of the art of it, and he was also an artist when it came to making people dislike him. Stabbing them seemed to be part of it, also mercilessly berating them about the head just because they made some inappropriate comment about his short height, also seemed to be connected to the idea of these names. Another part, also, was the fact Yakob rarely ever spoke back, declaring his true name, or his true desires, before he was ever given the time to endorse himself. Instead the names were given, they were bestowed like blessings on a babe at birth, with no possiblity of return and no receipt.
Yakob, for many understandable reasons, did not care for many of these names. Reactions came around in the form of short bursts of violence, or a single howl, or a disappearance into the shadows, if he thought his chances of victory were limited. In fact, his annoyance of meeting these people that might grant him use of these titles was such, in the season, that he took the only sensible option. He avoided them entirely, going somewhere on the island nation he had come to explore that had no one else but deer and boar around. Somewhere where he could hunker down beside the trunk of an old oak tree and stare at the ground, right in the middle of a vast forest.
Unfortunately, however, his calculations had not taken into account the possible presence of a curious dragon. The Voidling just stared as the scaly head appeared around the side of a tree. Gentle red eyes blinked, looking straight back at the curious half-sized elf leaning back against a tree, and the beast let out a small "gruckle." Yakob frowned somewhat, furrowing his brow at the noise. It was a soft, calm one, full of cheeriness let also caution, saying, "Are you a friend? Will you harm me?"
Wrinkling his nose Yakob placed his flesh hand over his brass forearm, cupping it lightly but in no way, yet, aiming for the creature. He leaned forwards, tentative, thinking, How can I win 'gainst a dragon? The reptile watched him move, tilting his head slightly, and made the same noise again. Quickly, the Voidling thought, considering his choices of action. Here, watching him, was a dragon. It was a small one, by the size of its head, and perhaps only a youngling. However, Yakob still knew that even hatchling dragons could breathe a sizable tongue of flame and destroy a field. He also could see the wickedly sharp canines that could tear out a throat in seconds. It was also covered in scales from nose and beyond, likely to its tail that was hidden with the rest of its form behind the tree; scales which might as well be indestructible metal armour.
A fight would last but brief. Likely, very likely, Yakob would be reduced to two bolts for his crossbow, Cravasse, and have to resort to close combat. His knives would just glide off the dragon's hide, and unless he could sepcifically slash the wings to a million pieces or lodge a stab into the mouth itself, the Voidling would die. Of course he could stand and disappear, as there were plenty of shadows around, but that would lower the momentum of the moment. Thinking as fast as he could, with his extraordinary fast-paced engineering mind, Yakob tried to find the best way of escape or victory, calculating the times between melding with the darkness or running away - yet it was not quite fast enough. His numbers fell to nothing in his mind, his mad equations melted as the child dragon took the initiative and waddled into the light.
Black. Pure, lucious jet black, but with a shine of emerald so divine it would make tree-nymphs jealous. Altogether the dragon was around five foor in length, and swung his tail like a pendulum of perfect grace. Ivory talons scrapped the earth, leaving shallow gorge-marks in it, and his wings were folded origami paper, resting against his back.
In that moment the Voidling was lost. His desire to flee or fight, his irritation at the impetuous but scared nature of the beast, his anger at having his peace disturbed - that was suddenly all gone. Like a young maiden snatched in the night, carried away by the fair folk, he was lost to all but the beauty. Eyes widening, the small mass murderer was enchanted, suddenly, in the wonder of the scales, the majesty and the magnificence, and suddenly he knew that killing a dragon was very, very wrong.