| Regeneration : |
10 |
| Energetic immunity : |
16 |
| Trade sense : |
13 |
| Briskness : |
12 |
| Initiative : |
6 |
| Defence : |
15 |
| Attack : |
21 |
| Power : |
7 |
| Luck : |
7 |
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| Principle of Syntropy |
= 10 |
| Darkness Principle |
= 16 |
| Time Principle |
= 12 |
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Loading human character...
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| The Wakeful Dreamer |
Bio-Character description
- Age: Indefinite in this world. Thirty-two, otherwise.
- Body Structure: He is broad in the chest and shoulders, a seemingly formidable wall of power. He walks with pride, his chest puffed out in a cocky show, but the stride is lazy. His arms slump down against his sides revealing the dreamy state of mind that he is trapped in as they drag down the hulking masses of his shoulders. The bagginess of his pants mask the elongated, fit build of his legs, adducting from the stalwart appearance his chest shoves forward. His chin is strapping and chiseled, often clenched deeply in thought, while his lips are thin and often chapped from being bitten. His nose rounds off quickly, and it sits a lonely tower in the middle of his features. His eyes are often dim, half-shut, but contain fiery iris' that reveal more passion than is exposed. His brow is also strong, shadowing and further retaining the green of his eyes.
- Gender/Sex: Male.
- Hair Nature: Unkempt and shaggy to the point that it curls its way down past his ears, clouding around his eyes. The oil on it is thick so much so that it has become matted, glistening in the sunlight.
- Eye Color: Csyth's eyes are piercing; they are emerald, passionate, and full. Within them, the image of a dreamer flares up, erratically fluctuating when his hair sweeps back and forth along his brow.
- Common Attire: Baggy pants, ragged in their wear, dirt and dust smeared all over them which lead into widely rimmed boots that engulf the lower half of his shin and sharpen down into a fine point. His shirt is commonly unbuttoned at the top, untucked to drape around his waist and emphasize how broad his chest is. Around his shoulders, there is a large, puffy cloak colored to the shade of a deep oak color mixed with heavy moss.
- Something Notable: Should you be lucky enough, from within his pack, Csyth will produce a handkerchief. Yes, a handkerchief. It will have some sort of embroidering on it with significance to yours and his current situation. Mayhaps I'll start recording my gifts here, as so not to forget them.
The Dreams
I awoke in a flustered fit. Sweat beaded my brow and my heart went at the pace of a horse's hooves. It was that dream again.
I find myself sitting alone in a hazy pub, smoke as heavy in the air as
the smell of rich ale lingering on passersby. It all seems like another
normal night at a tavern, but for some odd reason I feel as though I've
come here on business. My packs filled to the brim with rations, my
wallet stuffed with gold, my long sword sheathed and at the
ready. A drunkard stumbles forward, his glass spilling over with drink.
I send him a less than pleasant look that displeases him. As expected,
he sneers and flings the mug towards my head. With a quick jolt, I'm to
the right of it, flying out of my seat at him. His reflexes are good
for a drunk, and he sends a right hook at me. Sadly, I've seen all his
moves before. I catch it in my palm, ramming his elbow back against his
face with a loud crack.
By now, the entire bar is alerted to the scene. Many glares are being shot my way. My hand clenches around the hilt of
my blade in preparation for a brawl. The first three come fast. Two in
front while one tries to quickly jab me from behind. His first mistake: being predictable. Not that he can be blamed, since this
has played out all too many times. I spin around, the glint from the
fireplace shining brightly off my blade as it's unsheathed. A large
gash across this man's chest indicates his demise as the dagger he had
been concealing falls from his petrified palm. I come around blocking a
large half-orc's downward slash and hastily punch him in the gut for an
instant K.O. Jumping back; I draw my sword back for a
deep thrust into the final man's chest when a sharp pain sends me
crashing down onto the floor...
"Damn, should've killed that blasted orc." I
think to myself as I sit up in an over-sized and exquisitely elegant
bed. I see what happens next play through my mind, and feel a cold
chill sneak down my spine. That pale face rises up next to my level,
propping her head against my shoulder and letting her silky jet colored
hair sprawl itself all over my bare chest. Her smell is sweet, yet she
hasn't even pampered herself for the coming day. The whispered "I love
you, dear." shatters my heart. A lone tear rolls down my reddening
cheek as she wraps her smooth arms around my stomach. My breathing
slows. The air in the room becomes thick and dense. A shrill scream
comes from somewhere in the hallway outside of our chamber.
I take my wife's chin in my hand, pulling her face to mine. "I love you, too." I exclaim to
her, tears streaming down my face. My teeth clench down on my bottom
lip while I use as much force as I can muster in my brawny arm to snap
her head to the right. She falls limp down at my side, those crystal
blue eyes staring blankly into my soul. I rip myself from her gaze and
glide out of bed to the chamber door. Right as the door slams open,
right as that vile assassin releases his arrow into my broken heart, my
fist rips through his empty head. His silhouette vanishes into thin
air, leaving me helpless in the middle of our hallway with an open
wound leading into my chest. I clutch the area tightly, clinging to
this nightmare and hoping that this is my final one...
It isn't.
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The bloodshot in my eyes burns even more sharply in my skull. Another dream? No, a nightmare.
The fleeting glimpses of a horse's rump trotting into the distance catch my eye; my arm is reflexively waving farewell to whomever rode the steed. Control firmly back in my hands, I swing around to my packs. The rations, the supplies are still there, diminished from a few weeks travel. A small snap and my locket drifts down seemingly floating downwards into the dark depths of my pack. With the instinct of a tiger, my hand jolts after it past the food-stuffs and the water. A sudden light explodes in my head, stemming from one of my fingers. My hand flicks itself in a violent rage back over my head up into the air, the shadowy figure of a rat loosing itself and bouncing off into brush, his fat, happy behind wagging behind him.
Rustling in the aftermath of the rat, there comes another noise, quiet to the brink of being inaudible, and yet noticeable by burning paranoia. Locking up, my body freezes into a statuesque posture with a hand straddling the hilt. Behind the bushes, stands a small tavern in its antique, resolute pride. Obviously abandoned long ago, the tavern seems a likely place for small-time bandits or the like to take hold. A moment and subtle slide later, the blade of my sword reveals itself, clinging to the sunlight as if for dear life. Stumbling out of the bushes, comes a ragged girl. Naught but four, her skinny arms and legs dangle helplessly as she falls forward. My arms come around, cradling her frail body effortlessly. Black silky hair, weaving itself into my arms, her eyes fall upon mine. Crystal blue. My chest heaves. Tears form. For the shortest moment, the preserved beauty of life shines in her eyes. A blink later and they become cold, mocking rocks piercing my soul. A shove accompanied by sloppily scrambling backwards places me leagues away from the girl, in my mind...
My head scans both lengths of the hallway, searching and hoping for a savior. The blood flowing from the wound of the shadow arrow screams loudly in its triumph, gloating to the, for now, empty world. My back hard pressed against the wall behind me, I look back into the chamber. She remains where she shall forever more. The pathetic, sad hump of flesh stares blankly toward me, as if wondering to herself why this should happen to her. I can't bare it, wrenching my head to the left only to pass out in the effort.Whispers, murmers, and nothings enter my ears while my eyes blink open and closed only to see what must be my imagination's idea of a cruel joke. A few maids have placed me on the front lawn of my estate, they're cloths and rags a sore excuse for any actual bandage.
Back into darkness, my eyes shut once more before opening to a dark sky. No one exists around me now. The warm cackle and pop of a fire emanates from somewhere in front of me. Drowsy feelings urge me back into the softness of the lush grass, but I realize solemly that rest is not my friend any longer. Instead, my hands palm the ground, lifting myself up. The site is one of beauty and terror. A maniacle tyrant of my soul burns greedily into the air, sucking up what oxygen it can find. A majestic signal of warmth and light heats my soul, comforting it into a sense of safety. Neither can be true, for the paragon and demon of my soul is merely the remnents of my estate as they find their way into the ash and dust of the ground. I am without anything. Maybe now I can sleep eternally...
Yet I can't.
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It was bright today.
The sun was bright today. Then again, it is bright on most days.Then again, again, it is always day here. Night does not come, for it has better things to do. More important things. Things so wistful and hopeful that it has chosen those over this. Who could blame the night? Can you? No, because you rather blame yourself. Self-pity is easy. Self-pity spares us from hope. Hope is the enemy. Night understands this concept and shuns it. Perhaps night has the most appropriate response. Hope is not the enemy. Perhaps hope is actually an endearing friend, beckoning us back into the refreshing light of day that night can only keep us from for so long, but night also realizes that too much sun is a harmful thing. Night realizes that it is the keeper of hope, and hope brings us back to daylight. We cannot stay in daylight, though, for what are we without hope? We are hopeless. We are we who wallow in self-pity. At some point, we must all return to the darkness, the night, for dreams are the instrument of hope. If that music is not played, then hope is a minstrel without hope, leaving night without followers. The day will feed on this. It will devour for its insatiable hunger. Daylight is the beast with two backs. It holds that which we fear and brings the dawning sun that offers bright horizons for comfort after a hopeful night that only sung sweet lullabies of dream.We bask in the sunlight too long, though. We forget those bright horizons by midday and embrace the fear of the abyss, not turning back to request protection from the setting sun, thusly franticly frollicking about in fear of the night but not letting it come. We were not meant to embrace self-pity for eternity. The sun was bright today. It was forever bright.
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| Hate List |
A Simplistic Poem, Because I Felt Like It
What is a mirror.
It's a mirror, right?
Just another incomplete object.
The reflection of all that you could ever hope to perceive.
None of us mind an absent reality outside of our own.
At least it is an alternate reality.
Maybe the person staring back at us hides shady intent.
Maybe just beyond those edges there lies some malevolent monster.
Maybe there could be some means for me to escape far beyond to this world.
But, that is not what makes it incomplete.
What makes it incomplete is the hope of it all.
The insignificant hope of ever believing in any of those whimsical fantasies.
What makes it incomplete is the lack of a tiny little warning label forboding against hope.
Something small.
Something that allows us a moment to heed what it is to have false hope.
The thing staring back at you is you.
The only shady intent is that of your own.
There is no malevolence in that world.
It is just a fabrication.
The only escape is the temporary flash of hope that comes with gazing into the mirror.
That mirror is just another useless piece of junk.
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NOTE: Don't pay any credence to that last work. I was in an absolutely horrid mood upon writing it. It was simple and redundant.
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| Page 539 - A Debt Repaid |
| Syrian peeks around a corner, trying to spy on
Azull. She grins and stifles a giggle,
covering her mouth with her hand. "I can
hear you, Syrian," he says, turning around.
She frowns a moment before bounding up to him. "So, um, did you need me for-" She stops
speaking as Azull scowls a bit. Syrian
clears her throat before starting again, "I mean, was there anything else you
required of me, my king?" Azull shakes
his head. "Run along. Play, if you must." Syrian races across the Necrovion landscape
before pausing. "Stupid adults and their
stupid proto callings or whatever! Why
can't they ever just have fun?" Within a
moment, there is nothing but a cloud of dust where she stood as she's off to
make mischief. ... |
This story involves real player characters and updates every few hours.
Read the rest of the story in the game...you could become part of it |
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