Contrivance

[Rig 17580]

 

A lone man wandered his abode with his hands clasped behind his back, his thin features all too apparent as he set his forlorn gaze to the tabletop. He finally reached the conclusion he was starving, hunger gnawing at his sickly frame. He felt exuberantly pressured, a sad look plastered to his face as he now took to sipping his cup of tea. His time in Haelun’or had been long now and he was unused to sporadicness of his hunger, but due to his circumstance he was unable to satiate himself with the life-force he lacked. And so his form withered away day-by-day, his countenance marred by an expression of discontent. His emaciated digits drummed against the tabletop as he read a pamphlet.

 

The pains were over now, they had been for awhile now that he had no sustenance. It was painful, yes, but oh so very empowering. There were times he was tempted to kill somebody in the alleyways and drain them until they were nothing but dust, but he successfully avoided these disgusting temptations. He arose morosely from his seat and sauntered for the balcony, his gaze sweeping the beautiful silver streets. He was free now, and nothing would ever take that from him. He was now emancipated from the vulgar and degenerative ways of the past, and now he could truly finish his work without unseemly interruptions. He had now escaped the politics of Weavers and Undead and his very fate no longer rested on the status of his being.

 

And for a time despite the immense pain he felt free because of his unseen shackles, he felt content with his draw in life. He eyed the rusted mask in his hands, and crumpled it with telekinesis. That was the end of Dralazar, Lord of Torment.

[arakrsptec 171]

"This bothers me greatly." Koraz comments simply, he himself donning the suit of a Sutican man, and holding the last name of a Wood Elf seed. "Though who am I to judge?"

[Anawkin 247]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Orias, routed from his home anew sputtered about a desolate and makeshift hole he'd been living in, if one could even call it such, glossed over the hem of a fresh wound, concealed by a thick layer of worn fabric and cloth. This object conjured an ambivalence of regret and wroth within his scarred conscious, an embroidered branding eternally bespeaking his sins and fickle nature. He thought of a similarity betwixt his old mentor, one whom he held much veneration for, yet had forsaken in his covet for power, and of his recent torturer, the giver of his perpetual wound,  but on second thought dismissed the matter as another anomalous reverie, something he found himself doing oft in the confinement of these drab, muddied walls. He pondered where the crazed instructor had wandered off in the vast years of  their abstinence ,  He pondered of his death, and of his imprisonment, hitherto settling to discard the topic at hand, for he had  a much larger thing clouding his mind. Revenge.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Farryn 860]

The lone cleric pauses in her work and she glances out of the window.

How many years has it been since that Dark Congress? Since Dralazar captured her and locked her in a room for a full year? Being stuck down there nearly drove her insane, but at least they had the decency to give her blankets and some proper food. She still remembered it all so clearly and she shuddered. Yet she wondered.

Where was Dralazar now?  Would they meet on the battlefield as light against dark? Or has he merely vanished? He had treated her quite polietly during her capture. Was it to gain her trust? To show her that dark isn't all bad? To turn her against Tahariae and her friends?

She was quite curious to know but it did not matter. She just went back to writing, one day they would meet, whenever on the battlefield or beyond.

[1 1393]

The lone arcanic figure arose atop the mountain, crisp winds and roaring snow about it. Platinum ethereal trails down the figures robes, beating into the snow with each moment. Thoughts beat upon the entrapped mind; between chaos and all there was some sentience.

"What has become of him?"

Would repeat once and anew, until the energy that made up the being would seemingly disperse. Each wisp of the arcana appearing to implode upon itself until the figure was simply not there.

[Wendigo 786]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.