Echoes of the Wraith | Louis

[Jihnyny 5233]

Spoiler

TY @JesterMilk  for the opportunity and the roleplay we had!
Heres the post, was making the skin for the armour in the meanwhile haha

 

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ᴅᴏɴᴛ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ

Louis awoke beside the trail again. The dirt packed and well trodden, and as familiar as the nightmare that dragged him here each night. He looked up, an angels’ hands warm and gentle, traced the lines of his jaw. But as all things, warmth never lasted. Feathers stretched into leather wings, and soft fingers became claws that clawed at his eyes. The things’ skin rotted away in strips, revealing the bony wraith beneath. It screeched, the sound sinking into his skull like a well struck spear and then; darkness. 

 

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ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏʟʟꜱ

He got upright, his chest heaving and his brows dripping in sweat. Another damned night stolen from him, all for the cost of tea. The forge was where he went to work when sleep forgot about him. The heat was unforgiving, the hammer in his hands a weight to bring him into reality, it getting lighter each day. He unrolled the designs, tracing each drawing with a bruised and black finger before setting to continue his work. Steel glowed like embers in the dim light, and every strike of his hammer rang through Portoregne like the tolling of a soft bell. Each clang echoed into the streets, carrying with it the restless labour of Louis, and the nightmares that haunted him.

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ᴘᴀʀᴀɴᴏɪᴅ

As the sun found its way over the colourful rooftops of Portoregne, the city stirred to life. But in the depths of the forge, where the air was thick with coal dust and steel, Louis had no mind for the folk of Portoregne, his work was done. 

 

He held the helm in his hands, turning it over, watching the way the morning light fell across its dark steel, reflecting off with bright. The faceplate held the look of the wraith that tormented him, its hollow eyes, its skeleton maw and its wings flaring from the temples like some twisted follower of Iblees. A reminder of his choice. 

 

He strapped on the armour, each plate locking into place. When the helm was placed, he looked westward, to the journey, to the swamps, to the Hexicanum.

 

[Navigator 4260]

Owyn Hector stared out the window of the mansion for a goodly while, hands dipped into his pockets. When he woke up and hadn't seen Louis present, he exhaled slowly. He wasn't Louis' father. He wasn't Louis' caretaker in any way, shape or form. But for some reason, despite knowing very little of what was going on, Owyn felt a weight on his chest. Indescribable. When he snuck into the other lad's room and found naught, the armor gone, the weight grew heavier. He was tired, stressed, mind consumed by issues that were no longer his yet he made them be his. Owyn took another gander into the room. He had hoped that looking in once more would reveal that his cousin - no, his brother - was still there, just waking up from another restless night. But he wasn't there. He clicked his tongue and looked down in disappointment.

 

"You better come back." He uttered to himself, damning whoever had subjected his cousin, his brother, his closest ally, to a curse of fate.

[Hawkeye_Gough 624]

An ever-attentive statue sits on a ridge far from the oh-so familiar path of the restless boy. It watches him return in futility, trying to memorize the dark visage that plagued his dreams. In a nightmare that this same Lord had commanded him feel.

"Child of Dark," he laments to himself, watching yet truly unknowing of the helm that he worked on, "I cannot lead you, but soon I will guide you."

It remained, even after the boy left, and even after the boy had excused himself from his homeland, watching the place where fate had driven the course of the Lord's -- and perhaps the boy's -- life forever.

[JesterMilk 247]

Cross-legged beside the statue, a sunken samurai sat in perfect stillness, his purple eyes glinting with quiet amusement as he observed the path he had set in motion. He knew precisely where it would lead.
 

"The dark child?"  he whispered to the statue, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Could it be him?"
 

A sly, impish snicker followed as his fingers drifted through the air, idly playing with a shard of the boy’s soul, delicate, yet malleable beneath his touch.

"Guide him we will, my friend… guide him we will."  His voice was smooth, certain, as if the outcome had already been decided.

Edited March 9, 2025 by JesterMilk