Night's End {CS}

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Just doing a little housekeeping lately. Too busy for much role-playing.

Archive for my character sheets and roleplaying preferences.

Characters

Aerek Brighton
Alain Longshot
Derek Grimveer
Endricane Averdante
Grim
Hephaestus
Landon Baxter Blackwood
Logain
Nathan Alexander Alverston III
Rodrek Blackbourne
Zeus

Roleplaying Preferences

Preferred Category:

Most of my posts fall between the typical Casual and Advanced expectations. I'll stick to those constraints in group games, more or less. In 1x1 roleplay, I don't categorize myself. I can write a lot (couple of thousand words) or very little (a paragraph or so). Depends on what entertains me the most at the time, the needs of the story, and/or my partner. I like partners to have similarly adaptable ranges and no expectations of paragraph-count minimums or maximums.

Preferred Genres:

• Gritty medieval fantasy. High magic or low magic or no magic.
• Modern. Not slice of life stuff, generally, but a plot with some kind of adventure or threat looming.
• Comics (Marvel mainly). But not particularly keen on playing canon characters unless they are used as secondary to the OC's.
• I prefer romantic elements in my stories. Sometimes twisted and dark, occasionally light and sappy, but always with some kind of tribulation and tension.
  

Preferred type of play:

1x1's are my favorite. When I don't have much real-life time, I stick with those so I'm only making one person wait if I get tied up. Group roleplay takes me much longer to respond to, but I'll happily do group stuff when my free time is more abundant. Big group or small group doesn't matter to me.

P.S. All of my 1x1's are private due to prevalent mature themes. I am comfortable PM-ing posts, or even emailing, but my favored mode is roleplaying through Googledocs.

Extra information:

• I like fantasy elements in a roleplay to stick to some measure of realism if possible, if that makes sense. Or rather, the reaction of characters to these fantasy elements to be believable.
• I like cliches and stereotypes. Or rather, I like giving cliches and stereotypes a depth that breathes new life into the "same old thing."
• I like both light and dark moments in a roleplay.
• I don't fade on mature scenes. Black fades to me. ;)
• Not a fan of anime, and I don't like playing it. No problem with those people that do, though.
• I try to post every 1-3 days for a 1x1, and I can usually achieve that. I let a partner know if there will be a delay. When I have extra time, I've been known to post a few times a day for a single story.
• I like mature partners that are capable of confidently adding to a plot and taking the initiative.
• I harbor no hard feelings if a roleplay is ended via poor player chemistry, ditching, or any other reason. I'm here to pursue my own fun. I hope everyone else is too. If a story stops being fun for anyone, I'm cool with simply acknowledging that and working from there.
• I'm pretty laid back about all of this. I like to shoot the breeze with partners and have a good time IC and OOC.

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Zeus

Seen In:

Shadows of Olympus Chapter Two

Present Alias:

Richard “Dick” Deus (Day-us)

Appearance:

A robust man remarkably tall, topping around 6’9”. Heavy shoulders, muscular arms, and a narrowed waist oft accentuated by tailored suits worth more than the GDP of some third world countries. Short, tar black hair is slicked back in a sleek businessman’s cut, a neat, close-cut beard shadowing a masculine jaw. Tanned olive skin of Mediterranean descent and indeterminate, statuesque features that could place his age anywhere between a cultured late-thirties to a glowingly healthy male in his early-fifties. Appraising eyes shift in hue with the ambient light; from a blue as pale as summer’s sky to a flinty grey ominous as thunderheads on the horizon. His intimidating appearance is secondary to his particular aura. He holds himself with the heedless confidence of a man born to rule and accustomed to having his orders obeyed, and obeyed immediately, without question.

Current Occupation:

CEO of Deus Industries, a multi-billion dollar company which owns majority stocks in a multitude of energy companies in the U.S., as well as owning whole energy providers in several lesser developed foreign nations, as well as dabbling in minor research ventures around the globe. Deus Industries has been criticized in the past by political pundits for sharing too cozy a relationship with certain senators and House members in Washington, D.C., not to mention the company's lavishly generous political donations. But this coziness and the somewhat shady beginnings of the company have recently been shrouded by very public charity work and philanthropic givings: new schools, new community centers, new city parks, new art galleries and museums, all in communities scattered across the U.S.A. and all bearing the lightning-bolt DI logo. The reason for the change is obvious and seen on every news station and in every newspaper: Earlier in the summer, Richard “Dick” Deus, businessman and investor, loyal patriot and humanitarian, devoted husband and sentinel for universal equality, announced his candidacy for President of the United States.

Vignette:

The time was ripe.

Power. Power was eternal. The mortal scholars and alchemists, the wizards and priests of a New Modern Age, had written power could not be destroyed, nor created. In so many ways, they were the blind leading the blind, groping through the dark, fumbling for a Truth to make meaning of their piteous, small lives. To grasp what could not be grasped, to Learn what was not meant to be Learned. So arrogant in their assumptions, so conceited in the mastery of this sorcery called science. But in that one thing, in power, they were right. It could not be made; it could not be unmade. But it could be taken. It could be hoarded as the dragon hoarded treasure and trinkets. It could be built from the ground like the marble temples of old. It could rise like the sea, and swell like the storm. It could fall like a conquered city and be trampled unto dust.

It had been taken from him. Power.

A bleeding wound that had festered through the ages, sapping his strength, stifling the thunders that had once rolled unfettered from one end of existence to the other. Dimming the lightning that had once crackled between his curled fingers with the primal violence of a forming world. The dawn of a new mortal awareness had drained him these past millenina. But what could be taken, could be wrested back.

The time was ripe.

The world turned. Men suffered, warred, hungered, and died. The far-flung shadows that modern science had scoured clean of all myth now stirred once more with creatures ancient and dark. Mortal sight and minds struggled to understand. Mortal voices rose in a silence stretched through time, crying out for a savior to guide them. A leader to protect them. A god to rule them.

The heavens flashed...

Thunder boomed in the distance.

Zeus stood in the blackness of his top-floor office in Deus Tower, high in the clouds above New York City. New York. This new world’s Athens. The present day’s Rome. The center of a supposed Age of Prosperity. Lightning flashed again, brightening a blaze in the penetrating eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, silhouetting the towering, powerful profile of the being that had ruled the Pantheon and battled Titans, the being whose mere whims had meant defeat or victory for conquering armies, the being that had fathered mighty Hercules and countless other Heroes whose praises were still sung to this day.

This being sipped from the glass of wine in hand, counting the heartbeats until thunder rattled his windows. The once-prime deity watched the blow move in across the city, looming black clouds blanketing the night, pregnant with rain and worse. Abreast of the gale drove an ill wind, tainted and fouled with an old, old scent that chilled him to the core. If any creature in existence could read the omens woven in air, it was he. Brothers, Sisters, my Children, do you watch the same skies as I? Ares, do you peer at the heavens from the empire you’ve created, and pause? Hades, wherever you languish, do you feel the dead souls moan and stir, restless with the coming doom? Poseidon, will you hide your face in the seas? None of them could hide, soon. Zeus felt it. Danger neared, but with danger came opportunity.

The glory that had been lost could be found again. The world turned, a storm approached, and Zeus was ready.

The time was ripe.

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Hephaestus

Seen In:

Shadows of Olympus Chapter Two

Present Alias:

Shep Smith

Appearance:

Despite his height, excessive slabs of muscle make the hulking God of the Forge appear nearly squat. His upper body is almost freakishly overdeveloped, his arms like tree-trunks, his wrists thick, his gnarled and calloused hands the size of catcher's mitts. His lower half is just as herculean as the rest of him, but his right leg bends at the knee only stiffly and produces a noticeable limp wherever he treads. A mat of dark wiry hair coats his forearms and chest, and a bushy beard wreathes his jaw. He wears a constant disheveled look, his hair in want of brushing, his clothes in want of ironing and often smudged with soot or frayed and faded at the ends. Dark iron grey eyes seem frozen in a near-squint, a tracery of crow's feet creeping from the edges. His features are plain and blunt, if rough-hewn and excessively masculine. He walks with the aid of a steel walking cane, the length of it etched with runework; the handle is shaped like a simple, cylindrical hammer's head, easily gripped in its master's huge grasp.

Occupation:

Odd jobs. Sometimes handy-man, sometimes carpenter, sometimes plumber. He welds, from time to time, has worked auto-repair, and all kinds of construction. But nothing constant. He works enough to pay the rent on his garage called "Shep's Repair," where he both lives and works, in the forgotten suburbs of Saint Paul, Minnesota. Beneath the garage is a cellar where he toils at his true passion for no one's benefit but his own -- his Forge.

Vignette:

Hephaestus crunched into a parking spot at the Nashville Parthenon in his antique Ford pickup. The Ford’s paint job was a faded burgundy that blended well with the patches of rust, and the body was littered with dents and dings and scratches. Old tools rolled and rattled randomly around in the truck’s bed. But the engine itself rumbled with a perfect chord of mechanical harmony until its owner shifted into park, turned the key, and killed it.

Hephaestus sat for a moment as the engine ticked and cooled in the silence, looking through his dirty, bespeckled windshield at the columned building up on the hill. A family gathering... but the God of the Forge regarded it warily like he would a trap. He avoided his squabbling family as much as he could through the decades and centuries, but every now and then he felt obliged to pay his dues. Truth was, though, there was only a face or two he cared to see. But he wouldn't see them sitting out here.

Best to just get it over with.

He heaved an unhappy breath, popped his door open, and slid on out, the suspension creaking and groaning. The rusty hinges on the door whined as he slammed it shut, and the frame clattered in complaint. Except for the engine he'd put in, this old truck was nothing more than a bucket of loose bolts. But truth was, he loved this old grumbling truck more than half his plotting and dramatic family. The truck was a damn sight more loyal. But that couldn't be helped. Family was family. Unlike trucks, you didn't get to pick. He reached into the back of his truck, retrieving his cane.

He hadn't known what to wear. He'd brushed his hair a bit, but all he had for clothes was work uniforms. He'd finally dug a jacket out of a forgotten closet. It was a brown corduroy with old leather elbow patches -- only a few decades out of style. The finest shirt he had was a comfortable red and black plaid that tucked into nothing more than well-faded and well-worn jeans. His boots were plain steel-toed work boots, scuffed and dirty, but he wasn't here to impress. He'd long since stopped trying to impress this particular nest of vipers.

Without further procrastination, he ambled his way up the hill, one cane-click, sure step, and limping shuffle at a time.

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Alain Longshot

Seen In:

Brooksby Burning: a Medieval Murder-Mystery

Age:

45

Appearance:

Tall and lean, strong shoulders and arms. Easy on the eyes for a man his age, but nothing refined. His shoulder length hair and short beard are salt and peppered, streaks of white and grey mixed in with coal black. Dark, moss green eyes. Usually clad in easy-moving leathers and a woodland cloak. Moves with an absent kind of grace, almost unconsciously stalking at times.

Occupation:

Game Warden for Lord Robert Bessum.

Personality:

Usually quiet and introspective. Observes for a while before ever voicing his thoughts. Gets along better with the forest than people, but that isn't to say he's unkind or off-putting. He can hold an entertaining conversation when he wants to -- which is rarely. Dry wit, cynical. Loyal through and through to Lord Robert.

History:

Raised on a farm in another time and another place, where if they wanted meat on the table, they had to hunt for it. Alain became the family's sole source of meat until he was conscripted into a lord's army at a young age. Fought as a footman in several battles up until his commander saw him shoot a bow, then Alain was an archer from there on. Through a series of unfortunate events, Alain one day found himself at the mercy of Lord Robert Bessum, having been caught poaching on the Lord's lands. Alain had killed the stag Bessum himself had been hunting for months, a many-horned lord of the forest. The arrow shot had been so clean and accurate, though, the grudgingly impressed Bessum commanded Alain to reproduce it. A target was drawn yards and yards away, and Alain was given the deal -- hit the target, and live. Or miss, and take the punishment for poaching.

Alain hit the target.

Since then, everything Alain has become, is thanks to Lord Robert. Lord Robert first offered Alain the position of his huntsman and years later, eventually the title of Game Warden himself.

He's had some loves in his life, come and gone, but he's too solitary a man to live long or well with others, and his nature is too roving to let himself get tied down with a wife or family.

Relationships with other characters:

Alain polices much of the woodland in the area, around Brooksby and other villages. As such, his is a presence that comes and goes through Brooskby on a regular basis, but not constantly. He knows most of the people there, by face if not by name, but can say that very few of them are more than passing acquaintances.

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Grim

Seen In:

Seaside Tavern

Description:

The tavern owner is known only as Grim. A very tall and muscled man, latticed with old scars. His face is hard and rough-hewn, and looks to never have seen a smile. His right eye is covered with a faded eyepatch. The left eye is a startling icy blue. His hair and beard verge in a veritable lion's mane of snowy white. Though he appears well past the prime of youth, he does not seem hindered by age a bit. His movements retain a certain controlled warrior's grace to them, and not an ounce of softness overlays his strapping dimensions. Formidable.

There are different rumors, and those closest to him know that he is not as human as he appears. It is widely believed that whatever power he possesses keeps the troublemakers at bay from around the tavern. In the past, he has ended trouble in the tavern with rather explosive and violent displays of his power as the faded and widespread bloodstains on the wood floors will attest. However, those closest to him know that his abilities are beholden to a complicated series of laws. There are rare instances he will act without hesitation, but most of the time, his hands seem tied, and he lets a situation handle itself.

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Aerek Brighton

Seen In:

The Painful Truth

History:

Born in Valholm Hill in Westland. Never traveled further than some of the nearest neighboring villages. His mother died birthing him, and his father Caul Brighton never forgave young Aerek for taking his wife from him. As Aerek grew, his father took to drinking more and more and became increasingly verbally and physically abusive until the day Aerek was big enough to fight back. After Caul could no longer cow Aerek, Caul turned resentful and increasingly distant, and presently roams the taverns of Westland, drifting in and out of Aerek’s life in Valholm Hill at odd times. Aerek doesn’t drink often or in great quantities, due to his father.

Aerek has rotated work under nearly all the men in Valholm Hill, having no family trade to call his own. After Shep Smithson, the town blacksmith, lost his only son to a mule’s kick to the head, Aerek was approached by Shep and offered a chance to take the son’s place and learn the workings of the forge. Aerek has apprenticed to Shep for the past couple of years.

Physical Description:

Full-grown and uncommonly tall, a childhood spent working at manual labor has grown Aerek into a lean frame layered with strong, functional muscle, and smithing has only added to it. Although, his height proportions him well away from the stout burliness of his shorter statured employer. He has the darker complexion of many of the other villagers, and is well tanned from the outdoors. His hair is nearly black, and wavy down to his shoulders. His features are angular and thought handsome by most, his cheeks and jaw usually stubbled to some extent. Unlike most of the villagers with brown or hazel eyes, Aerek’s eyes are an iron grey. He wears a talisman on a leather thong around his neck, a small naturally twisted piece of silvery metal.

Prophecy:

"Where Saichan Valadoras gave final breath to the Keeper,
the Seeker to restore D'Hara shall be born beneath fallen star,
and by the silver star be marked.
Once named, the Seeker will forge the bond of D'Hara anew,
and The House of Rahl shall triumph over dreams."

Upside Down:

Oblivious to the larger events in the world, Aerek Brighton was simply living his life, the apprentice to a prosperous blacksmith and engaged to soon marry the village sweetheart. That life, however, was turned upside down the day a mysterious and beautifully exotic bard arrives in town with an uncommon interest in the area. Aerek soon learns he is the subject of prophecy, and that mysterious woman is actually a Mord Sith from distant D'Hara with orders to name Aerek the Seeker of Truth and retrieve him for her Lord Rahl by any means necessary. Both Aerek and the Mord Sith Isabel become the pawns of prophecy and fate, drawn into a struggle for their lives and the lives of those men and women who would stand against the emerging threat of a Dreamwalker.

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Sir Rodrek Blackbourne


Credit for image goes to Lillian Thorne.

Seen In:

Chivalry and Shadows

Age:

23

Physical Description:

Standing at 6’4” with the muscular build of a career knight. A notable cross shaped scar on his face, and a burn scar on his chest crudely in the shape of the Saint William sunburst.

History:

Rodrek comes from a long line of knights. All the Blackbourne men inevitably become knights. His three older brothers are knights, his father a knight, his grandfather died a knight, his grandfather’s father, so on, so forth, and all the men as far back as the family can trace -- knights, every one of them. The Blackbourne words are “From The Ashes” and its sigil a black phoenix on a white backdrop. Rodrek is the baby of the family, the youngest of three brothers and two sisters, all now married and some with children of their own. Like every male born a Blackbourne, his conditioning began almost as soon as he could walk, his brothers going far out of their way to toughen him up as only older brothers can, while his older sisters often stole him away for dancing and dress-up and treated him as their personal play doll. Fortunately, he soon toddled out of the doll phase, and by his early teens, he was of a size where he could finally make his older brothers think twice about rough-housing with him. Eschewing the traditional path to knighthood his brothers and father had taken, Rodrek entered his training with the Order of Saint William at the age of fifteen. By his eighteenth birthday, he had been knighted by Sir Morias Wynne, and has served with the older knight faithfully until Morias’ death.

Mission:

Returning from a tourney to find Sir Morias gruesomely tortured and on the verge of death, Rodrek is given the last command from the lips of his mentor: Find Iris. Filled with grim determination, the young knight tracks Sir Morias' killers to the sprawling city of Lumbridge. There, Sir Rodrek finds Iris, the madame of a local brothel, and Rodrek discovers that his murdered mentor had not always been the pious paragon of knighthood. Buried within the high-class brothel affectionately known as The Garden are secrets that the late Sir Morias Wynne had kept hidden almost two decades, secrets that threaten the highest levels of the corrupt Church hierarchy, secrets a certain Archbishop Moncrief would kill to keep. Secrets that revolve around Iris' impish seventeen-year-old daughter Rose. Rodrek makes a vow to protect these secrets and the women who keep them, to find vengeance for the terrible death of his mentor, and to bring the evil men strumming the strings of this tragedy to justice.

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Nathaniel Alexander Alverston III

Seen In:

X-Men: Generation Next

Codename:

Rook

Age:

21

Powers:

Energy Absorption: Able to absorb a wide array of energy: kinetic, electrical, thermal, etc. His cells convert and store this energy to the effect of enhancing his natural attributes (i.e. super strength, durability, healing, stamina). He can consciously adjust the amount of power that fuels the increased attributes, thus lowering or heightening the effects, to an extent. An innate mastery of his own kinetic and potential energies also grants him the ability of unassisted flight.

History:

Only child of a demanding billionaire business mogul father and an alcoholic socialite mother.

Personality:

Arrogant, self-centered, aloof, cynical. Perpetually sarcastic. Not a care in the world beyond the next lay.

Call to Responsibility:

Aware of Nathan's deep-rooted disdain for authority and keen self-absorption, Professor Xavier determined the only course young Nathan was capable of following was his own. Thus, the Professor selected Nathan as the leader for a neophyte team of X-men, hoping the burden of responsibility would give Nathan a sense of priority. However, the second-in-command position was awarded to Mary Evangelina Cogburn, a stellar, poster-child student with pristine moral grounding and a self-sacrificing nature, and her private orders from Xavier were to override Nathan's leadership and assume command of the team if Nathan foolishly and needlessly endangered the team. Unfortunately, Nathan and Mary share a secret with damning implications, certain to make their relations as leader and co-leader tense at best, hazardous at worst.

Excerpt From Team Assessment:

• Code name. Do you like it? If so, why? If not, what would YOU have chosen?

I didn’t like it at first, but it’s starting to grow on me. I suppose chess piece came first to mind. I'd rather be a chess piece than a corpse-eating bird, but there's probably some symbology to the whole black bird bit here that I'm missing.

• How old were you when your powers first manifested, and how did those around you react?

Thirteen years old, for my powers. I was in a bad car wreck. Most of the family was amazed and elated I’d survived ... But none of them knew for certain I had been saved by a mutation. None of my family has ever witnessed my powers. I never shared things with them, least of all that. But when I was eighteen, I did decide to tell my parents. My mother treated it like a case of AIDs she might catch, and my father treated it like a severe case of embarrassing closet homosexuality. Needless to say, neither of them were pleased.

• What is your favorite part of being a mutant? Your least favorite?

I think I like flying the most, although the invulnerability thing is coming in handy of late. The part I don't like? I guess I don't like this part. Apparently, one day I could be some freaky being of energy that eschews little things like eating, sleeping, or breathing... or aging, or... you know. Basically anything that reminds me I'm not too far from human.

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Sir Derek Grimveer

Seen In:

From the Ashes

Rank:

Knight Commander

Parents' Names:

Sir Eogan (Yo-gan) Grimveer, Beatrice Grimveer

Siblings:

None

Appearance:

Dark blue eyes. About 6’6” tall. Muscled like a god of war.

Far History:

His mother died of illness when he was too young to remember, and his father never remarried. Being the only son of a knight of realm-wide renown, Derek's training began nearly the moment he could walk. He was always a large boy, eventually growing larger even than his father who was known as an impressively sized man. Growing up, his clothes were always too short and too tight much too soon. He went through many clumsy periods as he adjusted to the the changing size of his body and often seemed awkward in his own skin.

Most Recent History:

Derek serves his Lord as champion and Knight Commander of his Lord's personal guard. Due to his service to the war-mongering House Blackbourne, Derek is often referred to by foes and allies alike as The Black Knight, or the Knight of Ashes for the hamlets and keeps he has burnt and pillaged on Blackbourne's orders, or even The False Knight by those that believe Derek was never truly knighted -- since Derek was knighted purely by his rogue Lord's word and never partook of the proper ceremony of induction on church ground.

A Past That Comes To Haunt:

Derek took to drinking after the death of his father. Unfortunately, by that time, he had also fallen in love with his childhood companion, the young daughter of Lord Conteville, the Lord whom Derek's late father had served faithfully all his life. Increasingly angry and violent, and constantly suffering the repercussions of such, Derek came to resent his new-found dependence on the stern Lord Conteville. Believing his affections for Lord Conteville's daughter to be reciprocated, Derek drunkenly approached Elspeth Conteville late one night, begging her to marry him and leave with him. She refused and informed him she had received an engagement offer from a high Lord that she intended to accept.

Derek was not seen again until the day of Elspeth's wedding, where he arrived heavily drunk and beat the groom to an inch of the man's life before Derek could be pulled off. The only thing that spared Derek from execution for such an affront were all the years of his late father's loyal service to Lord Conteville. Derek was exiled, however, and commanded never to return, else face certain death.

Derek wandered for several years afterward, selling his talents to mercenary work, going to dark places, ending his nights at the bottom of bottles and abed with whores. On one chance day, however, he saved the life of a Lord Blackbourne, and the Lord took Derek into service and named him a Knight. Derek's new Lord had been raised in the East, where slavery was king, and had returned to the West, prepared to conquer a land that had once spurned his ancestors. Derek quickly rose to the commander of his Lord's forces and set about conquering the kingdom, giving those that dared oppose them the option of slavery or death.

So began a time of a war in the kingdom, and castles and lordships fell to Blackbourne's might one after the other. After sacking the latest enemy holding for his Lord, Derek was given a gift. Lord Blackbourne had heard the story of the young nobleborn lady that had once spurned Derek Grimveer. That young woman had been captured and enslaved, her lord husband slaughtered, and Lord Blackbourne presented Sir Derek with the former Elspeth Conteville, now a slave trained to perfection in Blackbourne's slave camps. Now after all those years, she was finally his. But the black desire for revenge that had festered in him for half his life is not so easily enacted. Nor, he soon discovers, is his heart as dead as the ashes and graves he leaves in his wake.

4 Words that sum up Derek's personality:

Angry. Sullen. Fearless. Troubled.

Favorite Treat (edible):

Beer.

Favorite Treat (non-edible):

A pretty whore that can keep her prattling mouth shut and tend to business. Well. At least keep it shut until he has need for it.

Armor:

(His typical armor. Worn in battle or when officially on duty. A plain but master-made sword typically rides his left hip, matched by a dirk on his right.)

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Endricane Averdante

Seen In:

Chivalry and Shadows

Description:

Unofficial king of the city’s underworld. A professional assassin and skulker. Poses as a wealthy lordling by day. Dark brown eyes that appear nearly black, black hair trimmed short, a precisely trimmed goatee and mustache, pale skin with a faint olive tinge. Taller than average, but not remarkably so. Very leanly muscled and athletic.

The Bargain:

Becoming aware of murderous outsiders operating without permission in his city, Endricane involves himself. He uncovers knowledge of a mysterious price on the head of a local madame Iris and her daughter Rose, a mother and daughter Endricane knows well. Playing a dark, deadly game with several layers of intrigue, Endricane strikes a bargain with Iris. He wishes to step from the shadows and become a legitimate force of civilized society. But to do so, he needs a wife both cultured and beautiful, graceful and poised, a woman capable of softening the weight of his sharp stare and cold silences. He needs Iris. In exchange for eliminating her enemies and protecting her daughter, the bargain demands Iris must wed Endricane, the shadowy figure that has tormented and intimidated her for years.

The Shark:

In many ways, Endricane was the shark. He circled below the surface, ever waiting and watchful and deadly, undisputed king of his domain. As long as you remained above the surface, however, you were safe. As long as you were wholly innocent, as long as you remained in the world of light and law and order, you might catch a glimpse of black eyes in the depths as they passed you by and feel the cold finger of death trace down your spine as you witnessed a being that would murder you as casually as breathing... but that black regard could not hurt you.

But simply dip your toe into the depths, come into his world, step into the shadows, delve those dark paths, and you marked yourself fair prey. You were no longer clean.

You were blood in the water.