Zendrelax

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

-Name: Gruffydd Haern

-Age: 26

-

Appearance:

-Gender: Male

-Background:
Not far south of Camelot, betwixt the demesnes of counts and earls and dukes—the illustrious members of the kingdom’s peerage—lies a small, inconsequential plot of land: the demesne of Baron Berthold Haern III. Berthold is an old man, and has been for a long time. His first wife died some two and one half decades before now, after twice as many years, or somewhere thereabouts, of faithful union. She left him three sons, the second bearing his name and the first set to inherit his moderate existence of irrelevancy. Berthold has been content in his life for a long time, but even content hearts, as his was by a young maiden, a woman by the name of Delwen from the eastern feet of the Black Mountains. Taken as he was with her, he decided to marry her.

There was outcry amongst the peerage. Something about “belittling the dignity of station.” But he was old, had an heir of wholly noble birth, and had little land of littler consequence, so everyone decided they had more important things to worry about. So, they were wed. Berthold was, despite his age, able to rise to his station, and Gruffydd was born. And very few people actually cared. None of his brothers saw him as a threat, the youngest being over a decade his senior, and the peerage still had more important things to worry about.

As one might imagine, Berthold didn’t take much of an active role in the raising of his son, being both nobility and old. That is not to say that he was absent from Gruffydd’s life, but he left much of the child-rearing to his servants, and to his wife. And Delwen made for an interesting mother. It was not known beyond a small circle of confidants—which, for the record, did include her husband— but she revered the old gods of Prydain—as, according to her, Britannia was known before the Romans came. As one might expect, she passed this down to her son. He maintained the illusion of Christian faith—this involved much more sneaking around the castle than one might expect—and otherwise had the sort of childhood one might expect for fourth son of an insignificant Baron. No, things did not become interesting for Gruffydd until he neared manhood.

Gruffydd showed a natural aptitude for the art of the blade, and that was what would bring him out of obscurity. That wouldn’t come until much later, of course, but the fact remains that he was something of a prodigy. He entered into the tutelage of his eldest brother, Cane, as a page, and then as a squire. When the time came for him to take his knightly vows, however, his heart lurched. He could not reveal his worship, and to not swear oaths before the Christian God would draw far too much suspicion. To his mind, he had no other choices left to him than to go forward. When the time came to take his knightly oaths, his voice and tongue formed the words of the church, but his heart sung the names of his own gods. Chivalry to Belyr, wisdom to Gwydion, strength to Aeron, and countless others. When he stood his vigil, he would later swear—to his closest confidants—that he saw the good folk dancing in the shadows, just beyond where he could make them out clearly. This emboldened him in his purpose, and so he set out to a Knight among knights, one of the greatest in the land. His ambition lay nowhere beneath the Round Table.

His chance for distinction soon came. A handful of months later, the Saxons descended on Britannia

Berthold was far too old to lead the levy from his demesne, so he sent Cane in his stead. Gruffydd and his other brothers led smaller portions of the force, under Cane’s command. The war was as it was—no man nor woman needs it recounted, for all living know what the Saxon scourge wrought—What needs recounting here is only the Siege of Gains Castle, towards the end of the war. Cane and the men under him, including Gruffydd and his brother Hugh—the third, named Geoffry, having already died over the course of the war—were stationed to a castle near the southern coast, as the Saxons were being pushed back into the sea. They were preparing a grand assault to finish their foe, when the Saxons struck at them fiercely. They made no efforts for a protracted siege—the reasons for this are unclear, but those who care usually point to a lack of supplies for the Saxons to last such a siege.

From dawn to dusk, the Saxons assaulted the castle five times. During the fifth and final attack, a stray arrow sent Hugh toppling from the eastern wall. Gruffydd was soon there to command the soldiers, but in the leaderless confusion, the Saxons had forced an opening and begun to surge up their siege ladders.

The bards would tell you that Gruffydd fought them, man to man, alone. Fifty horrid barbarians, clad in fur and steel, surrounding and strking him like a mass of strength and terror. The bards are fools.

Gruffydd was not alone, and were it not for the men he led, he would have died that day, tand the castle likely would have been lost. He makes a point causing harm to every bard that forgets this; those men bled with him, died for him, and he’ll not have them be forgotten.

The folly of bards aside, the fight was a sight to behold. For three hours, the men of the eastern wall held against the Saxons until, one by one, they cut the ropes of their siege ladders and sent them tumbling to the ground below.

The moon was at zenith when an army led by Sir Gawain arrived, crushing the exhausted Saxons into a rout. There were others, in other places, but these ones would do no more fighting. As has already been made clear, Gruffydd’s legend would be suitably blown out of proportion, but at the time he ust wandered off to bed as soon as the Kight of the Round Table dismissed him.

In recognition for the valor shown by their levy, Berthold’s lands were expanded after the war; a goodly number of lords were killed and left heirless by the war, and so were granted to the aging Baron, making him a Count of some consequence, which shall be inherited by Cane, and the fruits of which shall always be Gruffydd’s to return to and call upon.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: Gruffydd showed promise as a swordsman from an early age. Having trained under the tutelage of his eldest brother for years, he has grown into one of the kingdom’s most fearsome warriors. While some of the stories about him are plainly absurd, he is still a fearsome foe that anyone would hesitate to face.

∞-The Fox’s Feet: Worshiping gods that your world has denied is not something that can be done in the open. Gruffydd has developed great skill in secreting himself around unseen to and from hidden shrines and rituals. Of course, he wouldn’t be opposed to using those skills for other purposes.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

-Name: Gruffydd Haern

-Age: 26

-

Appearance:

-Gender: Male

-Background:
Not far south of Camelot, betwixt the demesnes of counts and earls and dukes—the illustrious members of the kingdom’s peerage—lies a small, inconsequential plot of land: the demesne of Baron Berthold Haern III. Berthold is an old man, and has been for a long time. His first wife died some two and one half decades before now, after twice as many years, or somewhere thereabouts, of faithful union. She left him three sons, the second bearing his name and the first set to inherit his moderate existence of irrelevancy. Berthold has been content in his life for a long time, but even content hearts, as his was by a young maiden, a woman by the name of Delwen from the eastern feet of the Black Mountains. Taken as he was with her, he decided to marry her.

There was outcry amongst the peerage. Something about “belittling the dignity of station.” But he was old, had an heir of wholly noble birth, and had little land of littler consequence, so everyone decided they had more important things to worry about. So, they were wed. Berthold was, despite his age, able to rise to his station, and Gruffydd was born. And very few people actually cared. None of his brothers saw him as a threat, the youngest being over a decade his senior, and the peerage still had more important things to worry about.

As one might imagine, Berthold didn’t take much of an active role in the raising of his son, being both nobility and old. That is not to say that he was absent from Gruffydd’s life, but he left much of the child-rearing to his servants, and to his wife. And Delwen made for an interesting mother. It was not known beyond a small circle of confidants—which, for the record, did include her husband— but she revered the old gods of Prydain—as, according to her, Britannia was known before the Romans came. As one might expect, she passed this down to her son. He maintained the illusion of Christian faith—this involved much more sneaking around the castle than one might expect—and otherwise had the sort of childhood one might expect for fourth son of an insignificant Baron. No, things did not become interesting for Gruffydd until he neared manhood.

Gruffydd showed a natural aptitude for the art of the blade, and that was what would bring him out of obscurity. That wouldn’t come until much later, of course, but the fact remains that he was something of a prodigy. He entered into the tutelage of his eldest brother, Cane, as a page, and then as a squire. When the time came for him to take his knightly vows, however, his heart lurched. He could not reveal his worship, and to not swear oaths before the Christian God would draw far too much suspicion. To his mind, he had no other choices left to him than to go forward. When the time came to take his knightly oaths, his voice and tongue formed the words of the church, but his heart sung the names of his own gods. Chivalry to Belyr, wisdom to Gwydion, strength to Aeron, and countless others. When he stood his vigil, he would later swear—to his closest confidants—that he saw the good folk dancing in the shadows, just beyond where he could make them out clearly. This emboldened him in his purpose, and so he set out to a Knight among knights, one of the greatest in the land. His ambition lay nowhere beneath the Round Table.

His chance for distinction soon came. A handful of months later, the Saxons descended on Britannia

Berthold was far too old to lead the levy from his demesne, so he sent Cane in his stead. Gruffydd and his other brothers led smaller portions of the force, under Cane’s command. The war was as it was—no man nor woman needs it recounted, for all living know what the Saxon scourge wrought—What needs recounting here is only the Siege of Gains Castle, towards the end of the war. Cane and the men under him, including Gruffydd and his brother Hugh—the third, named Geoffry, having already died over the course of the war—were stationed to a castle near the southern coast, as the Saxons were being pushed back into the sea. They were preparing a grand assault to finish their foe, when the Saxons struck at them fiercely. They made no efforts for a protracted siege—the reasons for this are unclear, but those who care usually point to a lack of supplies for the Saxons to last such a siege.

From dawn to dusk, the Saxons assaulted the castle five times. During the fifth and final attack, a stray arrow sent Hugh toppling from the eastern wall. Gruffydd was soon there to command the soldiers, but in the leaderless confusion, the Saxons had forced an opening and begun to surge up their siege ladders.

The bards would tell you that Gruffydd fought them, man to man, alone. Fifty horrid barbarians, clad in fur and steel, surrounding and strking him like a mass of strength and terror. The bards are fools.

Gruffydd was not alone, and were it not for the men he led, he would have died that day, tand the castle likely would have been lost. He makes a point causing harm to every bard that forgets this; those men bled with him, died for him, and he’ll not have them be forgotten.

The folly of bards aside, the fight was a sight to behold. For three hours, the men of the eastern wall held against the Saxons until, one by one, they cut the ropes of their siege ladders and sent them tumbling to the ground below.

The moon was at zenith when an army led by Sir Gawain arrived, crushing the exhausted Saxons into a rout. There were others, in other places, but these ones would do no more fighting. As has already been made clear, Gruffydd’s legend would be suitably blown out of proportion, but at the time he ust wandered off to bed as soon as the Kight of the Round Table dismissed him.

In recognition for the valor shown by their levy, Berthold’s lands were expanded after the war; a goodly number of lords were killed and left heirless by the war, and so were granted to the aging Baron, making him a Count of some consequence, which shall be inherited by Cane, and the fruits of which shall always be Gruffydd’s to return to and call upon.

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: Gruffydd showed promise as a swordsman from an early age. Having trained under the tutelage of his eldest brother for years, he has grown into one of the kingdom’s most fearsome warriors. While some of the stories about him are plainly absurd, he is still a fearsome foe that anyone would hesitate to face.

∞-The Fox’s Feet: Worshiping gods that your world has denied is not something that can be done in the open. Gruffydd has developed great skill in secreting himself around unseen to and from hidden shrines and rituals. Of course, he wouldn’t be opposed to using those skills for other purposes.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

Hrm! This looks pretty good to me. Consider my interest declared!

Return of the Dragonlords

Gaius Zephyr (Dragneel, the Life Bringer)

Name: Gaius Zephyr (Dagneel, the Life Bringer), ‘Gaius the Elder,’ ‘Old Man’

Age: ‘Gaius’ is a man late in his life. His apparent age is difficult to determine, but most observers would place him between fifty and sixty.

Race: Human (Guardian)

Inherent Ability(s):

Human Form

Strength of Will: Perhaps it is a result of the form he takes when masking his full splendor, or perhaps it is the way that from copes with the weight of the ages he has lived—he isn’t actually sure himself—but Gaius possesses indomitable will. Some might say that this is not unusual for a human, and they would be right, but Gaius is also Dragneel, whose age is of a scope and kind beyond what mortals can know, so he likes to think it a product wholly of his self.

Dragon Form

• Heaven’s Breath: The God of Heaven gave Dragneel a breath to match for his uncommon rage. Not burning and hot, consuming and destroying all before it; but slow and seeping, curling and twisting around the objects of his ire until he, with manic glee, can make their strength his own.
• Farsight: Dragneel was always been uncommonly perceptive, when he was young, long ago. Now, be it from divine favor, natural progression, expenditure of effort, or some other cause, his sight has long since transcended physical boundaries. Nothing can hide anything from him when gazed upon by his slit eyes.

Acquired Abilities:

• Heaven’s Marshal: Gaius has learned a fair few secrets in his long life. Since first acquiring human form, he has become a master of the blade and all of its ordinary uses, but has also learned this secret of steel. Rare indeed is the flawless craft and, once every fortnight, under the borrowed light of the moon, or the direct light of the sun, he can locate and strike the exact weakest point of any working of metal. A bladed weapon will shatter, leaving a considerably less effective hilt behind—though, any remaining pieces of sharp metal on the hilt, or the various scattered pieces, are still perfectly dangerous. A considerably more blunt object, such as a the head of a mace, or a metal plate on a piece of armor, crack at first, before crumbling, having, in the case of the latter, absorbed any harm that the strike might otherwise have done. It is interesting to note that this ability is basically useless against works of metal with many small parts, such as chainmail.
• Heaven’s Steward: So long as he can gaze upon his God’s domain, Gaius shall never be lost. If Gaius can see the sun in the sky, or the stars at night, Gaius will know where he is going. There is actually precious little magic in this—Gaius has memorized the path of the sun, and countless maps of the stars, and this power is more a matter of convenience for intuiting angles and displacement, which combines with the aforementioned knowledge to produce the desired result. If a skilled illusionist were to create a passable imitation, and Dragnel’s Farsight could not be turned upon it, then it this power would become actively detrimental.
• Heaven’s Strength: In his prime, Gaius was like a legend come to life, with the strength of ten men and the ferocity of twenty. Over the many years, however, age has sapped at his human form’s strength as it would any other aging man. Now he ‘merely’ has strength that would be beyond reasonable on someone a third of his apparent age. Furthermore, and more importantly, it keeps his old body functioning at a pace that can match young company—something necessary for his present duty.

Appearance:

Dragon Form

Dragneel is quite fond of his true form. He would describe his scales as “immaculate,” and “breathtaking;” his eyes as “serene,” and “piercing.” There are certainly those who would agree, but he is not an unbiased source.

Human Form

Nobody would say that Gaius strikes a particularly dashing figure. He would tend to agree. He woulddn’t say that he was ugly, more that he finds his human form less appealing than his true form.

Personality: Dragneel has placed his devotion above all else. He possesses myriad virtures and flaws—we’ll get to those in a moment—but first it must be said that the core of his very self, Dragneel is a servant of the God of the Heavens. He holds a deep respect for the other gods, and a great fondness for his peers, but his devotion trumps all else. Even his vanity. And Dragneel has considerable vanity. There is no grand explanation to this; Dragneel finds the appearance of his scales very pleasing, and, when he has nothing better to do in his true form, fusses over them considerably. This does not extend to his physical form. He finds the flesh of all non-dragons to be visually unappealing. As such, in an age where his true form would bring him great trouble, he settles for metal armor.

He considers himself wise, and while not as correct as h might like to be, there is some truth to this. But he is so certain of this that he can easily come off as arrogant and condescending. He does see himself as something greater than most other creatures he interacts with, because of his far greater age. In other words, he sees all but his peers and his charge (and his peers’ charges) as eternal children, wholly capable of achieving what he believes to be his heights if they only had the time. Occasionally, this thought sours him, tainting his manner with melancholy and longing to see what these transient mortals could be capable of with his breadth of experience.

This is not to say that he is incapable of mirth, or that he wiles away the hours with brooding. His manner is reserved, though frequently cracking when he is amused. Occasionally, however, it is broken with anger. His anger is an infrequent thing, but when it rears its head, he can sink into a vast pit of cruelty. When some poor fool brings him to action through anger, they soon find that he will take great twisting his words around them like rope, binding them in place with theor own fear, before unleashing is breath upon them.

History: His life, both as Dragneel and as Gaius, is far too long to describe in full here. However, two notes shall be made: First, of all the Guardians, Dragneel is the eldest. Given the length of their lives, it is so miniscule a lead that it has no bearing on their relations, but it is so. It actually became a point of humor when his human form began to age—earning him the nickname ‘Gaius the Elder.’ Second, he earned the title “Life Bringer” came upon him, not from some great act of healing magic, or defending the lives of innocents, but for siring an unparalleled number of children. Some today might find this anecdote amusing, but Dragneel still considers having created so many living, breathing creatures a deed worth bragging about. When the Purge fell upon his children, he was nearly consumed by rage and grief, and only his dedication to Arvas dragged him from his spiral of mournful fury. He has since made peace with the deaths’ of his children, but does still miss them.

Return of the Dragonlords

Gaius Zephyr (Dragneel, the Life Bringer)

Name: Gaius Zephyr (Dagneel, the Life Bringer), ‘Gaius the Elder,’ ‘Old Man’

Age: ‘Gaius’ is a man late in his life. His apparent age is difficult to determine, but most observers would place him between fifty and sixty.

Race: Human (Guardian)

Inherent Ability(s):

Human Form

Strength of Will: Perhaps it is a result of the form he takes when masking his full splendor, or perhaps it is the way that from copes with the weight of the ages he has lived—he isn’t actually sure himself—but Gaius possesses indomitable will. Some might say that this is not unusual for a human, and they would be right, but Gaius is also Dragneel, whose age is of a scope and kind beyond what mortals can know, so he likes to think it a product wholly of his self.

Dragon Form

• Heaven’s Breath: The God of Heaven gave Dragneel a breath to match for his uncommon rage. Not burning and hot, consuming and destroying all before it; but slow and seeping, curling and twisting around the objects of his ire until he, with manic glee, can make their strength his own.
• Farsight: Dragneel was always been uncommonly perceptive, when he was young, long ago. Now, be it from divine favor, natural progression, expenditure of effort, or some other cause, his sight has long since transcended physical boundaries. Nothing can hide anything from him when gazed upon by his slit eyes.

Acquired Abilities:

• Heaven’s Marshal: Gaius has learned a fair few secrets in his long life. Since first acquiring human form, he has become a master of the blade and all of its ordinary uses, but has also learned this secret of steel. Rare indeed is the flawless craft and, once every fortnight, under the borrowed light of the moon, or the direct light of the sun, he can locate and strike the exact weakest point of any working of metal. A bladed weapon will shatter, leaving a considerably less effective hilt behind—though, any remaining pieces of sharp metal on the hilt, or the various scattered pieces, are still perfectly dangerous. A considerably more blunt object, such as a the head of a mace, or a metal plate on a piece of armor, crack at first, before crumbling, having, in the case of the latter, absorbed any harm that the strike might otherwise have done. It is interesting to note that this ability is basically useless against works of metal with many small parts, such as chainmail.
• Heaven’s Steward: So long as he can gaze upon his God’s domain, Gaius shall never be lost. If Gaius can see the sun in the sky, or the stars at night, Gaius will know where he is going. There is actually precious little magic in this—Gaius has memorized the path of the sun, and countless maps of the stars, and this power is more a matter of convenience for intuiting angles and displacement, which combines with the aforementioned knowledge to produce the desired result. If a skilled illusionist were to create a passable imitation, and Dragnel’s Farsight could not be turned upon it, then it this power would become actively detrimental.
• Heaven’s Strength: In his prime, Gaius was like a legend come to life, with the strength of ten men and the ferocity of twenty. Over the many years, however, age has sapped at his human form’s strength as it would any other aging man. Now he ‘merely’ has strength that would be beyond reasonable on someone a third of his apparent age. Furthermore, and more importantly, it keeps his old body functioning at a pace that can match young company—something necessary for his present duty.

Appearance:

Dragon Form

Dragneel is quite fond of his true form. He would describe his scales as “immaculate,” and “breathtaking;” his eyes as “serene,” and “piercing.” There are certainly those who would agree, but he is not an unbiased source.

Human Form

Nobody would say that Gaius strikes a particularly dashing figure. He would tend to agree. He woulddn’t say that he was ugly, more that he finds his human form less appealing than his true form.

Personality: Dragneel has placed his devotion above all else. He possesses myriad virtures and flaws—we’ll get to those in a moment—but first it must be said that the core of his very self, Dragneel is a servant of the God of the Heavens. He holds a deep respect for the other gods, and a great fondness for his peers, but his devotion trumps all else. Even his vanity. And Dragneel has considerable vanity. There is no grand explanation to this; Dragneel finds the appearance of his scales very pleasing, and, when he has nothing better to do in his true form, fusses over them considerably. This does not extend to his physical form. He finds the flesh of all non-dragons to be visually unappealing. As such, in an age where his true form would bring him great trouble, he settles for metal armor.

He considers himself wise, and while not as correct as h might like to be, there is some truth to this. But he is so certain of this that he can easily come off as arrogant and condescending. He does see himself as something greater than most other creatures he interacts with, because of his far greater age. In other words, he sees all but his peers and his charge (and his peers’ charges) as eternal children, wholly capable of achieving what he believes to be his heights if they only had the time. Occasionally, this thought sours him, tainting his manner with melancholy and longing to see what these transient mortals could be capable of with his breadth of experience.

This is not to say that he is incapable of mirth, or that he wiles away the hours with brooding. His manner is reserved, though frequently cracking when he is amused. Occasionally, however, it is broken with anger. His anger is an infrequent thing, but when it rears its head, he can sink into a vast pit of cruelty. When some poor fool brings him to action through anger, they soon find that he will take great twisting his words around them like rope, binding them in place with theor own fear, before unleashing is breath upon them.

History: His life, both as Dragneel and as Gaius, is far too long to describe in full here. However, two notes shall be made: First, of all the Guardians, Dragneel is the eldest. Given the length of their lives, it is so miniscule a lead that it has no bearing on their relations, but it is so. It actually became a point of humor when his human form began to age—earning him the nickname ‘Gaius the Elder.’ Second, he earned the title “Life Bringer” came upon him, not from some great act of healing magic, or defending the lives of innocents, but for siring an unparalleled number of children. Some today might find this anecdote amusing, but Dragneel still considers having created so many living, breathing creatures a deed worth bragging about. When the Purge fell upon his children, he was nearly consumed by rage and grief, and only his dedication to Arvas dragged him from his spiral of mournful fury. He has since made peace with the deaths’ of his children, but does still miss them.

Children of Aton - Demigod RP [Recruiting!]

Well, since I was second-to-last, I could post, but I'd rather wait for at least one other person, first.

Children of Aton - Demigod RP [Recruiting!]

Post up. About damn time.

So, I've been thinking a lot about Therelon's Tower, and, well, I should really just write a page on the wiki about it, in all honesty. For now, I'll say that it isn't alive—because that would be silly—and it doesn't do anything like make him more powerful—that would be rather pointless—but all that magic Therelon's done to it has made it do some strange things, only some of which were intentional.

I really should get on that wiki article. I doubt very much of what I've come up with will be relevant to the story, it's largely just flavor and fluff, but it will be good to have it all laid out.

Children of Aton - Demigod RP [Recruiting!]

The green had all been passed long ago. The pale and dusty tan of the Koyati waste swept under Therelon as it soared through the clear skies. From the ground, an observer might have convinced themselves that what they saw was merely a large bird, were it not for the distinctly human-shaped load it carried. Nixus, mortal guardian of the Pit, and, secretly, one of Therelon's long suffering Devoted. For all Therelon knew, perhaps he had been the very last. And now he was dead in his master's arms.

If he truly is the last, then blood shall pay for blood.

The journey had been delayed. A great storm of sand had been risen by the desert winds, and Therelon had to adjust its course by several miles to avoid it. But now, shining brilliantly under the harsh, Koyati sun, just risen over the horizon, stood its Tower. The great structure, unparalleled in height and width and complexity for miles around, was unchanged despite the passing of a millennium. Save for one thing.

As Therelon descended to the Tower's entrance, it found the archway blocked. The great doors were gone, and in their place was a tremendous boulder.

Curious.

The boulder meant that Eyra had wanted to keep mortals out. It was unlikely that much, or really any, of Therelon's collection of tomes and scrolls remained. Perhaps she had wanted to keep it from her enemies, for it was a truly formidable fortress. She certainly had no such use for it—the Tower had steeped in magic since the dawn of time, and knew its master.

And the boulder was not meant for Therelon. Eyra was no fool.

Gently, Therelon placed Nixus' body on the ground. Its magic receded from its flesh and bone. Therelon raised its taloned hand, and the boulder began to rumble. Slowly, the great stone fell forward, sinking into the ground outside the Tower. Therelon took hold of Nixus once more, and, cradling him in its arms.

Therelon, upon reflection, did not know what it expected to find inside its Tower. After one thousand years, there was little hope that its Devoted, despite their power, could have held out against Eyra. But it did not expect to find what remained of the Tower's last defenders.

The floor of the Tower was littered with bones, bleached white by age. They were clustered together in places where bodies had been thrown. Some still bore their arms and armor. Some were small.

It was an invading army.

Therelon stood in the doorway for a time, unmoving. Slowly, it raised one foot and entered the Tower, its talons scraping along the stone floor as its steps dragged.

They pillaged my Tower.

As Therelon reached a large set of stone doors, they opened of their own accord.

They killed my–

The room was circular. The wall, in its single elegant curve, it bore images of the Tower's greatest residents—Talus, who first took the name "Devoted;" Salor, the greatest mortal wielder of the arcane the Tower had seen; Verai, who led its defense against marauding fools who thought to attack while Therelon was away. All these and more—and, upon the roof, its wings spread and talons wreathed in dancing light, was Therelon itself.

This was the Chamber of the Dead.

Nixus' body fell to the floor.

Therelon's talons scraped along the floor.

In the center of the room was a single block of stone, half a man's height, and its length equal to his height. There was no ornamentation of cloth or jewel. No bowls or plates or candles or incense. This was the altar, dedicated to the departed, stripped bare.

Therelon reached the altatr, and saw what ley on the other side. More bones, of all ages.

Upon the altar itself, bones. Female, Therelon could tell, just past the cusp of womanhood.

All Therelon's eyes blurred. The physical reality and the flow of magic twisted and gnarled as its eyes filled with tears. A single, great sob broke from its chest. The Tower shook, dust within and sand without was disturbed. Another sob, and the Tower shook again. Therelon drew in a great, shuddering breath.

---

Across the air was broken. Men and women, children and elders, and soldiers and beggars all clawed at their ears. To some, the sand itself seamed to shake, but no mere physical sight could discern any change. And all at once, it was over. There was great fear, for while word of what had occurred at the Pit had not yet traveled this far south, but all people told stories. Though a paltry few knew what it truly was, every person knew that something had come to the desert.

And what it found there inspired a scream of rage and grief that shook them to their core.

Children of Aton - Demigod RP [Recruiting!]

I'll have a post up tonight. I figure Therelon can make it to Koyatia after flying for a day straight. Flying's awesome like that.

EDIT: Ah the wonders of unforeseen complications. As is plain to see, I never got the post up. It's been buzzing in my head for hours, but I was never able to sit down and write it up. For tomorrow, then.

Children of Aton - Demigod RP [Recruiting!]

@Vahir

I'm all for a time skip. I could probably jam a paragraph of introspection into a scene of Therelon flying south, but it would probably be more interesting on-site.