Schattenfeuer » Hibernal Den » Tyrannus

Tyrannus

(#15984109)

Level 25 Imperial

Familiar

Raptorik Wanderer

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

26.39 m

Wingspan

22.94 m

Weight

5913.09 kg

Genetics

Caribbean
Pinstripe

Aqua
Shimmer

Aqua
Runes

Hatchday

Aug 17, 2015
(8 years)

Breed

Adult
Imperial

Eye Type

Ice
Bright

Level 25 Imperial

Max Level

STR

104

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

none

Biography

__._

Tyrannus.
↠ Frozen by Fear

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall..."

People, he learnt very quickly, were dangerous. They spoke two faced, silver tongued, poisonous words and always hid their hands from his gaze.They came and asked for medicine but in reality, they wanted to plant seeds of destruction. Their greed driving out the last, lingering sparks of goodness and shredding the veil of innocence he had been under for so long.

A lone, lonely old man that never found what he was searching for, that never even managed to leave his home village. Because there was too much to do and surely there would be enough time for travel and learning later. Later and later until it was too late, until the blue of his hair was streaked by white and he barely recognized the face in the mirror anymore. Piercing white eyes, stark against the charcoal lines framing them, yet where had all his youthfulness gone?

A lone, old man in a too large hut and a makeshift laboratory in his basement was the only thing the village had. What they could cling to when fever came, when black splotches of decay swept away their vitality and ate away the life inside their frail bodies. The plague came and his little remedies and tonics failed to stop the bleeding. He was helpless as were the rest, the decay could not be stopped. Superstitious and foolish, they blamed the gods, the crops, everything and nothing, yet he deemed they weren’t wrong. Hadn’t the plague started after they had sheltered a mercenary, washed up and failing at everything but chugging another cup?

But who would listen to the strange, old man, with his charcoal stained fingers and his linen wrapped feet. They deemed the cure for all was to pray harder, as this was a plague by the gods, they were sinners and needed to be cleansed. Fools, he called them, leaving into the forests for more. More herbs, more ideas, anything to cull off the rot, to prevent the dying. And he found it, following the chime of silvery bells and the song of fading souls, he discovered in a dark meadow the cure for all. The answer to every question, the tree stood tall and proud, warm and roughened bark glowing iridescent blue under each shaky touch.

He took bark, took leaves, fruits, even sap, all of them ethereal, aglow a power that transcended the realms of mortality. It was still a result of trial and error, of course it was, but he found it, he knew it. As he held the vial in his hands, pale upon pale, he knew, could feel it. A few drops were enough to cure fresh cases, mild ones where the rot has not appeared yet. But the more severe the case, the more medicine was needed until he found himself returning to the forest, over and over and over.

It hurt him, to take everything from the spirit tree, eternally giving, eternally merciful and bountiful with its fruits. Not awake but dreaming, he could feel its spirit, sensed its desire to help, to cure and the pureness of its soul tasted like spring’s dew, innocence cleansed and mercy granted. And he felt like a monster for abusing a pure being, milking it dry of every last drop of its blood and why?

To save a rotten cause. Because despite all the years wasted and chained down, despite being robbed of the life he wanted to live, he held onto the feeble illusion of belonging. In the end, he should have known better than to trust those that breathe and possess warm blood. It didn’t take long until they became greedy, wanted it all and he was helpless to stop them, unable as they cornered him against the glowing bark of the dreaming tree, axes at the ready to cut down the only thing that could save them.

Like a coward, he ran from fire and smoke and a fierce mob with their fangs of steel bared, in his pocket nothing but a sapling he had cut off the mother tree. He ran until the linen around his feet unravelled and ran some more until the footprints he left in the dust were red and wet. In between an eternal sun and night he found a hole in the ground to hide. To plant the sapling he had saved. Because maybe now he could make it up, could nurture and protect it, prevent the blooming sapling from suffering the same end in fire and greed as its mother.

And as every deed had its consequences, he was changed as a result of his actions. Inside the cave, he did not notice the pass of time, inside and underground, he worked away meticulously, until the charcoal runes on his skin had become one with him, until the food he had salvaged had rotted away, taken root and bore new fruit and a grove rich in spirits and pure energy was created. Days into weeks, into months, years and finally decades, going by unnoticed by him, while outside of his stone clad, underground sanctuary, barren plains of golden had changed.

Going out, among people became strange, felt unnatural. Their hearts too loud, too quick, their skin burning hot like the sun itself, he preferred the comforts of isolation and coldness, rune riddled skin covered in grey wool yet he still felt the stab of every passing glance. A stranger, he stood out in every way possible, curt and rude, snapping his jaws and scratching with hurtful words. He did not belong. Never had and never would, the masses of those alive were alien to him, he who was neither dead nor alive but somewhere in between. And he was fine with missing what he never knew to begin with, at least at first.

Ghorr wore the blessed light under his skin, in his eyes. He was clad in cold flesh and colder metal, covered in runes and sigils of an order long dead and gone, buried by failure and the crushing tides of history. He should, by all accounts not exist as he arrived, smiling, helpless, seeking for any kind of purpose. And he was naive, a pureness in his broken, stilled heart that this old, lonely man only ever witnessed once, only to bring doom upon it in fire and greed. He should have sent the scrambling undead away, should have pushed and struggled until Ghorr was gone and safe and not in danger of being baptized by fire and failure from his side again.

Ironic and telling, those that did not belong were drawn towards each other in magnetic strengths, purpose and fear, strength and weakness, extremes of two kinds needed each other to balance out the scale, to become something greater. Ghorr became the tomb behind which he could hide, bury himself in guilt and knowledge long forgotten, whispered to him by a choir of roaming souls, across the boundaries of the worlds. It was Ghorr that stopped him from running again, when a new beginning shaped itself up right outside his cave. It was also Ghorr who smiled and laughed and helped those lost souls, who built up the huts and climbed onto them to cover bare roofs. It was Ghorr they adored and him that brought back gifts of a plentiful harvest while he himself hid in darkness and underground.

And it would always be Ghorr who reached out with words of worship on his lips and suns in his eyes, who touched his rune covered skin with fervent praise. Ghorr was the one who softened guilt and anger and fear, the sheath to his drawn dagger, safe and familiar.

They belonged nowhere but here.

Ghorr
Dead but not gone, you
still possess more warmth
than any summerday, you
carry the sun in your eyes
and love in your veins. Stay
a little while longer, for me,
bask me in your glow again.

___

code & assets by archaic #19153

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