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Aleron

(#53335694)

Level 25 Wildclaw

Familiar

Tinder Toy

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

5.13 m

Wingspan

8.89 m

Weight

496.34 kg

Genetics

Moss
Python

Sanguine
Constellation

White
Ghost

Hatchday

Jul 05, 2019
(4 years)

Breed

Adult
Wildclaw

Eye Type

Light
Uncommon

Level 25 Wildclaw

Max Level

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

115

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

none

Offspring

none

Biography

__._

Aleron Veit.
↠ Slum's Priest

"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..."

Ironic, wasn’t it? For the longest time, all he knew was the hushed whispers of students running to and from lessons, the scratch of the pen over paper. He smelled ink and even the crushed herbs the Priests liked to burn to calm their patients down. Far too much time he had spent underneath the crystal dome of the Temple of Respite. Because he had fainted yet again during lessons, because he had cried out in raw pain before collapsing, because blood was not supposed to drip from his eyes, his nose, his mouth at the smallest of spells.

He was new, a novelty truly. A dust crawler that had worked his way up, away from red velvet and red shaded lampions. Away from sepsis and the all encompassing scent of rot. He knew of his roots, of course he did, one would have to be of unrivaled arrogance to forget the womb that held them. But in his case, it was simply better for everyone to cut all ties and mourn the loss. Put sleeping dogs to rest, as he liked to put it.

None of the other students would let him forget anyways. They were meanspirited and ambitious in the worst of ways. But what could he expect in this pit of vipers anyways? None of the aspiring mages were kind and there were too many that could not keep up with the pressure placed upon them. Friends were a burden and backs turned in trust were only asking for a knife plunged into them.

For the longest time he thought he was an oddity, the only one. But he wasn’t. He found it out over mere accident, found it out that a student, older than him, struggled as well. Yet, he managed it, and was on his way to become the next rising star among the Priests. He wasn’t too tight with the man, despite their shared origins, again, friendship was only asking for poison in one’s cup and stolen homework.

The man was always smiling, he had no idea how he managed this, through the abuse disguised as lessons, through the torment of co students. Only when he met the man’s wife, did he understand. The way they looked at each other. the way she looked at her husband. And the warmth she left within his own chest, it was bizarre, strange in every sense of the word, yet too pleasant for the former dust crawler to fight against, why should he? It was nice and no one seemed to be hurt from it.

Except they were hurting, just as he was. Keeping up with the bone breaking pace of the lessons became impossible, no spell could be fulfilled, not without blood and pain and hurt. It became so bad that the Archmage herself intervened, gave him freepass after freepass, just to see how long he could keep struggling. It was no mercy, no compassion, the woman was rumored to own a heart of stone after all, so he feared she simply used him as yet another one of her twisted experiments.

Leaving became the best option when even his so called comrade in suffering, the other dust crawler no longer showed up. And for some reason, the wife’s smile never left his mind, how could he have fallen for a complete stranger, he did not know. Not with how guarded he deemed his heart, not with the pain constantly throbbing behind his eyes. No where in the city was he safe from the Archmage’s reach but in his own home. Between dust and dirt and depravity, he settled down, grim and nihilistic in manner.

All the time wasted in Obsidian Towers, all the sweat and tears and blood spilled for the dream of becoming a Priest only to find it shattered at his own feet. No matter how hard he cried for the unfairness of this, for some sort of deity to step down from heavens to make it better, he had no one and nothing to his name.

Building up an existence within the poorest of the poor was harder than one might suspect, greed and jealousy ran rampant in those parts of the city, yet he managed. With choking and a lot of broken doors during the first months, yet here he was, between dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and a bubbling cauldron, he owned everything a Priest could own except the gift of magicka itself. Healing the poor with traditional methods was what earned him the crumb of respect he possessed now, that he needed to leave his home unguarded and return to it undamaged.

And just when he thought this was it, this was all life had to offer for him, to him, the cripple, the one who wanted but couldn’t, she returned. With children hanging at her skirts and a scrawny boy guarding her with hawkeyes, he barely recognized her at first, time and fate had gnarled away at her but the sunshine of her smile had remained the same. He could never, would never forget this smile, not when he saw it every night in his dreams, not when it was the first thing coming to the forefront of his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

Her husband had died, her daughter had died, she had lost everything and remained upstanding, bright whereas he had turned towards bitterness like a protective set of armor. To hide a weary soul, to hide the exhaustion settling in his bones. He could have been bolder, braver. Could have, would have, should have. None of that mattered in the end. He did try to get closer towards her, towards Nonna as the green eyed boy called her. It always ended in disaster, in arguments and one time, with a broken leg for him. Thora was protective of her, as if he feared he wanted to hurt her.

The other children she took in didn’t like him either, too cold, too stiff, too nihilistic. He wasn’t kind, he was blunt and brash, he spoke the truth without sugarcoating it. And when she shared one evening, between putting the children to bed and him awkwardly trying to help, that the title of Priestess was what she wanted so badly, he spoke plain and simple.

You can do it. With a lot of practice and iron will of course., he was surprised at the gentleness of her smile. How could he possibly fall any further? This woman already owned him with heart, soul and body, he wanted to lay it to her feet, to lay bare the inner workings of his mind. And yet. She mourned, still. She hesitated at his kindness, his affection.
.
.
”The pain is too much”, she spoke softly, eyes far away, looking back at a better time, an easier one, when death was little more than a distant phantom at the horizon. In the warm glow of the dying flame, she was painted golden and bathed in heated colors, he could not look away and yet, the sadness etched itself only deeper in the corners of her eyes, tugged down the curve of her mouth, rested on her brow akin to a crown of thorns. “I don’t think I could survive this again.”

You don’t have to, was what he wanted to say, to scream out, heart bleeding and tongue heavy from guilt, shame, love. He was younger than her, he would not die before her, it could work out, if only she gave him a chance. If only. Instead he silenced his mourning mind and lifted the cup to his lips.

“Have you heard any news in regards to your grandson?”, was what finally came over his lips. Disgruntled and failing as a distraction, yet enough to chase away the heaviness of his almost confession. She smirked, green eyes flashing with sudden bouts of mischief and even though he knew it would be at his cost, this was worth it. Anything to tear away the sadness, to chase away the grief.

Hilda
Nothing burns hotter than old
love never forgotten. And he made
sure to tend to this flame, to never
let it be snuffed out, neither by time
nor by insurmountable odds.
And didn't it pay of in the end?

___

code & assets by archaic #19153

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