Sparhawk

Red Birdskull Headdress

Apparel

A hefty skull headdress, decorated with red tribal ribbons, threads, feathers, and beads. Wise dragons warn against the mystical and primal energies that surround pieces like this.

1600

Glowing Red Clawtips

Apparel

Softly glowing nails are the mark of an alchemist who has dipped their claws into their cauldron one too many times...

250

Shred

Ability Stone

A medium damage melee attack. The target takes damage from bleeding for a short time.

250

Required Level: 1

"Yeah, I have something to prove. Got a problem with that?"

Born to a clan living in the shadow of the Aergate, Sparhawk and his twin Kite were raised on stories. With words alone, their mother would conjure autumn leaves and ancient warriors, would tell them of their ancestry, their legacy. Of the Hari Kmeria, her feathers intertwined with gold, of the Sapphire Prince, and his hungry smile. They were Effluvial Crows, fighting was in their blood, and when their contagions manifested, she would bring them both to the Wyrmwound where they would run with the flocks. They would learn how to tell fortunes with feathers and coins, and honour their ancestors with bone carving and displays of strength.

Except, there was no venom in the twins' claws, and the eyes on their wings remain lifeless to this day. It was sometime in Sparhawk's adolescence that he could no longer bare the disappointment in his mother's eyes, and both he and Kite made their way to the Arena, and then wherever in Sornieth would let them sharpen their talons and put treasure in their paws. Sparhawk might not have the contagion, but he would still find a way to make the Crows proud.

... If he even was a Crow.

The Clan of Glowing Night was just supposed to be a pit stop, one of many the Crow-twins would take as they ripped their way through Sornieth's underground fighting scene. But, for reasons Sparhawk cannot begin to comprehend, this middle-of-nowhere Shadow Clan happens to house some "legendary sage" called Kuaneos. And his brother Kite wanted to train underneath him. As if - as if he could ever compare to The Five Generals, or The Devil of the South, or any of their other legends.

Sometimes Sparhawk strays to the edeges of the Foxfire Brambles, and through the thorns he swears he can make out dragons, running in the distance. Wings held in close like a secret, feather-crests adorned with trophies. Sometimes he remembers how his brother never comes with him, keeps giving excuses to stay in the brambles just one day longer.

And sometimes, Sparhawk wonders if he will be walking away from the Clan of Glowing Night alone.

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