Spittle drips from his cracked and crusted lips, spread wide in a malicious,
fang-bearing grin of ecstasy alloyed with insanity. His breath comes hot and
heavy as he stalks his whimpering, petrified prey. Calling upon the innate
strength of the truly wicked, he bunches his muscles and springs upon her
lithe, half-starved drowish form. Chained as she is, with nowhere but small
circles to run about the stake that anchors her within the grimy cell, she
cowers, shuddering not unlike a mouse hearing the shriek of an owl overhead
at the darkest hour of the night. He pounces upon her, his human weight
lending force to his maniacal rage. Her face is masked in terror, though the
tenancy of that visage quickly fades into a defeated, expressionless
resignation before her eyes roll back into her head and she fades into the
welcome embrace of nothingness.She will know what happened, but will never
remember it. The fates are unusually kind, this time.
Heavy footsteps echo down the dark corridor, rousing her from fitful sleep.
The rattle of keys and the turn of the lock cause her to open a swollen,
blood-crusted eye. She stares warily towards the entrance, feigning sleep
even as her body begins to convulse in abject terror. The termagant shaking
causes her chains to rattle, belying her awareness of the intruders within
the small, dank cell. The muttering of the beast, for he is certainly that,
escalates into screams of rage and fear as the forms that have entered the
cramped space remove his chains and utter the indecipherable incantations of
the arcane, bending him to their will. As he is lead away, his face a mask
of terror even the strongest magics cannot constrain, a smile spreads across
her lips. Murmuring quietly to herself as the door closes and the lock
turns, her hand settles upon the growing lump of her belly, gently stroking.
Slowly, the pains ease into a constant throb. Soon, she thinks, this
aberration will be drawn from her. If it does not consume her, first.
Pain. Dark rivers of undulating, unrelenting and unremitting pain course
through her lithe body, culminating in backbreaking, jaw clenching, teeth
crushing convulsions. Her cries of agony do not go unnoticed. Even as the
last throws of agony erupt between her legs, crowning in a pool of mucous and
blood, she feels something break within her. As the placenta encased form
slides out from within her, a wave of darkness, interminable eternity, slowly
consumes her consciousness. She will never be aware of the dark, distinctly
feminine form standing over her cooling body, uttering unintelligible phrases
that lift the still form from between her wretched thighs. She will never
know the road her progeny will travel, that its twists and turns will be more
vile, by far, than her own deplorable existence. Standing over the corpse of
her recently expired slave, the newcomer nods her head with a smirk of dark
satisfaction, turning to exit even as the small form begins to wriggle in the
cool, damp air, carried out before her on the winds of magic. "Perfect," she
thinks to herself with a wicked smile. The fates have swung to new lows, the
depths of evil saturating the beginning of another miserable life.
The Hunger
A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating
slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills his vision as
agony courses throughout his being. Cries of anguish spill forth from his
broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind him.
He tugs helplessly at the chains holding him aloft, tears of resignation and
pain streaming down his scarred, olive colored cheeks. Despite the pain, his
body responds to his expectancy of the next flesh-rending slap.Instead, he
feels the warm heat of breath upon his neck, and hears the drowish whisper of
promised pain. A wild, absurd thought forms within his mind. Pain? Can
there possibly be any more pain?
Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, he cranes his neck
to look over his shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating the
pain coursing through his frail form, subduing the intensity of his torments
to allow him brief control. The air beside his tormentor shimmers and
twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With a
shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, he knows instinctively that
everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending
torture.
Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across his flesh, raising the small hairs
on his neck and acidic bile to his mouth. Try as he might, he cannot escape
from the image of the devilishly grinning beast, appearing before his minds
eye even as his body clenches reflexively, his eyes clamped shut in complete
repulsion. The hands behind him caress the recently opened wounds, pinching,
poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of anguish.
Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm him.His legs are forced
apart, and he feels the last of his youth ripped away as the archfiend
penetrates his body, piercing him to the heart of his being. He collapses
into the depths of his mind, his formerly cohesive thoughts disseminating
into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further sound escapes from
his lips.
He will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed the
rape of his entire being. Spells further bend and break his body, but he
knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon his entirety by fiend and drow
alike, but he will recall only in fractured dreams. When his body offers no
further sport, dominance of his mind and spirit no challenge, he is discarded
like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left for whatever
scavengers happen upon him first. Hours pass by unnoticed. Slowly, one
eyelid opens. A broken finger bends. The belly growls. A hunger has come.
A hunger no mere food could ever sate.
The Birth
As he limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the
myriad market stalls, taverns, and brothels, he marvels at the uniqueness of
it all. His hitched step leads him towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to
pluck some food for his grumbling belly, but he stops short. The weight of a
hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within him, slowly turns
him away from his task. He turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an elderly
man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of a versed mage.
'You appear old, but you are not. Your eyes betray an awareness that
does not meet with your appearance. And I sense something within you that
can be cultivated into worth. If you are willing to make sacrifices.'
Astonishment and curiosity threaten to overwhelm him. He works his
thickly scarred tongue about his suddenly dry mouth, afraid hell be unable
to respond.
'Do not answer me yet, child. Simply nod if you wish to learn more
about yourself, and perhaps, in time, escape from the tortured frame that
contains your spirit.'
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods, daring against all odds of his
existence, everything he knows against hope, that some truth can be found
within the words of this capricious stranger.
Weeks and months pass, each day bringing with it trials and pains.
They are readily dismissed as Idrazin, named so by his master for his epic
poor luck, continues to grow in his abilities, despite the haunting and
daunting history resulting from his many tortures at the hands of planar
beasts and the malcontents of the Unlit City.
It quickly becomes apparent that his grasp of the magics will never
permit him the control of a true mage. Instead, like his guildmaster, he has
grown enough in his proficiency to become adept in shifting elemental powers
of the invoker guilds.
On a rainy day, his body dripping sweat and trembling with
exhaustion, threatening to collapse, his guildmaster turns to him, the gleam
in his eye reflected in the knowing smirk upon his lips.
'Your day has come, and it is time for your sacrifice,' he utters
with no small hint of malice.
Craning his tortured, misshapen neck to observe his master, Idrazin
ponders his words, offering no immediate response.
'I told you that you would make sacrifices. That time has come.'
'I have not taught you thus out of some sense of compassion. No, you
have been molded to fit my own designs, and the designs of a faction many
only speak of in fearful whispers.'
It crosses the young mages mind to prepare to defend himself, but
morbid curiosity compels him to remain and hear out this man who has given
much. How much will he demand?
'There exists a god, called Zylenier.
You have been chosen to serve the goals of his will. You have no choice in
the matter, yet must strive to gain their acceptance. In order to server him better,
I strongly suggest you to seek your way to the Legion's ranks...'
'You will give up your life to Zylenier.'
'That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have
offered you.'
'Do not fail me, Idrazin.'
All things considered, with hatred and anger running rampant in
his blood, Idrazin silently revels in the task at hand, though
His face never betrays his glee.
'Very well then.'
Untitled
Dark whispers echo within the heavy black cloak of darkness, murmured
promises of seduction commingling with veiled threats of wickedness and
depravity, one crackling, rustling winged beast as nearly indecipherable from
the next in a cascade of unseen telling. Slowly, as if crossing the vastness
of a desert, another sound emerges from the shadows. The steady drip of
water echoes within the lightless tunnel, carried upon a cool, steady breeze.
Odd, winds here, crosses the mind of the tortured being slowly
regaining his faculties. He begins crawling up the slight incline, reaching
desperately towards a bend in the rocky tunnel.
He approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of
feral rage within himself, his urges feeling almost like they would be chasing him,
as he realizes he cannot pass through the narrow opening before him. As his anger
builds, something in his mind begins to draw upon the unspent energy of a lifetime
of torment. With a final shove of anger and hatred, the build up of energy explodes
from him, directed towards the small hole.
With ear shattering force, the tiny hole explodes, casting brain debris in
every direction. Where the small pinpoint once penetrated the bowels of the
land, a gaping, jagged tooth hole the size of two men stares openly,
unblinking into the depths.
From there, finally, Zylenier's presence could be found and embraced.
Untitled
Lost within his own despair, Idrazin dragged himself around the town,
trying to surpress his urges and hatred. Crippled by burdening thoughts,
questions unanswered and faces of reality unrecognized, he finally decided
to seek help from one person whom he knew to be knowledgeable enough.
Shortly after, probably a few illuminating moons later, Idrazin found himself
undertaking the horrific journey to Zylenier's fabled altar once again, but
this time, he was not alone with his fear.
Guided by Rakse Kolinare of the Mystics, he utilized his newfound
strength and hope not to survive the harsh journey, but to be in control of
himself and his surroundings by caressing his one and only dream to finally
understand!
Swimming through the rapid ever-blue waters, lurking past the patrolling
outlaws and thieves, being unhindered by the vile scent of the dripping
caverns ahead, the duo arrived to the breaking point of Idrazin's miserable
life, to Zylenier's non-existant mercy, once again.
Being shown and taught how, Idrazin finally, but surely managed to
embrace Zylenier in all it's darkness and accept his morbid future.
But the answers he seeks are still to be found...
Untitled
Long past are the lightless subterranean days with the seemingly unending
tortures that simultaneously crippled and molded a young drow into a
ball of hatred and anger. Despite the passage of time, and the dissemination
of harbored hatred upon the innocent and foolhardy, Idrazin's capacity for
anger has not diminished. If anything, those that have stepped before him in
opposition have added fuel to a fire that will burn eternal, merely
furthering his drive for the obliteration of everything that is life on this
world.
Often, he thinks back to the stranger of his past. A guildsman who took him
under wing for no other reason than to further the ambitions of his fold of
sordid, maniacal demons of apocalypse. Well, perhaps a few proved merely
fodder, meat shields from behind which the true workings of dark magic could
be properly woven. He thinks back to the education he received, of the
powers innate, and of the prophecy he was to fulfill.
Something remains lacking. The irony of this notion is not lost upon
Idrazin, who smirks when considering that he should want for anything
beyond exacting revenge upon a world that scorned him from birth. But the
taste of power has a way of changing things. Just as the rape and pillaging
of a youth sparks the first molecules of hatred deep within the recesses of
his consciousness, the fine wine that is power tickles the roof of the mouth,
sends a shiver of delight through the body, and curls the toes in ecstasy.
Unlike hatred and anger, power remains frustratingly ethereal, tangible and
retainable for only fleeting moments of time.
Among the fold, carrying always his sinister and dark purpose, Idrazin has
found a way to gather that power. With the addition of powerful new spells,
and forms from which to temporarily escape the confines of his tortured body,
now even permitting him to truly take flight as he visits his pain upon
others, life has offered new options. Where many would find hope for
something better, anger annihilates the notion, not unlike a wall of razing
fire erupting over and down a hillside, eradicating everything living in its
path. No, this new power, which must grow, must ever increase, will bring
about the nightmares this cruel, unfair world deserves and serve as a conduit
to the rage burning within this tortured soul.
Description:
An unimposing, seemingly broken figure stoops before you, bent at the waist and clearly bow-legged. His spindly, discordant legs, ending in pidgeoned, nearly ossified feet, appear incapable of bearing any weight, yet he remains aright despite their tremulous and anemic semblance. Although he appears burdened by some invisible weight, his head is lifted in apparent defiance, his piercing gaze roving endlessly about his surroundings. His dark almond eyes shift frantically, wildly, not unlike a cornered beast. A multitude of thin scars crisscross the soft, olive skin of his face, culminating in a ragged line that could once have been a proud, distinguished nose but now lies twisted in ruin. The dark, damaged skin circumscribes his thin face, ending in slightly pointed and scar-thickened ears. His breath comes in ragged gasps, as if even the act of living exerts a great toll upon his body. He is cloaked heavily in furs and wraps, their cumbersome weight at odds with his discernible struggle to remain bipedal. One arm remains ever present before him, the thin appendage snaking out from beneath his ragged armors, culminating in a nearly desiccated, skeletal claw gripping the staff upon which he leans so heavily. A bundle of pouches slung about his thin waist add to the weight of the world that continues to bear down upon this young drow, their make and purpose concurrent with those held by many a mage in the lands, albeit second or third hand by their worn, clearly deteriorated condition.
Denied because I told Nycticora/Ranix what I think of him on IRC.
Was going to give up on this char anyway, if someone is bored, here's my RP story/background entries:
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #1 - The Birth
Spittle drips from his cracked and crusted lips, spread wide in a malicious,
fang-bearing grin of ecstasy alloyed with insanity. His breath comes hot and
heavy as he stalks his whimpering, petrified prey. Calling upon he innate
strength of the truly wicked, he bunches his muscles and springs upon her
lithe, half-starved elven form.Chained as she is, with nowhere but small
circles to run about the stake that anchors her within the grimy cell, she
cowers, shuddering not unlike a mouse hearing the shriek of an owl overhead
at the darkest hour of the night. He pounces upon her, his human weight
lending force to his maniacal rage. Her face is masked in terror, though the
tenancy of that visage quickly fades into a defeated, expressionless
resignation before her eyes roll back into her head and she fades into the
welcome embrace of nothingness.She will know what happened, but will never
remember it. The fates are unusually kind, this time.
Heavy footsteps echo down the dark corridor, rousing her from fitful sleep.
The rattle of keys and the turn of the lock cause her to open a swollen,
blood-crusted eye. She stares warily towards the entrance, feigning sleep
even as her body begins to convulse in abject terror. The termagant shaking
causes her chains to rattle, belying her awareness of the intruders within
the small, dank cell. The muttering of the beast, for he is certainly that,
escalates into screams of rage and fear as the forms that have entered the
cramped space remove his chains and utter the indecipherable incantations of
the arcane, bending him to their will. As he is lead away, his face a mask
of terror even the strongest magics cannot constrain, a smile spreads across
her lips. Murmuring quietly to herself as the door closes and the lock
turns, her hand settles upon the growing lump of her belly, gently stroking.
Slowly, the pains ease into a constant throb. Soon, she thinks, this
aberration will be drawn from her. If it does not consume her, first.
Pain. Dark rivers of undulating, unrelenting and unremitting pain course
through her lithe body, culminating in backbreaking, jaw clenching, teeth
crushing convulsions. Her cries of agony do not go unnoticed. Even as the
last throws of agony erupt between her legs, crowning in a pool of mucous and
blood, she feels something break within her. As the placenta encased form
slides out from within her, a wave of darkness, interminable eternity, slowly
consumes her consciousness. She will never be aware of the dark, distinctly
feminine form standing over her cooling body, uttering unintelligible phrases
that lift the still form from between her wretched thighs. She will never
know the road her progeny will travel, that its twists and turns will be more
vile, by far, than her own deplorable existence. Standing over the corpse of
her recently expired slave, the newcomer nods her head with a smirk of dark
satisfaction, turning to exit even as the small form begins to wriggle in the
cool, damp air, carried out before her on the winds of magic. "Perfect," she
thinks to herself with a wicked smile. The fates have swung to new lows, the
depths of evil saturating the beginning of another miserable life.[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #2 - Early days
A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating
slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills his vision as
agony courses throughout his being. Cries of anguish spill forth from his
broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind him.
He tugs helplessly at the chains holding him aloft, tears of resignation and
pain streaming down his scarred, olive colored cheeks. Despite the pain, his
body responds to his expectancy of the next flesh-rending slap.Instead, he
feels the warm heat of breath upon his neck, and hears the drowish whisper of
promised pain. A wild, absurd thought forms within his mind. Pain? Can
there possibly be any more pain?
Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, he cranes his neck
to look over his shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating the
pain coursing through his frail form, subduing the intensity of his torments
to allow him brief control. The air beside his tormentor shimmers and
twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With a
shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, he knows instinctively that
everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending
torture.
Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across his flesh, raising the small hairs
on his neck and acidic bile to his mouth. Try as he might, he cannot escape
from the image of the devilishly grinning beast, appearing before his minds
eye even as his body clenches reflexively, his eyes clamped shut in complete
repulsion. The hands behind him caress the recently opened wounds, pinching,
poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of anguish.
Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm him.His legs are forced
apart, and he feels the last of his youth ripped away as the archfiend
penetrates his body, piercing him to the heart of his being. He collapses
into the depths of his mind, his formerly cohesive thoughts disseminating
into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further sound escapes from
his lips.
He will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed the
rape of his entire being. Spells further bend and break his body, but he
knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon his entirety by fiend and drow
alike, but he will recall only in fractured dreams. When his body offers no
further sport, dominance of his mind and spirit no challenge, he is discarded
like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left for whatever
scavengers happen upon him first. Hours pass by unnoticed. Slowly, one
eyelid opens. A broken finger bends. The belly growls. A hunger has come.
A hunger no mere food could ever sate.[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #3 - Becoming a mage
As he limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the
myriad market stalls, taverns, and brothels, he marvels at the uniqueness of
it all.His hitched step leads him towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to
pluck some food for his grumbling belly, but he stops short. The weight of a
hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within him, slowly turns
him away from his task.He turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an elderly
man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of a versed mage.
'You appear old, but you are not. Your eyes betray an awareness that
does not meet with your appearance. And I sense something within you that
can be cultivated into worth. If you are willing to make sacrifices.'
Astonishment and curiosity threaten to overwhelm him. He works his
thickly scarred tongue about his suddenly dry mouth, afraid hell be unable
to respond.
'Do not answer me yet, child. Simply nod if you wish to learn more
about yourself, and perhaps, in time, escape from the tortured frame that
contains your spirit.'
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods, daring against all odds of his
existence, everything he knows against hope, that some truth can be found
within the words of this capricious stranger.
Weeks and months pass, each day bringing with it trials and pains.
They are readily dismissed as Idrazin, named so by his master for his epic
poor luck, continues to grow in his abilities, despite the haunting and
daunting history resulting from his many tortures at the hands of planar
beasts and the malcontents of the Unlit City.
It quickly becomes apparent that his grasp of the magics will never
permit him the control of a true mage. Instead, like his guildmaster, he has
grown enough in his proficiency to become adept in shifting elemental powers
of the invoker guilds.
On a rainy day, his body dripping sweat and trembling with
exhaustion, threatening to collapse, his guildmaster turns to him, the gleam
in his eye reflected in the knowing smirk upon his lips.
'Your day has come, and it is time for your sacrifice,' he utters
with no small hint of malice.
Craning his tortured, misshapen neck to observe his master, Idrazin
ponders his words, offering no immediate response.
'I told you that you would make sacrifices. That time has come.'
'I have not taught you thus out of some sense of compassion. No, you
have been molded to fit my own designs, and the designs of a faction many
only speak of in fearful whispers.'
It crosses the young mages mind to prepare to defend himself, but
morbid curiosity compels him to remain and hear out this man who has given
much. How much will he demand?
'There exists a god, called Zylenier.
You have been chosen to serve the goals of his will. You have no choice in
the matter, yet must strive to gain their acceptance. In order to server him better,
I strongly suggest you to seek your way to the Legion's ranks...'
'You will give up your life to Zylenier.'
'That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have
offered you.'
'Do not fail me, Idrazin.'
All things considered, with hatred and anger running rampant in
his blood, Idrazin silently revels in the task at hand, though
His face never betrays his glee.
'Very well then.'
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #4 - Seeking Zylenier
Dark whispers echo within the heavy black cloak of darkness, murmured
promises of seduction commingling with veiled threats of wickedness and
depravity, one crackling, rustling winged beast as nearly indecipherable from
the next in a cascade of unseen telling. Slowly, as if crossing the vastness
of a desert, another sound emerges from the shadows. The steady drip of
water echoes within the lightless tunnel, carried upon a cool, steady breeze.
Odd, winds here, crosses the mind of the tortured being slowly
regaining his faculties. He begins crawling up the slight incline, reaching
desperately towards a bend in the rocky tunnel.
He approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of
feral rage within himself, his urges feeling almost like they would be chasing him,
as he realizes he cannot pass through the narrow opening before him. As his anger
builds, something in his mind begins to draw upon the unspent energy of a lifetime
of torment. With a final shove of anger and hatred, the build up of energy explodes
from him, directed towards the small hole.
With ear shattering force, the tiny hole explodes, casting brain debris in
every direction. Where the small pinpoint once penetrated the bowels of the
land, a gaping, jagged tooth hole the size of two men stares openly,
unblinking into the depths.
From there, finally, Zylenier's presence could be found and embraced.
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #5 - Being accepted by Zylenier
Lost within his own despair, Idrazin dragged himself around the town,
trying to surpress his urges and hatred. Crippled by burdening thoughts,
questions unanswered and faces of reality unrecognized, he finally decided
to seek help from one person whom he knew to be knowledgeable enough.
Shortly after, probably a few illuminating moons later, Idrazin found himself
undertaking the horrific journey to Zylenier's fabled altar once again, but
this time, he was not alone with his fear.
Guided by Rakse Kolinare of the Mystics, he utilized his newfound
strength and hope not to survive the harsh journey, but to be in control of
himself and his surroundings by caressing his one and only dream to finally
understand!
Swimming through the rapid ever-blue waters, lurking past the patrolling
outlaws and thieves, being unhindered by the vile scent of the dripping
caverns ahead, the duo arrived to the breaking point of Idrazin's miserable
life, to Zylenier's non-existant mercy, once again.
Being shown and taught how, Idrazin finally, but surely managed to
embrace Zylenier in all it's darkness and accept his morbid future.
But the answers he seeks are still to be found...
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #6 - Reaching pinnacle
Long past are the lightless subterranean days with the seemingly unending
tortures that simultaneously crippled and molded a young drow into a
ball of hatred and anger. Despite the passage of time, and the dissemination
of harbored hatred upon the innocent and foolhardy, Idrazin's capacity for
anger has not diminished. If anything, those that have stepped before him in
opposition have added fuel to a fire that will burn eternal, merely
furthering his drive for the obliteration of everything that is life on this
world.
Often, he thinks back to the stranger of his past. A guildsman who took him
under wing for no other reason than to further the ambitions of his fold of
sordid, maniacal demons of apocalypse. Well, perhaps a few proved merely
fodder, meat shields from behind which the true workings of dark magic could
be properly woven. He thinks back to the education he received, of the
powers innate, and of the prophecy he was to fulfill.
Something remains lacking. The irony of this notion is not lost upon
Idrazin, who smirks when considering that he should want for anything
beyond exacting revenge upon a world that scorned him from birth. But the
taste of power has a way of changing things. Just as the rape and pillaging
of a youth sparks the first molecules of hatred deep within the recesses of
his consciousness, the fine wine that is power tickles the roof of the mouth,
sends a shiver of delight through the body, and curls the toes in ecstasy.
Unlike hatred and anger, power remains frustratingly ethereal, tangible and
retainable for only fleeting moments of time.
Among the fold, carrying always his sinister and dark purpose, Idrazin has
found a way to gather that power. With the addition of powerful new spells,
and forms from which to temporarily escape the confines of his tortured body,
now even permitting him to truly take flight as he visits his pain upon
others, life has offered new options. Where many would find hope for
something better, anger annihilates the notion, not unlike a wall of razing
fire erupting over and down a hillside, eradicating everything living in its
path. No, this new power, which must grow, must ever increase, will bring
about the nightmares this cruel, unfair world deserves and serve as a conduit
to the rage burning within this tortured soul.
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
Props to you Dispater. I'm not a big fan of the person you pissed off. Kind of unprofessional/immature if you ask me.
As far as your character goes, grouped with you on a few occasions and you suck. I hope I never have the pleasure of grouping with another one of your characters again.
You were denied in the middle of a spite delete after all that IRC shit talk.
Most CRITICAL thing was for you to do all your interactions IC'ly instead of resorting to other mediums to communicate, because its a game rule for cabal players and cabal applicants. Put ALL your efforts into following that rule and you will get a much better ROI than writing any background at all.
That rule can be read here:
http://www.abandonedrealms.com/search.php?search=application
That rule can be discussed here:
http://abandonedrealms.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=8901
Decent background, overdoing it a little bit. You'll do better next time.
Locking to nip obvious flamefest in the bud. Sorry to disappoint anyone who likes those. Invokation.net is thattaway.
Was going to give up on this char anyway, if someone is bored, here's my RP story/background entries:
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #1 - The Birth
Spittle drips from his cracked and crusted lips, spread wide in a malicious,
fang-bearing grin of ecstasy alloyed with insanity. His breath comes hot and
heavy as he stalks his whimpering, petrified prey. Calling upon he innate
strength of the truly wicked, he bunches his muscles and springs upon her
lithe, half-starved elven form.Chained as she is, with nowhere but small
circles to run about the stake that anchors her within the grimy cell, she
cowers, shuddering not unlike a mouse hearing the shriek of an owl overhead
at the darkest hour of the night. He pounces upon her, his human weight
lending force to his maniacal rage. Her face is masked in terror, though the
tenancy of that visage quickly fades into a defeated, expressionless
resignation before her eyes roll back into her head and she fades into the
welcome embrace of nothingness.She will know what happened, but will never
remember it. The fates are unusually kind, this time.
Heavy footsteps echo down the dark corridor, rousing her from fitful sleep.
The rattle of keys and the turn of the lock cause her to open a swollen,
blood-crusted eye. She stares warily towards the entrance, feigning sleep
even as her body begins to convulse in abject terror. The termagant shaking
causes her chains to rattle, belying her awareness of the intruders within
the small, dank cell. The muttering of the beast, for he is certainly that,
escalates into screams of rage and fear as the forms that have entered the
cramped space remove his chains and utter the indecipherable incantations of
the arcane, bending him to their will. As he is lead away, his face a mask
of terror even the strongest magics cannot constrain, a smile spreads across
her lips. Murmuring quietly to herself as the door closes and the lock
turns, her hand settles upon the growing lump of her belly, gently stroking.
Slowly, the pains ease into a constant throb. Soon, she thinks, this
aberration will be drawn from her. If it does not consume her, first.
Pain. Dark rivers of undulating, unrelenting and unremitting pain course
through her lithe body, culminating in backbreaking, jaw clenching, teeth
crushing convulsions. Her cries of agony do not go unnoticed. Even as the
last throws of agony erupt between her legs, crowning in a pool of mucous and
blood, she feels something break within her. As the placenta encased form
slides out from within her, a wave of darkness, interminable eternity, slowly
consumes her consciousness. She will never be aware of the dark, distinctly
feminine form standing over her cooling body, uttering unintelligible phrases
that lift the still form from between her wretched thighs. She will never
know the road her progeny will travel, that its twists and turns will be more
vile, by far, than her own deplorable existence. Standing over the corpse of
her recently expired slave, the newcomer nods her head with a smirk of dark
satisfaction, turning to exit even as the small form begins to wriggle in the
cool, damp air, carried out before her on the winds of magic. "Perfect," she
thinks to herself with a wicked smile. The fates have swung to new lows, the
depths of evil saturating the beginning of another miserable life.[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #2 - Early days
A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating
slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills his vision as
agony courses throughout his being. Cries of anguish spill forth from his
broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind him.
He tugs helplessly at the chains holding him aloft, tears of resignation and
pain streaming down his scarred, olive colored cheeks. Despite the pain, his
body responds to his expectancy of the next flesh-rending slap.Instead, he
feels the warm heat of breath upon his neck, and hears the drowish whisper of
promised pain. A wild, absurd thought forms within his mind. Pain? Can
there possibly be any more pain?
Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, he cranes his neck
to look over his shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating the
pain coursing through his frail form, subduing the intensity of his torments
to allow him brief control. The air beside his tormentor shimmers and
twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With a
shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, he knows instinctively that
everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending
torture.
Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across his flesh, raising the small hairs
on his neck and acidic bile to his mouth. Try as he might, he cannot escape
from the image of the devilishly grinning beast, appearing before his minds
eye even as his body clenches reflexively, his eyes clamped shut in complete
repulsion. The hands behind him caress the recently opened wounds, pinching,
poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of anguish.
Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm him.His legs are forced
apart, and he feels the last of his youth ripped away as the archfiend
penetrates his body, piercing him to the heart of his being. He collapses
into the depths of his mind, his formerly cohesive thoughts disseminating
into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further sound escapes from
his lips.
He will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed the
rape of his entire being. Spells further bend and break his body, but he
knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon his entirety by fiend and drow
alike, but he will recall only in fractured dreams. When his body offers no
further sport, dominance of his mind and spirit no challenge, he is discarded
like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left for whatever
scavengers happen upon him first. Hours pass by unnoticed. Slowly, one
eyelid opens. A broken finger bends. The belly growls. A hunger has come.
A hunger no mere food could ever sate.[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #3 - Becoming a mage
As he limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the
myriad market stalls, taverns, and brothels, he marvels at the uniqueness of
it all.His hitched step leads him towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to
pluck some food for his grumbling belly, but he stops short. The weight of a
hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within him, slowly turns
him away from his task.He turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an elderly
man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of a versed mage.
'You appear old, but you are not. Your eyes betray an awareness that
does not meet with your appearance. And I sense something within you that
can be cultivated into worth. If you are willing to make sacrifices.'
Astonishment and curiosity threaten to overwhelm him. He works his
thickly scarred tongue about his suddenly dry mouth, afraid hell be unable
to respond.
'Do not answer me yet, child. Simply nod if you wish to learn more
about yourself, and perhaps, in time, escape from the tortured frame that
contains your spirit.'
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods, daring against all odds of his
existence, everything he knows against hope, that some truth can be found
within the words of this capricious stranger.
Weeks and months pass, each day bringing with it trials and pains.
They are readily dismissed as Idrazin, named so by his master for his epic
poor luck, continues to grow in his abilities, despite the haunting and
daunting history resulting from his many tortures at the hands of planar
beasts and the malcontents of the Unlit City.
It quickly becomes apparent that his grasp of the magics will never
permit him the control of a true mage. Instead, like his guildmaster, he has
grown enough in his proficiency to become adept in shifting elemental powers
of the invoker guilds.
On a rainy day, his body dripping sweat and trembling with
exhaustion, threatening to collapse, his guildmaster turns to him, the gleam
in his eye reflected in the knowing smirk upon his lips.
'Your day has come, and it is time for your sacrifice,' he utters
with no small hint of malice.
Craning his tortured, misshapen neck to observe his master, Idrazin
ponders his words, offering no immediate response.
'I told you that you would make sacrifices. That time has come.'
'I have not taught you thus out of some sense of compassion. No, you
have been molded to fit my own designs, and the designs of a faction many
only speak of in fearful whispers.'
It crosses the young mages mind to prepare to defend himself, but
morbid curiosity compels him to remain and hear out this man who has given
much. How much will he demand?
'There exists a god, called Zylenier.
You have been chosen to serve the goals of his will. You have no choice in
the matter, yet must strive to gain their acceptance. In order to server him better,
I strongly suggest you to seek your way to the Legion's ranks...'
'You will give up your life to Zylenier.'
'That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have
offered you.'
'Do not fail me, Idrazin.'
All things considered, with hatred and anger running rampant in
his blood, Idrazin silently revels in the task at hand, though
His face never betrays his glee.
'Very well then.'
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #4 - Seeking Zylenier
Dark whispers echo within the heavy black cloak of darkness, murmured
promises of seduction commingling with veiled threats of wickedness and
depravity, one crackling, rustling winged beast as nearly indecipherable from
the next in a cascade of unseen telling. Slowly, as if crossing the vastness
of a desert, another sound emerges from the shadows. The steady drip of
water echoes within the lightless tunnel, carried upon a cool, steady breeze.
Odd, winds here, crosses the mind of the tortured being slowly
regaining his faculties. He begins crawling up the slight incline, reaching
desperately towards a bend in the rocky tunnel.
He approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of
feral rage within himself, his urges feeling almost like they would be chasing him,
as he realizes he cannot pass through the narrow opening before him. As his anger
builds, something in his mind begins to draw upon the unspent energy of a lifetime
of torment. With a final shove of anger and hatred, the build up of energy explodes
from him, directed towards the small hole.
With ear shattering force, the tiny hole explodes, casting brain debris in
every direction. Where the small pinpoint once penetrated the bowels of the
land, a gaping, jagged tooth hole the size of two men stares openly,
unblinking into the depths.
From there, finally, Zylenier's presence could be found and embraced.
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #5 - Being accepted by Zylenier
Lost within his own despair, Idrazin dragged himself around the town,
trying to surpress his urges and hatred. Crippled by burdening thoughts,
questions unanswered and faces of reality unrecognized, he finally decided
to seek help from one person whom he knew to be knowledgeable enough.
Shortly after, probably a few illuminating moons later, Idrazin found himself
undertaking the horrific journey to Zylenier's fabled altar once again, but
this time, he was not alone with his fear.
Guided by Rakse Kolinare of the Mystics, he utilized his newfound
strength and hope not to survive the harsh journey, but to be in control of
himself and his surroundings by caressing his one and only dream to finally
understand!
Swimming through the rapid ever-blue waters, lurking past the patrolling
outlaws and thieves, being unhindered by the vile scent of the dripping
caverns ahead, the duo arrived to the breaking point of Idrazin's miserable
life, to Zylenier's non-existant mercy, once again.
Being shown and taught how, Idrazin finally, but surely managed to
embrace Zylenier in all it's darkness and accept his morbid future.
But the answers he seeks are still to be found...
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[quote:40f6578e8d]Chapter #6 - Reaching pinnacle
Long past are the lightless subterranean days with the seemingly unending
tortures that simultaneously crippled and molded a young drow into a
ball of hatred and anger. Despite the passage of time, and the dissemination
of harbored hatred upon the innocent and foolhardy, Idrazin's capacity for
anger has not diminished. If anything, those that have stepped before him in
opposition have added fuel to a fire that will burn eternal, merely
furthering his drive for the obliteration of everything that is life on this
world.
Often, he thinks back to the stranger of his past. A guildsman who took him
under wing for no other reason than to further the ambitions of his fold of
sordid, maniacal demons of apocalypse. Well, perhaps a few proved merely
fodder, meat shields from behind which the true workings of dark magic could
be properly woven. He thinks back to the education he received, of the
powers innate, and of the prophecy he was to fulfill.
Something remains lacking. The irony of this notion is not lost upon
Idrazin, who smirks when considering that he should want for anything
beyond exacting revenge upon a world that scorned him from birth. But the
taste of power has a way of changing things. Just as the rape and pillaging
of a youth sparks the first molecules of hatred deep within the recesses of
his consciousness, the fine wine that is power tickles the roof of the mouth,
sends a shiver of delight through the body, and curls the toes in ecstasy.
Unlike hatred and anger, power remains frustratingly ethereal, tangible and
retainable for only fleeting moments of time.
Among the fold, carrying always his sinister and dark purpose, Idrazin has
found a way to gather that power. With the addition of powerful new spells,
and forms from which to temporarily escape the confines of his tortured body,
now even permitting him to truly take flight as he visits his pain upon
others, life has offered new options. Where many would find hope for
something better, anger annihilates the notion, not unlike a wall of razing
fire erupting over and down a hillside, eradicating everything living in its
path. No, this new power, which must grow, must ever increase, will bring
about the nightmares this cruel, unfair world deserves and serve as a conduit
to the rage burning within this tortured soul.
[/quote:40f6578e8d]
[reply to Dispater]
[reply to Nadrin]
[reply to beia]
As far as your character goes, grouped with you on a few occasions and you suck. I hope I never have the pleasure of grouping with another one of your characters again.
[reply to xanthas]
Most CRITICAL thing was for you to do all your interactions IC'ly instead of resorting to other mediums to communicate, because its a game rule for cabal players and cabal applicants. Put ALL your efforts into following that rule and you will get a much better ROI than writing any background at all.
That rule can be read here:
http://www.abandonedrealms.com/search.php?search=application
That rule can be discussed here:
http://abandonedrealms.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=8901
Decent background, overdoing it a little bit. You'll do better next time.
Locking to nip obvious flamefest in the bud. Sorry to disappoint anyone who likes those. Invokation.net is thattaway.
[reply to Davairus]