Recent content by Zyndyrr K'yoshin

To think, only moments ago, an assassin might have approached this musician to open his throat. They were close enough for Zyndyrr to still do so. Ispir, on the other hand, just didn’t quite seem like the type of guy to return the gesture with his own. Only, it was Ispir’s hand that extended...

Traveler made sense. However, the other terms left Zyndyrr a bit perplexed as his brow curved upward. Bard and minstrel? Whatever was the difference? He figured maybe the words varied between languages but such was semantics. He’d ask later if he even remembered. The boy’s theatrics were on...

Then, with the bard’s insistence of no arrogance, he would get no argument from his visitor in the darkness they shared together on this rooftop. An arrogant man, however, was a term that might be best applied for another person than either of them at present. The drow was no assassin, not in...

For moments, Zyndyyrr was quiet even after he listened to this man’s words. He just stared at him, letting his shadowed gaze linger from within the rims of his hood. Blades of rain slashed past, defiant to silence, and darkness took the rooftop, ignorant of daggers in eyes, absent of firelight...

Sir. There the term was again. Though, in hindsight, this nervous if polite guy did not quite utter his verses as some coward, despite the hooded figure standing near him, alone on a rooftop, speaking of murder the way one plays music. Not so lonely though. Zyndyrr followed his contemporary’s...

This one was a curious person, both with his questions as they engaged in conversation and in his very existence. He played his harp, as beckoned, or just because he wanted to, his notes slow, the melody blending with the raindrops. It was elegant. However, Zyndyrr wasn’t certain whether it was...

How this bard with a harp managed to make it through life, never mind in a city, was beyond the drow’s understanding. If Zyn was an assassin or just a murderer then, after having approached the other man even closer, a quick cut with a dagger could have ended him that instant, one fine stroke...

In the dark and in the rain, a figure could stand far enough apart to still be heard without being seen, and Zyndyrr was one such person. Motionless, as raindrops dipped over the rim of his cloak’s hood, he listened to the other figure who shared his presence under open storm with his form no...

Apparently justice demanded Zyndyrr’s death. Yet the words of one dumb blundering orc just weren’t enough to stop the drow’s walk as he made his way to exit this forsaken place. Though he did turn in his gait to train his gaze at the ugly face. “You mean you intend to kill me for killing killer...

Usually, moving across rooftops simply matched the agility of this particular figure. He was used to the movements, taken to the navigation, finding himself night and day to negotiate his way through the alleys down below on the city streets, or hopping between buildings above their ceilings. It...

To be honest, Zyndyrr didn’t give ten wet shits or buckets of red piss for the other persons in his midst. They were not his problem. Those wraiths and cultists, however many were survivors left alive to flee behind his blades? Not even worth mentioning anyway. They were simply in his way in the...

Magic over here. Magick over there. For Zyndyrr K’yoshin, a mystery man in this establishment and a drow of the underground, he was not so alien to such machinations with his enchanted blades and powers. Yet he paid less attention to the execution from those in his midst with their own spells...

Zyndyrr braced himself for the hell that waited for him, a sword hilt in either hand, and determined to not part from this pit until the dance was finished and his target’s head was bagged. Man. Beast. It didn’t matter. He had the flexibility. “ORC!” The drow called once more. Zyndyrr turned...

Scatter. Stand back. Get behind the pillars. Take cover. It didn’t matter. The words of others pierced like daggers in Zyndyrr’s ears but that was just because of his adrenaline. Otherwise he ignored them and focused on what his eyes told him amid the rush of blood. There was some undead soul...

Here. There. Zyndyrr didn’t care. His blades scraped away, carving apart those in his way like a knife through walnut pie. These cultists weren’t even his targets. When the wraiths retreated, however, the former fled his way and that was their mistake. There were enough setbacks already, not...