- Messages
- 38
- Character Biography
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Thagretis - 3 months before
- “That you have the skill, there is no doubt,” - The High Priest spoke with a pompous undertone to his voice, which seemed to permeate his words to an even greater degree than his cavernous pitch did. - “the grit, strength and…” - He paused for a moment, eyeing him appraisingly behind his gloomy countenance. - “and the right blood.” -
A silence stretched, the aftermath of a thought not yet concluded. The Thagretian reclined on his high seat, his elbows coming to rest on the chair’s arms, while his hands, fingers interlocked, were raised to come to rest just beneath his nose.
- “Though I do wonder,” - He whispered aloud, his expression guarded. - “about your motives.” - The clergyman tilted his head. - “What is our Lord Drakormir to you? Why do you align with us?” -
Koltûn stood immovable. His features inscrutably still, his expression devoid of any emotion or hint of whatever assailed his mind behind his bright gaze.
- “Whatever grievance was visited upon your deity by the Emperor is yours to bear.” - He said at last, his tone low, its cadence a slow crawl. - “But I have my own reckoning with my brother.” -
He had to tip toe to reach the book in the high shelf, sighing somewhat perceptibly as his puny arm struggled to wrestle the tome free from its perch.
At least the ritual had worked.
In the intervening months between having arrived in Thagretis, and leaving for Thanasis, the High Priests and Priestesses of the state had guided him through the basics of their draconic magic, as well as - much to his greater interest - their blood magic knowledge. The joint blood of the Blightlands’ Conjurer, as well as that of Menalus, coursing through his veins had been of great interest to them, both for its power and the opportunities for experimentation it offered. It had been, after all, a scion of one of these bloodlines which had cast down Drakormir.
Indeed, he had learned much to bring his mission to fruition, though it had to be said that sacrifices had also been needed. A half-giant would, after all, draw too much attention in the streets of Thanasis, so he had also been subjected to the Ritual of Form; a complicated arcane liturgy, drawing on ancient blood magic, which had turned his colossal, ghostly pale figure into something more closely resembling a regular human. The spell, for all its complication was subtle - leaving as many physical components unchanged as it could, focusing instead on the main features to shift so that the traces it left were as limited as possible.
So it was that his 10 feet frame had been shrunken to 6 feet, his ashen features tinged with a salmon red hue, while his bright, fiery gaze had been watered down to a dull hazel; even his blazing orange hair had been saturated to a jaded rust-orange. Needless to say that, of all the changes that had been forced onto his body, the one he resented the most was how small and weak he felt. He wasn’t scrawny by any means, though slender was certainly a description he’d use - a far cry from the athletic fit he’d grown used to.
He finally managed to pull the book free from the shelf. He studied the cover for a moment, before leafing through the first few pages.
"The first contact with the…" - Not quite, he continued to pass the pages. - "on the nectar of the Gods" - Definitely not. By light and shadow, he didn’t even want to know what these Thanasian savages meant by this. He kept going. It had to be here; he hoped it was here. Just the thought of having to rearrange this damn thing back on its shelf was nearly enough to make him want to set it on fire.
He was nearly towards the end of the tome when the fragment of a sentence caught his eye:
“... the death of a rider …”
Finally.
He closed the book, and placed it securely under his arm. A quick glance around saw his gaze fall upon an empty desk on a secluded corner of the library. He started to make his way towards it.
