- Messages
- 1
- Character Biography
- Link
Desert winds howled a desolate dirge beyond sun-bleached fields of ochre and bone. Whipping sand clawing tattered cloak, fabric echoing a dunal symphony, Alastor peered through yellowed eye, of yellower thirst. Solaceless, the days bled together; their furnace breathing upon his underworld skin.
A sardonic cackle escaped his lips, that even Amol-Kalit—his barren, new home—served no end to his soulless song. Priests had left him here, a sacrifice to twisted piety. Their pronouncements, laced with righteous fury, still echoed the hollow tableau: anathema, abomination, atrocity. These brands left Alastor no more dull ache than the morbid thrill deep in his bones.
Abyssal hunger obliging no favor to reason, the underworlder gazed into the desolance to find a glint. A glint defying the very sun, blooming from polished obsidian buildings clamoring against the sabulous ocean. This phantasmagorical metropolis, a fractured mosaic, prickled Alastor with an exhilarating unease. This was no ordinary city; it was a whispered legend, a forbidden haven hidden within the dune's cruel embrace. A city, perhaps, full of both pleasure and peril: his ineffable dream.
Eyes wide, Alastor approached. This cerise city shimmered with silence, broken only by his rasp of breath and sand crunch of footsteps. The closer he neared, the more the city seemed to distort; its edifices wrapped and writhed. Hand touching one, Alastor felt cold, smooth as polished bone, and sheen reflection.
"Curious," a voice graveled with age. "Another guest seeks the Vermillion City, and to what end...?"
Collapsed against stone steps, a weathered bodach lay; his taut, leather skin wrinkling an ancient sneer. Alastor bent, his lanky, bleached limbs emanating. His lemon eyes coruscated with a lemoner grin.
"An end of secrets, surely," he rumbled, playful tinge between his words.
"A whisper or two at your offer may be better still."
A sardonic cackle escaped his lips, that even Amol-Kalit—his barren, new home—served no end to his soulless song. Priests had left him here, a sacrifice to twisted piety. Their pronouncements, laced with righteous fury, still echoed the hollow tableau: anathema, abomination, atrocity. These brands left Alastor no more dull ache than the morbid thrill deep in his bones.
Abyssal hunger obliging no favor to reason, the underworlder gazed into the desolance to find a glint. A glint defying the very sun, blooming from polished obsidian buildings clamoring against the sabulous ocean. This phantasmagorical metropolis, a fractured mosaic, prickled Alastor with an exhilarating unease. This was no ordinary city; it was a whispered legend, a forbidden haven hidden within the dune's cruel embrace. A city, perhaps, full of both pleasure and peril: his ineffable dream.
Eyes wide, Alastor approached. This cerise city shimmered with silence, broken only by his rasp of breath and sand crunch of footsteps. The closer he neared, the more the city seemed to distort; its edifices wrapped and writhed. Hand touching one, Alastor felt cold, smooth as polished bone, and sheen reflection.
"Curious," a voice graveled with age. "Another guest seeks the Vermillion City, and to what end...?"
Collapsed against stone steps, a weathered bodach lay; his taut, leather skin wrinkling an ancient sneer. Alastor bent, his lanky, bleached limbs emanating. His lemon eyes coruscated with a lemoner grin.
"An end of secrets, surely," he rumbled, playful tinge between his words.
"A whisper or two at your offer may be better still."