- Messages
- 21
- Character Biography
- Link
It was a dark, cloudy night, and it was a small Allirian town that Larewen approached. Small enough that she was toying with the idea of enslaving them--turning those she didn't kill in feeding to undead husks of their former selves. She pressed her tongue against the pointed canine of the right side of her mouth, drawing a trickle of blood thickened with corruption to blossom on the top surface of the membrane. A gloved hand rose upward, its wrist perfumed with a sandalwood, which a nice complement to the clover cigarettes she smoked.
There was a lot on the intricately clad woman's mind. The moon didn't show this night, and Larewen found extra comfort in that fact. She drew her cloak around her, the pitch cloth forming to her body as she pulled the hood of her cloak upward over a fedora capped head, to which a thin black lace veil was pinned. The view from both front and behind the elf was a dark figure, heeled boots clicking their cadence against the rock and dirt of the road. Surely my dress is filthy, she thought, looking down at her feet. Larewen pulled up the skirt of her dark green bustle gown to see the discoloration and sighed audibly.
Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, the elf withdrew a small silver case that would have glinted in the moonlight. From within it, she took something even smaller. It was one of those clover smokes she was so fond of. She placed it between pale lips and lit it with a passing of her hand. The elf drew a breath inward, smoke curling upward from the cigarette's fiery ember.
Mismatched eyes surveyed the necromancer's immediate vicinity, seeking a place where she might rest a moment. A tree would suffice, and 'lo and behold, there was one just a little further down. The crunched under her feet as she maneuvered over to it, and she leaned back against its timber. Her eyes were upward, and she seemed pretty content to forget her sins. Aside from her silhouette, the only thing anyone might feel from any distance from her would be an oppressive aura--one of her many curses: those with a taste for magic could sense her, and locate her, easily enough if they wanted to. Here, in the middle of nowhere, it was peaceful. Too much so, and she'd have to rectify that, but enough.
Adrian Black
There was a lot on the intricately clad woman's mind. The moon didn't show this night, and Larewen found extra comfort in that fact. She drew her cloak around her, the pitch cloth forming to her body as she pulled the hood of her cloak upward over a fedora capped head, to which a thin black lace veil was pinned. The view from both front and behind the elf was a dark figure, heeled boots clicking their cadence against the rock and dirt of the road. Surely my dress is filthy, she thought, looking down at her feet. Larewen pulled up the skirt of her dark green bustle gown to see the discoloration and sighed audibly.
Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, the elf withdrew a small silver case that would have glinted in the moonlight. From within it, she took something even smaller. It was one of those clover smokes she was so fond of. She placed it between pale lips and lit it with a passing of her hand. The elf drew a breath inward, smoke curling upward from the cigarette's fiery ember.
Mismatched eyes surveyed the necromancer's immediate vicinity, seeking a place where she might rest a moment. A tree would suffice, and 'lo and behold, there was one just a little further down. The crunched under her feet as she maneuvered over to it, and she leaned back against its timber. Her eyes were upward, and she seemed pretty content to forget her sins. Aside from her silhouette, the only thing anyone might feel from any distance from her would be an oppressive aura--one of her many curses: those with a taste for magic could sense her, and locate her, easily enough if they wanted to. Here, in the middle of nowhere, it was peaceful. Too much so, and she'd have to rectify that, but enough.
Adrian Black