- Messages
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- Character Biography
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In his moment of weakness and clear despair, the Elven-mage of the group approached him. Strangely, being around Elves always reminded him of his youth, when he studied at the Falwood for a short time. They were always praised for their skill in the Arcane and their innate beauty ten-times over. In a way, Sparhawk was envious of Mages of Elven lineage, always being that one step ahead of Sparhawk. Studying couldn't buy everything. If it could, he wouldn't be hunched over, drowning in his own sweat, gasping for air as if he'd just surfaced from the deepest, darkest recesses of the great sea.
Wise words, not the first time he had heard them, but that didn't take away from their wisdom. He found it funny how these expressions got about. He'd heard similar words in the Pub he had visited prior. He'd also heard it in the Pub before that... Sparhawk pondered that, perhaps, his visage gave way to these expressions; injuries that lie underneath a tough exterior, never to see the light of day.
As the Elf went to touch Sparhawk's arm, she had retracted her hand a hair swifter than him. He was embarrassed by it. Not by how it looked, but by how it represented the terrible toll fighting has had on him. Everyone knew of the limit of Magick, but Sparhawk had forgotten that; his lust for power had taught him ill lessons, and this was his prize: a blackened, charred arm, that looked as if it were made out of brimstone rather than flesh and bone. It represented all his hatred, his malice, and his inner desire to use the power that had been bestowed to him to inflict pain onto deserving and undeserving alike. If he were truly honest, It scared him. He scared himself.
"I'm fine! Don't touch me!" He spat. Sparhawk didn't know what to say. Somewhere within himself, he probably wanted help, but he didn't want to drag anyone into his cursed fate.
"I'm... i'm sorry.. I'm sorry..." He said, meekly, almost sorrowfully. Sparhawk had spent the majority of his life apologising, and this was no exception.
He decided to just get on with it and start travelling. He mumbled a few simple words under his breath, and from the corner of the College, his horse - Nemesis - strolled up beside him. He slung himself onto the saddle, fastening his Staff to the holder he had hurried to create before arriving, and rode off slowly. He hoped that his mood would settle once he'd been riding for a few hours.
The phrase kept going through his head once they'd entered the Forest. Often, Imamu's 'gift' to him would whisper similar phrases all the time, yet he took it seriously. He wouldn't doubt it. Even though it was a likely ploy to make Sparhawk ever more paranoid and anxious, he still believed that it had some validity. The trouble with it however, was the marks on his back began to glow. His robe, luckily, was thick enough to cover most of it now - he'd had it custom made - but he couldn't cover the ungodly red the coveted his eyes. He simply hung his head lower, bringing his cowl to cover himself. It hurt too, the grooves in-between the growing markings stung, their crimson-light like a brand on his skin.
Hopefully a God's knowledge of Fire magic would keep him alive, if anything. He'd been proven wrong before.
"I'll fall back a little. Make sure no one is following our path." He said to the group, meekly. He mainly said it as an excuse to have some time to himself, but he also grew truly concerned that they may be attacked from the same path they'd been walking on. It wasn't the first time he'd been ambushed, and this certainly wasn't going to be the last.
"Sometimes we carry injuries that can not be seen by the naked eye."
Wise words, not the first time he had heard them, but that didn't take away from their wisdom. He found it funny how these expressions got about. He'd heard similar words in the Pub he had visited prior. He'd also heard it in the Pub before that... Sparhawk pondered that, perhaps, his visage gave way to these expressions; injuries that lie underneath a tough exterior, never to see the light of day.
As the Elf went to touch Sparhawk's arm, she had retracted her hand a hair swifter than him. He was embarrassed by it. Not by how it looked, but by how it represented the terrible toll fighting has had on him. Everyone knew of the limit of Magick, but Sparhawk had forgotten that; his lust for power had taught him ill lessons, and this was his prize: a blackened, charred arm, that looked as if it were made out of brimstone rather than flesh and bone. It represented all his hatred, his malice, and his inner desire to use the power that had been bestowed to him to inflict pain onto deserving and undeserving alike. If he were truly honest, It scared him. He scared himself.
"..Are you well?" She asked though she knew the answer. "It might not be wise to go into this injured, perhaps I can offer you aid?"
"I'm fine! Don't touch me!" He spat. Sparhawk didn't know what to say. Somewhere within himself, he probably wanted help, but he didn't want to drag anyone into his cursed fate.
"I'm... i'm sorry.. I'm sorry..." He said, meekly, almost sorrowfully. Sparhawk had spent the majority of his life apologising, and this was no exception.
He decided to just get on with it and start travelling. He mumbled a few simple words under his breath, and from the corner of the College, his horse - Nemesis - strolled up beside him. He slung himself onto the saddle, fastening his Staff to the holder he had hurried to create before arriving, and rode off slowly. He hoped that his mood would settle once he'd been riding for a few hours.
___________________________________________________
You're being Watched Maho Sparhawk.
Don't Die.
The ride was droll. Nemesis had ridden off on her own 4 hours in, leaving Sparhawk to walk and taking his Staff too. He needed that thing more to walk than to use. He could cast fine without it, but his legs were weak under him. Although, he was used to long walks now, the march to Belgrath lasted 4 weeks, and Sparhawk hadn't the luxury of a horse or his staff then, so he could do without them for now.You're being Watched Maho Sparhawk.
Don't Die.
The phrase kept going through his head once they'd entered the Forest. Often, Imamu's 'gift' to him would whisper similar phrases all the time, yet he took it seriously. He wouldn't doubt it. Even though it was a likely ploy to make Sparhawk ever more paranoid and anxious, he still believed that it had some validity. The trouble with it however, was the marks on his back began to glow. His robe, luckily, was thick enough to cover most of it now - he'd had it custom made - but he couldn't cover the ungodly red the coveted his eyes. He simply hung his head lower, bringing his cowl to cover himself. It hurt too, the grooves in-between the growing markings stung, their crimson-light like a brand on his skin.
Hopefully a God's knowledge of Fire magic would keep him alive, if anything. He'd been proven wrong before.
"I'll fall back a little. Make sure no one is following our path." He said to the group, meekly. He mainly said it as an excuse to have some time to himself, but he also grew truly concerned that they may be attacked from the same path they'd been walking on. It wasn't the first time he'd been ambushed, and this certainly wasn't going to be the last.