Post by '.:-' BURNED '-:.' on Apr 21, 2007 23:15:59 GMT -5
Name
Ares Ignatius Adrastos
Gender
Male
Race
Fire Stalker
- they are a small race of humanoids that bear a communion with the flame. Unlike mages, wizards, and the like, a Fire Stalker does not command, but rather cooperates with the fire. They can understand the language of the flame, hear its whispers, and feel its rage. They can console it with condolences and soft words or rile it with hatred and vengence. They are a race of trainers and lion-tamers. The fire... their lions. The race is known for its supreme mastery, and they work with it as a partner. The Fire is not always aggreeable and a Fire stalker cannot work with it unless the flame gives its consent and is willing to do what is asked of it. This symbiotic relationship causes a bond between the element and its keeper. The race itself is ancient, and dates back to the very first sorcerers to ever harness magic's usefullness. -
Age
64,605 days
- or 177 years, if you'd prefer. -
Description
Those who once knew him, knew a sharp, young man--vibrant in life and reckless. He potrayed a wild and untamable spirit adorned by black, curled locks and clear, unflawed eyes of the purest green. His skin remained a glorious pale tan--marred by the sun to share a hint of brown in the pale white pigment.
But that was then... this is now.
Now he wears a mask. It hides his sin from the world and his body is encased by old wounds, scars, and wraps. He hides beyond a wall of tape and his face is always covered. No one can remember the reckless, black haired, green eyed youth. None can recall how he was... only as he is, and with this disallusion they know not why he bears such pains or makes such efforts to hide his face and flesh. No body knows, and no one has had the opportunity to ask.
Though his body has healed as best it can, there is only do much that can be done to skin so burned as his. The flesh once black has been revitalizes to bear a savage pink hue, blotched by red inflamed tissue that occasionally reacts and burns with even the faintest touch of sun. The hair upon his body is gone--turned to ash a long time ago--and his vivid green eyes have faded into something glassy and pale. His face, so marred that its comprehension does not border on human, and very few can stand to keep straight a face when placed before him. Tis the reason he hides so well, and cloacks his skin from the freshness of open air. His body itself is healed to its completion. His muscles have regrown and created a thin, but powerful build--tall and dominant, forboding and ominous. His toning resembles that of a skill and stealthy hunter rather than a brisk and heavy fighter. He is a man who would rather kill suddenly and with silence and thus that is what his body reflects.
He has become wrapped and faceless, known only by the white strips that cover his skin, and the bloody blades that hang from his sides.
Personality
Ares is neither trustworthy nor loyal. His scars keep him apart from a normal life, and the killer within him has yet to be vanquished. The anchor that once tied him down in life, has long since broken free and faded off into the winds, and because of this isolation and old habitual blood-lust, Ares holds a very dangerous concoction of killer’s initiative and common human emotion and personality. Like many others, he bears a balanced co-op of pride and humility, along with both seriousness and dry, humorous, sarcasm. However, trained as an assassin and murderer, he is very conniving and insensitive—willing to cooperate with others only when there is benefit for him. He is rarely charitable and his mercy is a withered, dying rose—left too long out in the sun. He needs only a small reason to join a fray, and his swift and calculated mind is eager to kill with an intense, but purposeful necessity. He is not insane, and is a clear-cut killer able to decipher and plan out his decisions to the utmost precision. He was trained well… and even now, when his talents are not openly needed, he retains his old habits.
Now… granted he is a mercenary of sorts… but he does not randomly select people to die. There must always be a reason. Even criminals have their own codes which they abide by—even Ares. Thus, it goes against Ares honor—what little he has—to kill or harm the innocence of a child or the importance of a mother. He also has never harmed a soul unless they give him a reason to. Now granted, if someone wishes to pick a fight with him, he rarely turns down the offer… but, hey… it’s a reason.
Beyond what many assume, his days do not revolve around finding a victim. Nor does he go out of his way to put himself in a position to maim or kill. In most respects he his normal, with just a slightly twisted side to his general nature. Sure, he’s a killer… sure he never cares… but there are far worse men out there like him that do not control themselves as he does. True enough, he is callous to death’s presence and does not flinch or start at the sight of blood or gruesome carnage. But it is also true, that on a good day and when associating with others… that many come to see a humor there—thick with sarcasm, but good natured and teasing. It stands besides a serious pose that follows him throughout the days and nights—a darkness that cloaks him, that makes him untouchable, and leave him with a foreboding and ominous impression. It is an isolated emotion that puts him apart as does his appearance. His silence is understandable, and his solemnity is to be expected. But think not that he cannot feel humor; think not that he can never smile; though rare, such humorous moments do arise, and sarcasm is never far from his lips. But keep in mind… he cares little for the tribulations of others, as they seem to have forgotten and ignored his. Whether he deserved his fate or not, they should have at least let him die. That is what he can never forgive…
Skills
First, he is a skilled swordsman, and wields his twin short sword with a profound expertise that has lived off the blades for years upon years--the weapons have seen more bloodshed and played their dues ten times fold. They will never be free of blood... the stories of woes are far too old and callous to change.
Now...
Unlike the common mage and wizarding abilities and talents, a Fire Stalker cannot command without consequence. The ancient race thrived in its ability to commune with the flame and work with it to produce optimum results and a devoted loyalty between the element and the breed.
As any Fire Stalker, Ares has such talents.
His greatest strength is his ability to become one with the element, fire. If it proves willing he can sacrifice himself to it, allowing it to surround him and engulf him. At such a time, his body dissipates into it, as if fading into a mist; and in this united phase he sees as the fire sees, feels its passion and can control it’s tendrils as if they were his own arms. His rage becomes its fever and together both element and Stalker become melded into a powerful force.
However, though it is his greatest weapon, it is by far the most dangerous. First, the fire could refuse or show resentment to the bonding, thus endangering Ares very life and in fact burning him in return.
Secondly, once a part of the flame, he is nothing more. He is fire, pure fire—there is no human form left to be seen until he detaches himself from it. Therefore, an enemy can destroy him, simply by destroying the fire.
Thirdly, the venture from humanoid to pure fire is a very painful and uncomfortable transition. Every time he goes through it, it is as if he is being burned alive—as if the very blood in his veins has become molten. Therefore, though his weapon is powerful, he dare not use it lest he must.
Besides that, he can also speak the language of the flame and read off it emotions. He can sense its anger and/or sadness and thus he has some influence over them. If he desires, he can coax and taunt the flame into a raging fire—burning with hatred and malice. Likewise, if by some strange reason he feels to lessen a fire’s aggression, he can attempt to calm it with soothing condolences. However, like all his other gifts, at all times, the flame are not “forced” do to Ares bidding… it chooses to.
Alongside that municipal talent, he can also tame it… or control it—by its own accord of course. He can make it dance between his fingers with a little coaxing. He can soothe its savageness and reduce its burn against his skin; he can spread it out in a concussion effect with only a wave of his hand. Again, only if the fire agrees can such acts be done.
Unfortunately, he is not fire-resistant towards an angry hungry flame. It will burn him, as his own appearance is proof to tell.
Sample:
I often find myself enthralled by the evils of the world—how freely they flow about, undaunted and unchallenged by that which we define as good. Yet, I stand here as a testament to a line that does not exist, for how can one truly hold no moral or bear no dark shadows to their past. Indeed, it is foolish and naïve to think that one has no dark traits or characteristics or that one is impure and untouchable. True enough, there are those who do border on such boundaries, but there are few who can boost of such thorough purity in truth. Even I cannot boost such proportion—I… one who does not care to view spilled blood, one who troubles himself to avenge unpaid debts, one who does not flinch from threatening gestures… one who suffers discrimination from every angle. No, even I cannot challenge what nature has intended for me. Even I cannot erase that which has been imprinted into my soul. Indeed, though I would often wish to rebuke it, my own moral stands stubbornly at my side always, keeping my pitiless and merciless manners at bay and in check. Any who sport the ability to forsake such qualities are lying to themselves and those around them… it will only take the right note to make them see it.
Ares smiled to himself and watched as the reckless young man continued to berate his comrades with boastful accusations against himself and his crimes. Ah, what useful ignorance and arrogance he portrayed in those moments. It was a bliss that even Ares had known, before the incident. Now, Ares was no longer that swift and prideful bastard that roamed the streets looking for any and every excuse to throw an assault at the nearest associate. Not to say, he did not enjoy a good scrimmage every now and then, but he was less than reckless now in his age.
Slipping a hand beneath his long, tied cloak, he fondled the short sheathed blades that hung there, pinned against his legs. There were two of them, each about arms length and stained with the blood of countless victims. Whether martyrs in their field or targeted innocents, the blades held no discrepancies and looked to kill any who came across them. They were his coveted possessions and half of his livelihood. He could not do what he did without them, and thus he would have no life to support himself. Besides, they were all he had left of what he once was, and that was something any heartless, emotionless killer would value above all else.
He removed his hands from the cold steel and turned his attention back the reckless youth. His tongue had cooled and many of his comrades had grown tired of the stories—departing with harried steps. As for the few who remained, it was obvious to Ares that these remaining four were—as some would say—the followers of the reckless one. Ares chuckled aloud and the noise drew attention.
Ah… look how they turn with such startled eyes. They did not expect to see a stranger such as me in this dark ally of which they gather. I find it amusing, how their initial wide-eyed looks turn to anger as they hurry to hide their surprise. See how they glare and mutter among themselves. They plot to sup light me, and I can relate to their emotions—they are strong but foolish. This night… they will die…
________________________________________
Memories, thoughts, and emotions fled back to him through the chasms of ancient memory. Oh how they flooded viciously back to him each night when he slept. They haunted him, bring about a delightful pleasure as they wriggled through his soul—a soul so riddled with holes that it can never be fully repaired.
“Tell me…” he muttered to himself as the darkness came around him, smothering him in the present reality, “What can cure a man of his sins…?”
He sat himself up and looked his hidden eyes skyward to see a cloudy sky as falling flakes dampened the wraps about his cheeks. A smile painfully tugged at the corners of his chapped lips, but its dance was muted and hidden behind the carnage of his mask.
Nothing can relieve me of my sins. They will travel with me to the ends of my days, and they shall curse me when my judgment hour stands daunting before me. Indeed, no longer do I hunt the streets looking for foes… but neither has the impulse left me. I will forever be an outcast to situation, and as an outcast trouble never wanders far. It will come to me many times fold, I need not worry about finding life boring. It rarely is… it rarely was.
Lifting himself from the recent dream he pulled his cloak tightly around him as the cold seeped into the folds of his garments. A fluttering tunic briefly showed his chest, open and bleeding to the world. The scars were old, but the skin was raw with remembrance. It would never be the same. In a moment the glimpse was gone and Ares found himself shrouded by the chill of the deep night, the black leaving him blind and alone, a wintry silence haunting his every breath. He smiled in the dark, enjoying the morose and solemn moment as if it were a beautiful and stunning sight to behold.
Reaching down into his pocket he produced a small stony flint and thin flat switch, with which he used against one another, creating a beloved spark.
My dear, dear, flame… Com now to me and feed upon my flesh so that you may breath life. Dare I plead you to be gentle…?
There it is…
He watched a spark whiz stubbornly through the air; catching it before it died he whispered soft words, asking for its assistance in this dark night. It obliged, bursting into sudden life as he caught it within his open palm. The already tender, scarred flesh flinched at the sudden warmth, but the flame—heading Ares wishes—restrained its devastating burn and gently caressed its comrades tender hand—warm tendrils weaving between his fingers and below the back of his palm. The small blaze illuminated his face as his eyes—emerging from the black behind his mask—showed with a sick, dull, yellow hue. They flared within the light of the burning torch as he scoured the midnight terrain about him. Nocturnal eyes fled from his firelight, but he was neither worried nor apprehensive about his position in this wilderness. It was as much his home as it was any other foul beasts’.
Holding his hand aloft, he reached down to the ground and picked up his satchel—which he’d been previously using as a pillow and strode forth, treading on untamed soil. The deep layers of snow gave way beneath him as he stepped from his stone terrace and began a long walk to nowhere. His heart found no solace in the world of men, and thus it was only common sense that he should use the night as his carapace—his strength against a world so unwelcoming.
He smirked to himself, for he knew he held no cares or begrudging feelings towards the people that were considered normal. In all truth, he half liked the cards that fate had dealt him, as it blanketed him in an array of defaulted apprehension that all quickly assumed at first impression. It gave him an ounce of respect… that the world often denied him of—thinking him the common vagabond.
As he walked his mind wandered. It traveled back to the days before the accident—when his young recklessness had been used to the dragon lord’s advantage, when his youth had been a tool, rather than an advantage. He remembered the days when he’d walked the streets with all the confidence he could muster… when his bold steps were not met with such discriminating stares. And yet, he also remembered what he’d been commanded to do, how he was told to learn it, and how he was ordered to execute it. They were strict laws, regulations, codes, and the like that his morals had been gently scraped away over the years of his training. Whatever self-restraint he’d had when he was born had been rubbed out by the supreme thumb of upper management. Eventually it had turned him into what he now was… and there was no going back to what he had been.
His face suddenly twisted in a frown as his skin crawled and the flame within his hand suddenly burst wildly about him. The burns upon his flesh stung painfully as memories flooded over them—his old rage and hate feeding the fire within his outstretched hand. The new blaze snapped and crackled within the air as it reached out to smite that which had scarred its master, but it sympathized with Ares—feeling his pain—and thus… it still did not burn him… even in its uncontrollable rage.
Ares still remembered…
… Remembered what it felt like to be burned alive, but to never die. He would never forget.
He calmed himself and let the old anger fade away as he closed it back into its chained box, where it would collect dust within the back of his mind. It was frivolous to linger in such contemplations, plus he could not blame the Lord of Earth for his actions. By all accounts, Ares had been guilty, and deserved the fate bestowed upon him.
Gently he whispered to his wild beast, and the fire obeyed—grouchily quieting within the confines of the Stalker’s hand.
If anything, he blamed the dragon lord—the one who preceded Kaji—the one now gone. Still, Ares did not hold wrath and unpaid debt towards Fire either. They were individuals within their own nation, and it was only the insanity of their lusting lord that had led him to his fate. He owed them no pain. He could blame no one truly—no one worth blaming. And so, his anger’s foundation was weak and tottering and it surfaced only now and again. As an agent trained in the arts of espionage, he could only expect to either escape or become ensnared by his own devices. He’d been unlucky. He’d been snared—his crime was as grand as the one who’d sent him. His intentions, murky and plotted, were the cause of many silent casualties. He held no remorse and thus he accepted his guilt proudly and without resentment. Life was an array of twist and turns… He was just glad to still be a part of it.
I have escaped death once. Fate has lended me this second chance. But I shall defy the options left before me and choose my own road. No more can I hope to pull myself from old habits and old trudges—I am but a servant to my ways, and I cannot disobey my own nature—no matter how murderous the association might be or become. I am who I am… I cannot change that…
…and I don’t want to.
One eyed, one horned, flying purple people eater
Ares Ignatius Adrastos
Gender
Male
Race
Fire Stalker
- they are a small race of humanoids that bear a communion with the flame. Unlike mages, wizards, and the like, a Fire Stalker does not command, but rather cooperates with the fire. They can understand the language of the flame, hear its whispers, and feel its rage. They can console it with condolences and soft words or rile it with hatred and vengence. They are a race of trainers and lion-tamers. The fire... their lions. The race is known for its supreme mastery, and they work with it as a partner. The Fire is not always aggreeable and a Fire stalker cannot work with it unless the flame gives its consent and is willing to do what is asked of it. This symbiotic relationship causes a bond between the element and its keeper. The race itself is ancient, and dates back to the very first sorcerers to ever harness magic's usefullness. -
Age
64,605 days
- or 177 years, if you'd prefer. -
Description
Those who once knew him, knew a sharp, young man--vibrant in life and reckless. He potrayed a wild and untamable spirit adorned by black, curled locks and clear, unflawed eyes of the purest green. His skin remained a glorious pale tan--marred by the sun to share a hint of brown in the pale white pigment.
But that was then... this is now.
Now he wears a mask. It hides his sin from the world and his body is encased by old wounds, scars, and wraps. He hides beyond a wall of tape and his face is always covered. No one can remember the reckless, black haired, green eyed youth. None can recall how he was... only as he is, and with this disallusion they know not why he bears such pains or makes such efforts to hide his face and flesh. No body knows, and no one has had the opportunity to ask.
Though his body has healed as best it can, there is only do much that can be done to skin so burned as his. The flesh once black has been revitalizes to bear a savage pink hue, blotched by red inflamed tissue that occasionally reacts and burns with even the faintest touch of sun. The hair upon his body is gone--turned to ash a long time ago--and his vivid green eyes have faded into something glassy and pale. His face, so marred that its comprehension does not border on human, and very few can stand to keep straight a face when placed before him. Tis the reason he hides so well, and cloacks his skin from the freshness of open air. His body itself is healed to its completion. His muscles have regrown and created a thin, but powerful build--tall and dominant, forboding and ominous. His toning resembles that of a skill and stealthy hunter rather than a brisk and heavy fighter. He is a man who would rather kill suddenly and with silence and thus that is what his body reflects.
He has become wrapped and faceless, known only by the white strips that cover his skin, and the bloody blades that hang from his sides.
Personality
Ares is neither trustworthy nor loyal. His scars keep him apart from a normal life, and the killer within him has yet to be vanquished. The anchor that once tied him down in life, has long since broken free and faded off into the winds, and because of this isolation and old habitual blood-lust, Ares holds a very dangerous concoction of killer’s initiative and common human emotion and personality. Like many others, he bears a balanced co-op of pride and humility, along with both seriousness and dry, humorous, sarcasm. However, trained as an assassin and murderer, he is very conniving and insensitive—willing to cooperate with others only when there is benefit for him. He is rarely charitable and his mercy is a withered, dying rose—left too long out in the sun. He needs only a small reason to join a fray, and his swift and calculated mind is eager to kill with an intense, but purposeful necessity. He is not insane, and is a clear-cut killer able to decipher and plan out his decisions to the utmost precision. He was trained well… and even now, when his talents are not openly needed, he retains his old habits.
Now… granted he is a mercenary of sorts… but he does not randomly select people to die. There must always be a reason. Even criminals have their own codes which they abide by—even Ares. Thus, it goes against Ares honor—what little he has—to kill or harm the innocence of a child or the importance of a mother. He also has never harmed a soul unless they give him a reason to. Now granted, if someone wishes to pick a fight with him, he rarely turns down the offer… but, hey… it’s a reason.
Beyond what many assume, his days do not revolve around finding a victim. Nor does he go out of his way to put himself in a position to maim or kill. In most respects he his normal, with just a slightly twisted side to his general nature. Sure, he’s a killer… sure he never cares… but there are far worse men out there like him that do not control themselves as he does. True enough, he is callous to death’s presence and does not flinch or start at the sight of blood or gruesome carnage. But it is also true, that on a good day and when associating with others… that many come to see a humor there—thick with sarcasm, but good natured and teasing. It stands besides a serious pose that follows him throughout the days and nights—a darkness that cloaks him, that makes him untouchable, and leave him with a foreboding and ominous impression. It is an isolated emotion that puts him apart as does his appearance. His silence is understandable, and his solemnity is to be expected. But think not that he cannot feel humor; think not that he can never smile; though rare, such humorous moments do arise, and sarcasm is never far from his lips. But keep in mind… he cares little for the tribulations of others, as they seem to have forgotten and ignored his. Whether he deserved his fate or not, they should have at least let him die. That is what he can never forgive…
Skills
First, he is a skilled swordsman, and wields his twin short sword with a profound expertise that has lived off the blades for years upon years--the weapons have seen more bloodshed and played their dues ten times fold. They will never be free of blood... the stories of woes are far too old and callous to change.
Now...
Unlike the common mage and wizarding abilities and talents, a Fire Stalker cannot command without consequence. The ancient race thrived in its ability to commune with the flame and work with it to produce optimum results and a devoted loyalty between the element and the breed.
As any Fire Stalker, Ares has such talents.
His greatest strength is his ability to become one with the element, fire. If it proves willing he can sacrifice himself to it, allowing it to surround him and engulf him. At such a time, his body dissipates into it, as if fading into a mist; and in this united phase he sees as the fire sees, feels its passion and can control it’s tendrils as if they were his own arms. His rage becomes its fever and together both element and Stalker become melded into a powerful force.
However, though it is his greatest weapon, it is by far the most dangerous. First, the fire could refuse or show resentment to the bonding, thus endangering Ares very life and in fact burning him in return.
Secondly, once a part of the flame, he is nothing more. He is fire, pure fire—there is no human form left to be seen until he detaches himself from it. Therefore, an enemy can destroy him, simply by destroying the fire.
Thirdly, the venture from humanoid to pure fire is a very painful and uncomfortable transition. Every time he goes through it, it is as if he is being burned alive—as if the very blood in his veins has become molten. Therefore, though his weapon is powerful, he dare not use it lest he must.
Besides that, he can also speak the language of the flame and read off it emotions. He can sense its anger and/or sadness and thus he has some influence over them. If he desires, he can coax and taunt the flame into a raging fire—burning with hatred and malice. Likewise, if by some strange reason he feels to lessen a fire’s aggression, he can attempt to calm it with soothing condolences. However, like all his other gifts, at all times, the flame are not “forced” do to Ares bidding… it chooses to.
Alongside that municipal talent, he can also tame it… or control it—by its own accord of course. He can make it dance between his fingers with a little coaxing. He can soothe its savageness and reduce its burn against his skin; he can spread it out in a concussion effect with only a wave of his hand. Again, only if the fire agrees can such acts be done.
Unfortunately, he is not fire-resistant towards an angry hungry flame. It will burn him, as his own appearance is proof to tell.
Sample:
I often find myself enthralled by the evils of the world—how freely they flow about, undaunted and unchallenged by that which we define as good. Yet, I stand here as a testament to a line that does not exist, for how can one truly hold no moral or bear no dark shadows to their past. Indeed, it is foolish and naïve to think that one has no dark traits or characteristics or that one is impure and untouchable. True enough, there are those who do border on such boundaries, but there are few who can boost of such thorough purity in truth. Even I cannot boost such proportion—I… one who does not care to view spilled blood, one who troubles himself to avenge unpaid debts, one who does not flinch from threatening gestures… one who suffers discrimination from every angle. No, even I cannot challenge what nature has intended for me. Even I cannot erase that which has been imprinted into my soul. Indeed, though I would often wish to rebuke it, my own moral stands stubbornly at my side always, keeping my pitiless and merciless manners at bay and in check. Any who sport the ability to forsake such qualities are lying to themselves and those around them… it will only take the right note to make them see it.
Ares smiled to himself and watched as the reckless young man continued to berate his comrades with boastful accusations against himself and his crimes. Ah, what useful ignorance and arrogance he portrayed in those moments. It was a bliss that even Ares had known, before the incident. Now, Ares was no longer that swift and prideful bastard that roamed the streets looking for any and every excuse to throw an assault at the nearest associate. Not to say, he did not enjoy a good scrimmage every now and then, but he was less than reckless now in his age.
Slipping a hand beneath his long, tied cloak, he fondled the short sheathed blades that hung there, pinned against his legs. There were two of them, each about arms length and stained with the blood of countless victims. Whether martyrs in their field or targeted innocents, the blades held no discrepancies and looked to kill any who came across them. They were his coveted possessions and half of his livelihood. He could not do what he did without them, and thus he would have no life to support himself. Besides, they were all he had left of what he once was, and that was something any heartless, emotionless killer would value above all else.
He removed his hands from the cold steel and turned his attention back the reckless youth. His tongue had cooled and many of his comrades had grown tired of the stories—departing with harried steps. As for the few who remained, it was obvious to Ares that these remaining four were—as some would say—the followers of the reckless one. Ares chuckled aloud and the noise drew attention.
Ah… look how they turn with such startled eyes. They did not expect to see a stranger such as me in this dark ally of which they gather. I find it amusing, how their initial wide-eyed looks turn to anger as they hurry to hide their surprise. See how they glare and mutter among themselves. They plot to sup light me, and I can relate to their emotions—they are strong but foolish. This night… they will die…
________________________________________
Memories, thoughts, and emotions fled back to him through the chasms of ancient memory. Oh how they flooded viciously back to him each night when he slept. They haunted him, bring about a delightful pleasure as they wriggled through his soul—a soul so riddled with holes that it can never be fully repaired.
“Tell me…” he muttered to himself as the darkness came around him, smothering him in the present reality, “What can cure a man of his sins…?”
He sat himself up and looked his hidden eyes skyward to see a cloudy sky as falling flakes dampened the wraps about his cheeks. A smile painfully tugged at the corners of his chapped lips, but its dance was muted and hidden behind the carnage of his mask.
Nothing can relieve me of my sins. They will travel with me to the ends of my days, and they shall curse me when my judgment hour stands daunting before me. Indeed, no longer do I hunt the streets looking for foes… but neither has the impulse left me. I will forever be an outcast to situation, and as an outcast trouble never wanders far. It will come to me many times fold, I need not worry about finding life boring. It rarely is… it rarely was.
Lifting himself from the recent dream he pulled his cloak tightly around him as the cold seeped into the folds of his garments. A fluttering tunic briefly showed his chest, open and bleeding to the world. The scars were old, but the skin was raw with remembrance. It would never be the same. In a moment the glimpse was gone and Ares found himself shrouded by the chill of the deep night, the black leaving him blind and alone, a wintry silence haunting his every breath. He smiled in the dark, enjoying the morose and solemn moment as if it were a beautiful and stunning sight to behold.
Reaching down into his pocket he produced a small stony flint and thin flat switch, with which he used against one another, creating a beloved spark.
My dear, dear, flame… Com now to me and feed upon my flesh so that you may breath life. Dare I plead you to be gentle…?
There it is…
He watched a spark whiz stubbornly through the air; catching it before it died he whispered soft words, asking for its assistance in this dark night. It obliged, bursting into sudden life as he caught it within his open palm. The already tender, scarred flesh flinched at the sudden warmth, but the flame—heading Ares wishes—restrained its devastating burn and gently caressed its comrades tender hand—warm tendrils weaving between his fingers and below the back of his palm. The small blaze illuminated his face as his eyes—emerging from the black behind his mask—showed with a sick, dull, yellow hue. They flared within the light of the burning torch as he scoured the midnight terrain about him. Nocturnal eyes fled from his firelight, but he was neither worried nor apprehensive about his position in this wilderness. It was as much his home as it was any other foul beasts’.
Holding his hand aloft, he reached down to the ground and picked up his satchel—which he’d been previously using as a pillow and strode forth, treading on untamed soil. The deep layers of snow gave way beneath him as he stepped from his stone terrace and began a long walk to nowhere. His heart found no solace in the world of men, and thus it was only common sense that he should use the night as his carapace—his strength against a world so unwelcoming.
He smirked to himself, for he knew he held no cares or begrudging feelings towards the people that were considered normal. In all truth, he half liked the cards that fate had dealt him, as it blanketed him in an array of defaulted apprehension that all quickly assumed at first impression. It gave him an ounce of respect… that the world often denied him of—thinking him the common vagabond.
As he walked his mind wandered. It traveled back to the days before the accident—when his young recklessness had been used to the dragon lord’s advantage, when his youth had been a tool, rather than an advantage. He remembered the days when he’d walked the streets with all the confidence he could muster… when his bold steps were not met with such discriminating stares. And yet, he also remembered what he’d been commanded to do, how he was told to learn it, and how he was ordered to execute it. They were strict laws, regulations, codes, and the like that his morals had been gently scraped away over the years of his training. Whatever self-restraint he’d had when he was born had been rubbed out by the supreme thumb of upper management. Eventually it had turned him into what he now was… and there was no going back to what he had been.
His face suddenly twisted in a frown as his skin crawled and the flame within his hand suddenly burst wildly about him. The burns upon his flesh stung painfully as memories flooded over them—his old rage and hate feeding the fire within his outstretched hand. The new blaze snapped and crackled within the air as it reached out to smite that which had scarred its master, but it sympathized with Ares—feeling his pain—and thus… it still did not burn him… even in its uncontrollable rage.
Ares still remembered…
… Remembered what it felt like to be burned alive, but to never die. He would never forget.
He calmed himself and let the old anger fade away as he closed it back into its chained box, where it would collect dust within the back of his mind. It was frivolous to linger in such contemplations, plus he could not blame the Lord of Earth for his actions. By all accounts, Ares had been guilty, and deserved the fate bestowed upon him.
Gently he whispered to his wild beast, and the fire obeyed—grouchily quieting within the confines of the Stalker’s hand.
If anything, he blamed the dragon lord—the one who preceded Kaji—the one now gone. Still, Ares did not hold wrath and unpaid debt towards Fire either. They were individuals within their own nation, and it was only the insanity of their lusting lord that had led him to his fate. He owed them no pain. He could blame no one truly—no one worth blaming. And so, his anger’s foundation was weak and tottering and it surfaced only now and again. As an agent trained in the arts of espionage, he could only expect to either escape or become ensnared by his own devices. He’d been unlucky. He’d been snared—his crime was as grand as the one who’d sent him. His intentions, murky and plotted, were the cause of many silent casualties. He held no remorse and thus he accepted his guilt proudly and without resentment. Life was an array of twist and turns… He was just glad to still be a part of it.
I have escaped death once. Fate has lended me this second chance. But I shall defy the options left before me and choose my own road. No more can I hope to pull myself from old habits and old trudges—I am but a servant to my ways, and I cannot disobey my own nature—no matter how murderous the association might be or become. I am who I am… I cannot change that…
…and I don’t want to.
One eyed, one horned, flying purple people eater
