Post by Tii on Jan 15, 2010 22:40:25 GMT -5
Name:
Za’lyyr
Age:
137
Race:
Elf
Appearance:
There wasn’t a sound in the air around him that wasn’t natural. He liked it that way. There was the moving of the old water named Ramr, there was the sound that the wind could coax from the sparse grasses. They all sang together in unison; even the soil rumbled against his bare feet. They pleaded to him. There was no need for a name in this place. They acknowledged each other’s presence and lived in a neutral understanding. They were not to invade each other’s lives. Each was its own.
His eyes deviated to the Ramr once again. Za’lyyr was a patient type; his lips pulling into a smile as he watched the river stir inside itself. The water didn’t like his eyes, it spat the image of the dark green back up at him. “Mor'ranr, bródir.” Peace, brother. ”Mor’ranr.” As he spoke it again, his hand passed over the water where he knelt. The surface became still and clear, once again shoving his image back at him. He caused the nature around him unrest, such a contradiction of the worlds. Child of the earth, servant to a twisted king. He touched the water, wetting his finger tips. It scattered in ripples, running from his touch. ”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken. The words seemed to be whispered to him from the depths of the Ramr.
He stared once again at his reflection that was presented on the still surface. His face was obviously of elvish construction. His cheek bones were high and his chin was well sculpted. His face was considered severe by some and beautiful by others, as was typical with his race. His skin was light and clear of blemish; like milk in the moonlight. He tilted his head up too look at the moon. His dark hair fell down his back, soft and shining in the light. It was pulled away from his face by a pair of braids that tied in the back. Some days there would be various feathers or beads strung in his hair; some days there were dark markings across his face and body. It depended on how he felt, and more-so, how Galbatorix was feeling.
He stood and the clear surface expanded to show his whole body. Za’lyyr was tall; one smooth and steady line protruding from the ground. He was built from pure muscle, strong yet fast. Like a horse. Like a dragon in the air. He could run leagues without weariness, wield magic, and fight with the symphonic style of an elf. It made him valuable. He looked like an ally without being one. The number of elves allied to the Empire was few. ” Waíse lauss.” Be free. His words fell with a whisper of silence. The voice of a being who spoke few words to his fellow man. He preferred silence in all things, it was reflected in the way he presented words. His voice was smooth as the surface of the Ramr had been. It was now once again in its torrent. The ancient language feel from his lips like he was in love with every word. English held no such pleasure. He spoke it out of necessity. The language of the dwarves was avoided at every turn. It sounded crude and was entirely pointless in his eyes. They would have been better off with the sounds that the humans pulled from their throats.
He didn’t speak again to the river or the grasses, neither to the earth. He turned silently and began to walk. Feet touched the ground more swiftly as he turned to a run. Like arching rays of the moonlight they moved, propelling him over the landscape; each footfall fell faster than the kicked up dust to the ground. Urû'baen waited ahead of him.
Personality:
Za’lyyr was never one for pleasantries. Neither for tact. Galbatorix once told him that his worth was in his bluntness and his willingness to be direct. He would never baby a person, never give it to them softly. No, he’d much rather tell you that the dress you were wearing did, in fact, make you look fat. It took much less time than trying to convince someone that they looked alright, but they were better off looking for another thing to wear. One might argue that an elf, by nature, would speak the ancient language; and that by speaking such he would be incapable of lying. The thieving tongue of an elf was not beyond him though. Pouring twisting and turning paths of words into a person’s ear became a skill of the ancient people. They could tell you the greatest of secrets and you’d never know.
Without the patience to be polite and his general aversion to speaking, Za’lyyr would never be considered the life of the party; however, when his words were spoken, they were often listened to. They were few and far in between, but each was brought forward with incredible thought, showing the true workings of a gifted mind. He would never be a politician or the face of a movement, but he would forever be an object of action. Where others discussed choices, he would act. The elf was far from fearless, but he walked closely with courage… even if it may have been for the wrong campaign.
The men who worked around him would mark him as a proud creature. For the good or the worse, no one would know. He had confidence in his own ability and skill; perhaps too much for his own good. True, he was talented, but the showering praises of those who surrounded him may prove to be his pit fall. He’s learned to put faith in no one but himself. Galbatorix had his allegiance, but the king was a fickle man, often favoring one and destroying him the next day. Those in his commands were constantly walking a curving line, doing their best not to fall off either side.
But what of the Empire’s campaign? Za’lyyr saw it as a noble cause. There were pests to rid the world of and they made themselves such easy targets, raising the name of the Varden over their head. That would not save them. There were few things that could. They had their beloved Eragon, who seemed to be constructing his own legend. But they had a king whose name shook the ground and made the trees of the forest wail in agony. Their mindless dreaming would be brought to an end; and Za’lyyr would serve whatever purpose was required of him. He’d already made up his mind. They would not be stopped. They would hear no cry and hold no remorse.
Mercy was for the weak.
History:
Beneath the cover of the trees, over a century ago, a child was born. His ears held points and his face reflected the same noble look that so many of his race embraced. He was placed among fronds, leaves, and petals of every color. He was to be given two names. The first would be known by all, spoken from mouths and would fall from lips. Za’lyyr, they would call him. His mother would stare down at him with a smile, speaking to him in a language that made the branches of the trees shiver. ”Eka draumro sem sumr dag du evarínya atra gora onr nafn unin du uphiminn.” I dream that some day the stars will write your name in the heavens. She did not expect her son to be one of the few who fell; who walked from their upbringing into the gates of the capital city. She never expected that he would kneel before a crazed king and lend his name to the cause, becoming a broken piece of his heritage, stained by the kind of darkness that couldn’t simply be washed away.
He grew up as any child did within the great forest, learning the words to call magic forward. He learned of the past and the possibilities of the future. They were a strong, proud people who had always survived from one world to the next. They lived the longest, and were held close to the heart of the earth. They were cradled in its arms when the race was born and favored by the land. When all others forgot, they remembered. They remembered the names and the places, the battles that were won and lost. They called could see the beauty where others saw only destruction. Yet, somehow, the years seemed to be tearing on some of them. Za’lyyr was one among those ranks. As his years grew forward and his knowledge advanced, he felt like he was still seen as a mere child. His own ego made his resentment grow. He began to further himself from the people, taking to the treetops and neglected sections of the forest. Silence, as always, was his most favored companion.
One day his temperance broke. It would be the only time he would ever allow it in his life. His abilities were questioned by a younger, headstrong elf. The confrontation progressed into a fight… which resulted in a death. Za’lyyr kept his life and did not mourn the loss of his competitor. The only thought in his mind was a single word. Run. That night was the first time he thought he heard the forest whisper to him. ”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken.
Galbatorix would not turn down an elf, one who was trained in their ways and had their abilities. And one who had such a deep unrest towards his own… one who would not flinch before killing a brother. Za’lyyr was disappointment to his own race, taken in and bathed in the mind of a crazed man. He soaked it in, every word. His thoughts morphed, feasting on the hate that bubbled inside his soul. He ate himself from the inside out, destroying memories and replacing them with fake, twisted ones.
He began to see himself as the victim. It was the elves who’d done this to him. They had pushed him to this point, and the plague called the Varden was no help. No one had stopped it. No one had helped him. No one had been there.
Every night, as the sun hid behind the mountain, Za’lyyr stared out at the world that surrounded him. There were few things he could trust. His knee came to the ground and he scooped dust and dirt between his hands. Slowly he released it, letting it blow in the wind that was whipping around him. He stood, his feet sure as they felt the ground. Even the thing he loved most, the natural world, hated his touch. They had stolen everything from him.
They would pay for it in blood and souls.
”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken.
Roleplaying example:
There was something about the night air that was too dry. It was crisp and clean in the kind of monotonous way that made James wish for home more than anything else. The desert was a fickle place. In the day it exhaled pure and potent heat and at night it cooled quickly and silently, the only evidence of heat being the light warmth of the sand. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was the kind of sudden change that left James wanting something a little more stable in his already upturned life. If you could call it a life. Maybe it wasn’t life at all… maybe he was dead. Honestly he didn’t care either way. It wasn’t like he could change anything if he was in some sort of Limbo.
The moon was calling loudly that night. James wasn’t entirely sure why. The full moon was hardest to ignore; but tonight only a crescent showed in the sky, seeming to smile above Door. It was enough to keep him from his bed. He found himself standing on the porch of his cabin in nothing but a pair of jeans, staring up at the sky. It was incredible, the way the rays of the moon was enough to make him take in a deep breath and feel a tingling sensation running through his body. Some creatures rejoiced in the sun, in the heat of it. James rejoiced in the moon and its silence. It wasn’t long before he was undoing the button of his worn jeans and sliding them off. He didn’t take the time to fold them, he just let them dangle on the railing around the porch. A smile appeared on his face as he took a step back, coming as close to the front door as he could. The weight of his body shifted between his feet as he bounced back and forth between them. The moon was soaking into his naked body. Nothing would ever feel that good. As the grin spread across his face, James was propelling himself forward and taking the largest leap from his porch that he possibly could.
Four paws impacted the ground. A body rose from its crouch. Instead of looking like the human, it took on the form of a large wolf with dark, nearly black, fur. He was larger than the average wolf, rivaling the size of a small horse. His green eyes didn’t spare a moment to look back at his home, or to contemplate the idea of bringing a pair of pants along with him. He’d learned after a few months in Door that it was best to stash spare clothing at random points; where he hoped no one would find them. So far it had worked out relatively well. Only a few pairs of jeans had gone missing.
The wolf was reckless when alone. There was no one to worry about…no one to contemplate. It was only him and his own life at stake. Maybe that was why he hadn’t joined a pack, either in Door or on Earth. There were a few werewolf packs in Chicago…little did the world know. They were like an otherworldly Mafia. When he lived in the mountains in northern Colorado, there were regular wolf packs everywhere, but he felt no pull towards then. It was strange behavior for a wolf… they were pack animals by habit. It was natural for them to band together, even in werewolf form. It was just another excuse for James to live his lonely life.
He was out in the night for hours, running the terrain of the desert. He was ready to return hold, the restlessness subsiding inside him. His running slowed as he approached town and turned into an easy walk. The world was so much more fantastic with the senses that being a wolf provided. There were sounds that he never picked up on, even with the advanced hearing he had in human form. Given the choice, he would spend his entire life as a wolf. Society tended to frown on that though. His slow walk took him to the edges of town and eventually the cemetery of the church. He wove his way between head stones and make-shift grave markers. Many had died. An ornamental tomb came into view. Nearly at the same time, so did a person. From the small, red glow that floated around the outline gave him the impression of smoking. He made a point of not looking at the person as he passed. People tended to get uneasy when a massive wolf was staring them down. Go figure. He came to the tomb and jumped forward, his front paws landing against the stone back panel as he reached upward and pulled something from peak of the roof with his teeth. As he dropped to the ground and let the object fall, the moonlight would reveal that it was nothing but a pair of jeans…stored away months earlier.
The change happened in a quick moment. It was familiarly painful, due to the aspects of his first change… along with the scars that covered his chest and back. James tilted his head back and examined the moon with human eyes as his fingers worked the zipper and button of his pants. A sigh left him and his arms fell to his sides. He was back to the real world… or as real as Door could be. He moved from behind the tomb, standing in the shadowed portion as he watched the person… suddenly unwilling to disturb him.
How did you find us?
Advert
Za’lyyr
Age:
137
Race:
Elf
Appearance:
There wasn’t a sound in the air around him that wasn’t natural. He liked it that way. There was the moving of the old water named Ramr, there was the sound that the wind could coax from the sparse grasses. They all sang together in unison; even the soil rumbled against his bare feet. They pleaded to him. There was no need for a name in this place. They acknowledged each other’s presence and lived in a neutral understanding. They were not to invade each other’s lives. Each was its own.
His eyes deviated to the Ramr once again. Za’lyyr was a patient type; his lips pulling into a smile as he watched the river stir inside itself. The water didn’t like his eyes, it spat the image of the dark green back up at him. “Mor'ranr, bródir.” Peace, brother. ”Mor’ranr.” As he spoke it again, his hand passed over the water where he knelt. The surface became still and clear, once again shoving his image back at him. He caused the nature around him unrest, such a contradiction of the worlds. Child of the earth, servant to a twisted king. He touched the water, wetting his finger tips. It scattered in ripples, running from his touch. ”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken. The words seemed to be whispered to him from the depths of the Ramr.
He stared once again at his reflection that was presented on the still surface. His face was obviously of elvish construction. His cheek bones were high and his chin was well sculpted. His face was considered severe by some and beautiful by others, as was typical with his race. His skin was light and clear of blemish; like milk in the moonlight. He tilted his head up too look at the moon. His dark hair fell down his back, soft and shining in the light. It was pulled away from his face by a pair of braids that tied in the back. Some days there would be various feathers or beads strung in his hair; some days there were dark markings across his face and body. It depended on how he felt, and more-so, how Galbatorix was feeling.
He stood and the clear surface expanded to show his whole body. Za’lyyr was tall; one smooth and steady line protruding from the ground. He was built from pure muscle, strong yet fast. Like a horse. Like a dragon in the air. He could run leagues without weariness, wield magic, and fight with the symphonic style of an elf. It made him valuable. He looked like an ally without being one. The number of elves allied to the Empire was few. ” Waíse lauss.” Be free. His words fell with a whisper of silence. The voice of a being who spoke few words to his fellow man. He preferred silence in all things, it was reflected in the way he presented words. His voice was smooth as the surface of the Ramr had been. It was now once again in its torrent. The ancient language feel from his lips like he was in love with every word. English held no such pleasure. He spoke it out of necessity. The language of the dwarves was avoided at every turn. It sounded crude and was entirely pointless in his eyes. They would have been better off with the sounds that the humans pulled from their throats.
He didn’t speak again to the river or the grasses, neither to the earth. He turned silently and began to walk. Feet touched the ground more swiftly as he turned to a run. Like arching rays of the moonlight they moved, propelling him over the landscape; each footfall fell faster than the kicked up dust to the ground. Urû'baen waited ahead of him.
Personality:
Za’lyyr was never one for pleasantries. Neither for tact. Galbatorix once told him that his worth was in his bluntness and his willingness to be direct. He would never baby a person, never give it to them softly. No, he’d much rather tell you that the dress you were wearing did, in fact, make you look fat. It took much less time than trying to convince someone that they looked alright, but they were better off looking for another thing to wear. One might argue that an elf, by nature, would speak the ancient language; and that by speaking such he would be incapable of lying. The thieving tongue of an elf was not beyond him though. Pouring twisting and turning paths of words into a person’s ear became a skill of the ancient people. They could tell you the greatest of secrets and you’d never know.
Without the patience to be polite and his general aversion to speaking, Za’lyyr would never be considered the life of the party; however, when his words were spoken, they were often listened to. They were few and far in between, but each was brought forward with incredible thought, showing the true workings of a gifted mind. He would never be a politician or the face of a movement, but he would forever be an object of action. Where others discussed choices, he would act. The elf was far from fearless, but he walked closely with courage… even if it may have been for the wrong campaign.
The men who worked around him would mark him as a proud creature. For the good or the worse, no one would know. He had confidence in his own ability and skill; perhaps too much for his own good. True, he was talented, but the showering praises of those who surrounded him may prove to be his pit fall. He’s learned to put faith in no one but himself. Galbatorix had his allegiance, but the king was a fickle man, often favoring one and destroying him the next day. Those in his commands were constantly walking a curving line, doing their best not to fall off either side.
But what of the Empire’s campaign? Za’lyyr saw it as a noble cause. There were pests to rid the world of and they made themselves such easy targets, raising the name of the Varden over their head. That would not save them. There were few things that could. They had their beloved Eragon, who seemed to be constructing his own legend. But they had a king whose name shook the ground and made the trees of the forest wail in agony. Their mindless dreaming would be brought to an end; and Za’lyyr would serve whatever purpose was required of him. He’d already made up his mind. They would not be stopped. They would hear no cry and hold no remorse.
Mercy was for the weak.
History:
Beneath the cover of the trees, over a century ago, a child was born. His ears held points and his face reflected the same noble look that so many of his race embraced. He was placed among fronds, leaves, and petals of every color. He was to be given two names. The first would be known by all, spoken from mouths and would fall from lips. Za’lyyr, they would call him. His mother would stare down at him with a smile, speaking to him in a language that made the branches of the trees shiver. ”Eka draumro sem sumr dag du evarínya atra gora onr nafn unin du uphiminn.” I dream that some day the stars will write your name in the heavens. She did not expect her son to be one of the few who fell; who walked from their upbringing into the gates of the capital city. She never expected that he would kneel before a crazed king and lend his name to the cause, becoming a broken piece of his heritage, stained by the kind of darkness that couldn’t simply be washed away.
He grew up as any child did within the great forest, learning the words to call magic forward. He learned of the past and the possibilities of the future. They were a strong, proud people who had always survived from one world to the next. They lived the longest, and were held close to the heart of the earth. They were cradled in its arms when the race was born and favored by the land. When all others forgot, they remembered. They remembered the names and the places, the battles that were won and lost. They called could see the beauty where others saw only destruction. Yet, somehow, the years seemed to be tearing on some of them. Za’lyyr was one among those ranks. As his years grew forward and his knowledge advanced, he felt like he was still seen as a mere child. His own ego made his resentment grow. He began to further himself from the people, taking to the treetops and neglected sections of the forest. Silence, as always, was his most favored companion.
One day his temperance broke. It would be the only time he would ever allow it in his life. His abilities were questioned by a younger, headstrong elf. The confrontation progressed into a fight… which resulted in a death. Za’lyyr kept his life and did not mourn the loss of his competitor. The only thought in his mind was a single word. Run. That night was the first time he thought he heard the forest whisper to him. ”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken.
Galbatorix would not turn down an elf, one who was trained in their ways and had their abilities. And one who had such a deep unrest towards his own… one who would not flinch before killing a brother. Za’lyyr was disappointment to his own race, taken in and bathed in the mind of a crazed man. He soaked it in, every word. His thoughts morphed, feasting on the hate that bubbled inside his soul. He ate himself from the inside out, destroying memories and replacing them with fake, twisted ones.
He began to see himself as the victim. It was the elves who’d done this to him. They had pushed him to this point, and the plague called the Varden was no help. No one had stopped it. No one had helped him. No one had been there.
Every night, as the sun hid behind the mountain, Za’lyyr stared out at the world that surrounded him. There were few things he could trust. His knee came to the ground and he scooped dust and dirt between his hands. Slowly he released it, letting it blow in the wind that was whipping around him. He stood, his feet sure as they felt the ground. Even the thing he loved most, the natural world, hated his touch. They had stolen everything from him.
They would pay for it in blood and souls.
”Ono eru brotna.” You are broken.
Roleplaying example:
There was something about the night air that was too dry. It was crisp and clean in the kind of monotonous way that made James wish for home more than anything else. The desert was a fickle place. In the day it exhaled pure and potent heat and at night it cooled quickly and silently, the only evidence of heat being the light warmth of the sand. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was the kind of sudden change that left James wanting something a little more stable in his already upturned life. If you could call it a life. Maybe it wasn’t life at all… maybe he was dead. Honestly he didn’t care either way. It wasn’t like he could change anything if he was in some sort of Limbo.
The moon was calling loudly that night. James wasn’t entirely sure why. The full moon was hardest to ignore; but tonight only a crescent showed in the sky, seeming to smile above Door. It was enough to keep him from his bed. He found himself standing on the porch of his cabin in nothing but a pair of jeans, staring up at the sky. It was incredible, the way the rays of the moon was enough to make him take in a deep breath and feel a tingling sensation running through his body. Some creatures rejoiced in the sun, in the heat of it. James rejoiced in the moon and its silence. It wasn’t long before he was undoing the button of his worn jeans and sliding them off. He didn’t take the time to fold them, he just let them dangle on the railing around the porch. A smile appeared on his face as he took a step back, coming as close to the front door as he could. The weight of his body shifted between his feet as he bounced back and forth between them. The moon was soaking into his naked body. Nothing would ever feel that good. As the grin spread across his face, James was propelling himself forward and taking the largest leap from his porch that he possibly could.
Four paws impacted the ground. A body rose from its crouch. Instead of looking like the human, it took on the form of a large wolf with dark, nearly black, fur. He was larger than the average wolf, rivaling the size of a small horse. His green eyes didn’t spare a moment to look back at his home, or to contemplate the idea of bringing a pair of pants along with him. He’d learned after a few months in Door that it was best to stash spare clothing at random points; where he hoped no one would find them. So far it had worked out relatively well. Only a few pairs of jeans had gone missing.
The wolf was reckless when alone. There was no one to worry about…no one to contemplate. It was only him and his own life at stake. Maybe that was why he hadn’t joined a pack, either in Door or on Earth. There were a few werewolf packs in Chicago…little did the world know. They were like an otherworldly Mafia. When he lived in the mountains in northern Colorado, there were regular wolf packs everywhere, but he felt no pull towards then. It was strange behavior for a wolf… they were pack animals by habit. It was natural for them to band together, even in werewolf form. It was just another excuse for James to live his lonely life.
He was out in the night for hours, running the terrain of the desert. He was ready to return hold, the restlessness subsiding inside him. His running slowed as he approached town and turned into an easy walk. The world was so much more fantastic with the senses that being a wolf provided. There were sounds that he never picked up on, even with the advanced hearing he had in human form. Given the choice, he would spend his entire life as a wolf. Society tended to frown on that though. His slow walk took him to the edges of town and eventually the cemetery of the church. He wove his way between head stones and make-shift grave markers. Many had died. An ornamental tomb came into view. Nearly at the same time, so did a person. From the small, red glow that floated around the outline gave him the impression of smoking. He made a point of not looking at the person as he passed. People tended to get uneasy when a massive wolf was staring them down. Go figure. He came to the tomb and jumped forward, his front paws landing against the stone back panel as he reached upward and pulled something from peak of the roof with his teeth. As he dropped to the ground and let the object fall, the moonlight would reveal that it was nothing but a pair of jeans…stored away months earlier.
The change happened in a quick moment. It was familiarly painful, due to the aspects of his first change… along with the scars that covered his chest and back. James tilted his head back and examined the moon with human eyes as his fingers worked the zipper and button of his pants. A sigh left him and his arms fell to his sides. He was back to the real world… or as real as Door could be. He moved from behind the tomb, standing in the shadowed portion as he watched the person… suddenly unwilling to disturb him.
How did you find us?
Advert
