Velho
Approved Character
- Messages
- 225
- Race
- Æld'Norai
- Profession
- Ferrier
- Location
- AElheim
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
༺༉❁ Winter 82 year 125 of the third age ❁༉༻
<A Frozen Grove in Helheim>
<A Frozen Grove in Helheim>
A portal opened just below the treeline of a small subsection sequestered within an already secluded Grove, and through it, two more bodies fell– heavily injured and bleeding, but still clinging to life. It then promptly snapped closed. The metallic, sickly, almost sweet smell of blood, death and decay hung heavy in the air. Lying now in a crumpled heap upon frost-dusted, mossy ground already soaked with blood from the likely many corpses that had landed in the area around them, it was a gift to the couple that neither clung to consciousness. That being the case, there were no other corpses present at the moment.
This section of the Grove appeared to be a dumping ground, with several small sites dedicated to specific portals corresponding to specific talismans, or perhaps specific Exodii. From the dreary treeline emerged a figure, tall and thin, who strode slowly towards the newly deposited bodies. He knelt down beside them, briefly checking them over to make sure they fulfilled a set of parameters held only within his mind, and then mumbled something nearly inaudible.
A rune– one carved into a wooden sort of placard placed above this dumping site, previously invisible in the darkness– lit up after the utterance of its keyphrase. Another portal opened below the barely-living bodies, subsuming them before once again snapping closed. The Ælven figure rose and left once more.
Two were not enough to reach the benchmark that had been suggested to this agent, though he still had plenty of time to keep up with his quota. For now, there was no cause for Velho to raise a concern regarding numbers to those with whom he worked. He was aware of Kage’s skill and dedication, and for now, would simply assume that more would come soon.
This time, the two unfortunate Fælnir had fallen to somewhere altogether eldritch. No longer were they in Ælheim, or even in Antarok, though they would never get the chance to wake and experience Caligony's climes for themselves. Their time here would be brief, consisting only of their fall into the gaping maw of Father Malachai, now massive, gelatinous, and composed of roiling black Absentia, teeth and keratinous growths meant to rip and tear at what “food” fell from the sky above.
He was mindless incubation– a Null gestating his own Ascension. In this state, he was left unable to think, move, or perceive anything beyond his endless hunger. Had he not his own kin– and now the help of the Æld'Norai– his hunger might have consumed even himself. But instead, this undulating black mass lay overflowing within a temple erected in his honor on the precipice of rebirth. Only a few more corpses, a couple hundred at most, and he would be complete.
This section of the Grove appeared to be a dumping ground, with several small sites dedicated to specific portals corresponding to specific talismans, or perhaps specific Exodii. From the dreary treeline emerged a figure, tall and thin, who strode slowly towards the newly deposited bodies. He knelt down beside them, briefly checking them over to make sure they fulfilled a set of parameters held only within his mind, and then mumbled something nearly inaudible.
A rune– one carved into a wooden sort of placard placed above this dumping site, previously invisible in the darkness– lit up after the utterance of its keyphrase. Another portal opened below the barely-living bodies, subsuming them before once again snapping closed. The Ælven figure rose and left once more.
Two were not enough to reach the benchmark that had been suggested to this agent, though he still had plenty of time to keep up with his quota. For now, there was no cause for Velho to raise a concern regarding numbers to those with whom he worked. He was aware of Kage’s skill and dedication, and for now, would simply assume that more would come soon.
•════════════════════• Caligony ❀
This time, the two unfortunate Fælnir had fallen to somewhere altogether eldritch. No longer were they in Ælheim, or even in Antarok, though they would never get the chance to wake and experience Caligony's climes for themselves. Their time here would be brief, consisting only of their fall into the gaping maw of Father Malachai, now massive, gelatinous, and composed of roiling black Absentia, teeth and keratinous growths meant to rip and tear at what “food” fell from the sky above.
He was mindless incubation– a Null gestating his own Ascension. In this state, he was left unable to think, move, or perceive anything beyond his endless hunger. Had he not his own kin– and now the help of the Æld'Norai– his hunger might have consumed even himself. But instead, this undulating black mass lay overflowing within a temple erected in his honor on the precipice of rebirth. Only a few more corpses, a couple hundred at most, and he would be complete.
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