Velho
Approved Character
- Messages
- 200
- Race
- Æld'Norai
- Profession
- Ferrier
- Location
- AElheim
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
༺༉❁ January 3rd year 19,213 of the second age ❁༉༻
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Ever since he'd gained the ability to decompose from flesh to Ash and back, Velho welcomed the skill and frequent use of it immediately upon its acquisition. It was a break from his body, the weight of it, the malaise of it. Scourge, the giver of this very delightful gift, was also the very thing which made existing in his own flesh exhausting. At least it, in turn, granted him a mechanism with which he could find solace from the suffering it causes, too.
Becoming an Ashwraith allowed for far greater ease and flexibility in his movements as well, granting him the ability to traverse courtesy of his spell reserves rather than his withering musculature and fragile skeletal system. The only downside was that he had to hide the exact source of this ability, but this part was no riddle– Ferriers were a longstanding profession in Ælheim, and as such, his peers provided him with all the excuses he needed to ward off those pesky inquiries. The answer was simple: through his Ashics, Velho could acquire Apparation, and with that, he could then claim his abilities were gifted to him through the connection to Avernus all Ferriers had.
The gentle music of the bog, the bubbling water, the frogs, the bugs, slowly faded into the background as Velho began to meditate. He'd made the short journey to a clandestine location not far from Själasalr, one where the veil between Avernus and Antarok he'd discovered was notably thin. The Ashes of his form whorled in a gentle, almost lazy zephyr as he attempted to tune the resonance of all that he was to something a bit more incorporeal.
Velho knew he'd not be able to reach the resonance of a spirit quite yet, but if he could manage to alter it at all, he would know that he'd succeeded in forging the connection he sought. The process was slow, and it strained him, but eventually, he felt a shift. And unsure if he was imagining things or not, he supposed he'd test his theory. Languidly, the Ashen cloud drifted over the surrounding foliage– he found he was able to drift through the thinner leaves; though he was only about the translucency of a fine mist, he'd succeeded.
Upon making this realization, relief and self satisfaction washed over him. And with his goal achieved, he returned home.
Some days later, the Scourge, the newly minted Apparator, wanted to see about learning to weave his first tendril. He would go about this endeavor during a bit of free time and from within the confines of his private chambers, content that he would be undisturbed and able to focus. It wouldn't take long, surely, he thought.
Sitting cross-legged in his bed, Velho let out a soft hum, exhaling ash, focusing his spell reserves the fashion a colleague of his had directed him to do in the recent past. He wore pants but no shirt, and from his spine– about level with the mid-point of his shoulder blades– he slowly grew a single, psychoplasmic tendril. The strange, caliginous substance slowly shifted from liquid to an almost fleshy-feeling solid, writhing in the air as the Ferrier figured out how to control it properly.
And when he did, he realized it was not dissimilar to maneuvering any other limb. How useful– though it did not have another hand, he did have fine motor control of its tip, so he'd at the very least be able to perform a myriad of simple actions with the tendril as if it were a third arm of sorts. His mind began to wander at the possibilities…
Becoming an Ashwraith allowed for far greater ease and flexibility in his movements as well, granting him the ability to traverse courtesy of his spell reserves rather than his withering musculature and fragile skeletal system. The only downside was that he had to hide the exact source of this ability, but this part was no riddle– Ferriers were a longstanding profession in Ælheim, and as such, his peers provided him with all the excuses he needed to ward off those pesky inquiries. The answer was simple: through his Ashics, Velho could acquire Apparation, and with that, he could then claim his abilities were gifted to him through the connection to Avernus all Ferriers had.
•════════════════════• ❁ ❀ ❁
The gentle music of the bog, the bubbling water, the frogs, the bugs, slowly faded into the background as Velho began to meditate. He'd made the short journey to a clandestine location not far from Själasalr, one where the veil between Avernus and Antarok he'd discovered was notably thin. The Ashes of his form whorled in a gentle, almost lazy zephyr as he attempted to tune the resonance of all that he was to something a bit more incorporeal.
Velho knew he'd not be able to reach the resonance of a spirit quite yet, but if he could manage to alter it at all, he would know that he'd succeeded in forging the connection he sought. The process was slow, and it strained him, but eventually, he felt a shift. And unsure if he was imagining things or not, he supposed he'd test his theory. Languidly, the Ashen cloud drifted over the surrounding foliage– he found he was able to drift through the thinner leaves; though he was only about the translucency of a fine mist, he'd succeeded.
Upon making this realization, relief and self satisfaction washed over him. And with his goal achieved, he returned home.
•════════════════════• ❁ ❀ ❁
Some days later, the Scourge, the newly minted Apparator, wanted to see about learning to weave his first tendril. He would go about this endeavor during a bit of free time and from within the confines of his private chambers, content that he would be undisturbed and able to focus. It wouldn't take long, surely, he thought.
Sitting cross-legged in his bed, Velho let out a soft hum, exhaling ash, focusing his spell reserves the fashion a colleague of his had directed him to do in the recent past. He wore pants but no shirt, and from his spine– about level with the mid-point of his shoulder blades– he slowly grew a single, psychoplasmic tendril. The strange, caliginous substance slowly shifted from liquid to an almost fleshy-feeling solid, writhing in the air as the Ferrier figured out how to control it properly.
And when he did, he realized it was not dissimilar to maneuvering any other limb. How useful– though it did not have another hand, he did have fine motor control of its tip, so he'd at the very least be able to perform a myriad of simple actions with the tendril as if it were a third arm of sorts. His mind began to wander at the possibilities…
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