Velho
Approved Character
- Messages
- 200
- Race
- Æld'Norai
- Profession
- Ferrier
- Location
- AElheim
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
༺༉❁ April 3rd year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<gore, body horror, sadism>
<gore, body horror, sadism>
Physically weak, Velho was not a man to participate in his people's tradition of hunting as per the norm– but he did endeavor to breathe life into such practices within his own all the same.
A cool breeze gently swayed the Talismans that hung in an open window– a few different types, strong, expensive, even, against Apparation and Seeming, their inlaid alkahest softly glinting in the gentle light of the moon. It filled the Scourge with a sick sense of satisfaction to see, as he imagined that the occupants within assumed themselves to be safe…safe enough to leave their windows open, safe enough to assume nothing nefarious was capable of floating in upon the midnight air.
Alas, they were wrong.
The window led into a bedroom– a rather lavish one by Fælnir standards, too– within a lovely little home in Thokkmyrr. It belonged to a middle aged, enterprising couple; a man and a woman who jointly ran several businesses. Though at this point, their employees did most of the actual work; would it really be so tragic if something were to happen to them?
Velho liked to hunt the comfortable ones; the ones who thought they'd made it; the happy ones.
The sleeping couple was none the wiser when that same, soft breeze that'd helped them drift off to sleep carried with it an Ashwraith. Barely visible, the Ashes swirled, gathering slowly into the vague silhouette of a thin, wiry ælven torso, his prominent rib cage gently pulsing with every beat of his heart. He floated above their simple, yet finely crafted bed, open palms dripping a few black, oily droplets onto the faces of each.
Drip,
The liquid's slight impact managed to disturb the sleeping woman, but Velho didn't care. She was already afflicted; his Sap had already begun to set in, making her muscles and bones feel like lead, her head heavy and clouded.
Still, her amber eyes widened in terror at the sight of the pale ghost that floated above her, his gaunt facial features shrouded by dark hair– though this aspect did nothing to hide his distinct, pointed ears. She'd been angry, for a moment, thinking the Ensorceller had scammed her, but no. No, this had to be some bizarre ælven magic no Fælnir could properly ward against, and that realization, that crushing realization, well, it sunk in heavy, cold. She tried to move, but…she…couldn't…? She tried again and again, but all she could do was twitch a finger, blink, slowly shift her jaw– the like. At that moment, she knew her life was forfeit.
The wraith smiled something wide, something patronizing, something saccharine, as he tilted his head to her in greeting. He slowly lifted a hand, bringing a finger to his lips as if telling her to be silent, the glint of his gaze falling onto her husband.
A cruel joke, that was, as the creature's next move was to fold the fingers of his left hand, the one that hung over her, and squeeze tightly, taloned fingertips piercing the skin. A river of blackened crimson flowed down his palm, then his wrist, before dripping down onto her– the monster, the Devorari, tainting it further as it fell.
And on impact, she screamed– a strained, pathetic sound on account of the Bane she'd been afflicted with, but more than loud enough to wake her husband. Her skin sizzled, burning away in the few places where the Devorari's blood had fallen; he'd turned it to a powerful acid. Of course, her loving partner wanted desperately to spring into action, but woe, he couldn't– he, too, found his body heavy, unmoveable, weak. He couldn't even move his jaw nor tongue enough to yell curses at the damnable creature.
Musical laughter filled the room; her pain delighted him, her spouse's desperation even more so.
The sound faded into a satisfied sigh, "...oh, don't cry yet; I've such sights to show you~..." he almost cooed at the woman. He watched dreamily as blood from her wounds began to mix with the tears welling in her eyes; with his Sap, too, she struggled to even blink it away.
Without another word, the wraith would float across the room, trailed by ash. Unseen by the terrified, bedbound couple, he would collect and then place two chairs across from one another in the open space at the foot of the bed. As if the point to a triangle, Velho took his place in between but behind them. This would work for the night, he thought.
Now setting his gaze once more on those beneath the blankets, he'd raise both his arms in a somewhat theatrical manner and mutter a few dissonant, unknowable syllables. He'd invited Absentia to seep into their blood through Hemomancy, granting him control of them like sad, pathetic puppets. They would each rise, him pulling their strings, and move uncannily from their resting place and then into the chairs the wraith had previously set up.
Husband and wife stared at each other, each slumped in those chairs, barely able to hold themselves up. If it came to dying at the hands of an Æld'Norai, they'd hoped their deaths would be swift, efficient, as many of such kills were said to be– not this, not whatever nightmare this was.
"Watch," Velho said in an almost sing-song, mellifluous tone as he floated over to the woman.
He rested spindly, skeletal hands on her shoulders, his gaunt face centimeters away from hers as he stared into those wide, deep pools of amber. And for a moment longer, he'd linger there– drinking in that delicious fear of hers. But then, he'd inhale, and on his exhale, insidious Ash laden with Bane would be expelled onto her face, into her wounds, her airways. Within moments, the Rot would set in.
And Velho would float out of the way with a quickness, ending up behind the woman, his hands resting on the back of the chair. After all, he wanted her beloved husband to observe the spellwork he'd worked so very long to cultivate. The wraith smiled something big and broad, barely backlit by the moonlight, as the woman began to moan– there it was, the first symptom, pain. The other man, her spouse, looked at the scene before him with utter despair. He knew he was powerless to help the only person in the world about which he cared. Oh, what a delightful, delicious, expression of sweet, sweet torment.
The woman's husband got to watch as her weakened features would twist in a haggard sort of agony, her pale flesh turning sickly shades of yellow, purple bruises rising to the surface as blood vessels began to rupture within. The raw, open pockets of flesh where she'd been burned by his acid began to suppurate repulsively, pus and inflammatory fluids weeping down her face along with her tears. And they'd bloom red, bloom beautiful, those wounds spreading wider, skin splitting along her cheeks, down her neck.
The rest of her flesh was coated with a thin patina of sweat, slowly soaking into her nightclothes, making them stick to her skin in the clammy night air of the bog. Her breathing became heavy, ragged, and she tried, oh did she try, to scream. All that came out was a rasp– a wheeze, a cry, a whimper, her voice thick and bubbling with fluid and phlegm.
And that red, rotting flesh 'round her wounds continued to swell and seep until it turned black, finally necrotizing. Velho sighed something deep, something satisfied, and more of that same, insidious Ash expelled from his lips in a plume on his exhale. He laughed, then– more of a manic sort of giggle that carried with it a twisted sort of jester's glee. He did so love to watch his Banes work.
Choking, weeping, the woman's organs slowly became inflamed, her body swelling, flesh splitting like swollen seams in places all over, blood and pus leaking onto the floor below her. Her death came in the next few minutes as her writhing, her wailing, the twitching of her heavy limbs, slowly ceased. Eventually, she was still, still and heavy, as she slumped over, her body falling to the ground in a crumbled, broken, rotten heap.
And only a few feet away, her husband stared back at the wraith, his pupils two dark pools of venom, his lips a twitching arc of unadulterated contempt. Velho simply smiled sweetly, bringing his hands together quaintly, and clapping softly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" He said, his voice carrying with it all the joy in the world. But the other man was too Sapped to speak back.
Continuing to make a show of it, the wraith spread his arms wide as his own veins began to softly glow red, a crimson miasma forming 'round his palms as he muttered more maddening, incomprehensible sounds. The dead woman's blood began to rise from her body, flowing from her wounds or ripping open new ones as tendrils of it snaked through the air, rising and wrapping 'round the body of the Devorari.
Velho allowed himself to be wrapped in the warmth of her blood for a few brief beats, savoring the scent of it, before drawing it to his lips and slowly sucking it down 'til none was left. He heaved a sigh, deeply pleased. The woman's taste was fine, sanguine and sweet, nothing special. Mm, but for a monster like him, any decent blood instilled a soothing, ambrosial sort of satisfaction within…if only for a moment before the hunger began to gnash its teeth again.
And then he'd float on, drifting on the cool night breeze forward and into the lap of the living Fælnir. He'd languidly wrap his arms 'round the other's shoulders before leaning in for a passionate, spiteful kiss. The man noticed a strange texture, though he tasted, oddly, nothing at all. The sensation of the warm, oily liquid of Pathos dripping down his chin being the only flag of his poisoning. The only one, that is, 'til Velho pulled away and that same strange, caliginous fluid was smeared all over his lips.
He'd wink, "...your turn," before floating back to watch the man's fate unfold.
The process was a similarly slow, agonizing end as the Rot took hold. Still, Velho watched just as intently– if not more so– this second time, savoring every dimly lit moment as the man progressed through pain, discoloration, necrosis, septic shock and finally death. A flash of disappointment came when the rotted out husk finally stopped moving, but only for a moment, fading once more as he drew out the man's blood and consumed it in much the same fashion as before.
Now came the final part: body disposal. It was easier for Velho to create large quantities of acid through his Æcturnis at this point, and a small basin of Ardentvith bloomed into existence on his palm. From it, acid slowly began to seep out until it flowed like a faucet, and he dripped that devouring substance over the tortured husks beneath them. Sure, once they'd been eaten away, half the floor had been, too, but did it really matter? He wasn't trying to hide his crime, no, he was trying to hide the evidence of his Blights.
The Fælnir were chattel, fruit for the taking. They'd be missed and mourned, but no justice would be sought once they'd caught his trail– Æld'Norai like him could do as they wished. The wraith shifted back into a cloud and floated out into the night air on the breeze, leaving just as he had entered.
•════════════════════• ❁ ❀ ❁
A cool breeze gently swayed the Talismans that hung in an open window– a few different types, strong, expensive, even, against Apparation and Seeming, their inlaid alkahest softly glinting in the gentle light of the moon. It filled the Scourge with a sick sense of satisfaction to see, as he imagined that the occupants within assumed themselves to be safe…safe enough to leave their windows open, safe enough to assume nothing nefarious was capable of floating in upon the midnight air.
Alas, they were wrong.
The window led into a bedroom– a rather lavish one by Fælnir standards, too– within a lovely little home in Thokkmyrr. It belonged to a middle aged, enterprising couple; a man and a woman who jointly ran several businesses. Though at this point, their employees did most of the actual work; would it really be so tragic if something were to happen to them?
Velho liked to hunt the comfortable ones; the ones who thought they'd made it; the happy ones.
To him, their fear tasted the sweetest.
The sleeping couple was none the wiser when that same, soft breeze that'd helped them drift off to sleep carried with it an Ashwraith. Barely visible, the Ashes swirled, gathering slowly into the vague silhouette of a thin, wiry ælven torso, his prominent rib cage gently pulsing with every beat of his heart. He floated above their simple, yet finely crafted bed, open palms dripping a few black, oily droplets onto the faces of each.
Drip,
drop…
The liquid's slight impact managed to disturb the sleeping woman, but Velho didn't care. She was already afflicted; his Sap had already begun to set in, making her muscles and bones feel like lead, her head heavy and clouded.
Still, her amber eyes widened in terror at the sight of the pale ghost that floated above her, his gaunt facial features shrouded by dark hair– though this aspect did nothing to hide his distinct, pointed ears. She'd been angry, for a moment, thinking the Ensorceller had scammed her, but no. No, this had to be some bizarre ælven magic no Fælnir could properly ward against, and that realization, that crushing realization, well, it sunk in heavy, cold. She tried to move, but…she…couldn't…? She tried again and again, but all she could do was twitch a finger, blink, slowly shift her jaw– the like. At that moment, she knew her life was forfeit.
The wraith smiled something wide, something patronizing, something saccharine, as he tilted his head to her in greeting. He slowly lifted a hand, bringing a finger to his lips as if telling her to be silent, the glint of his gaze falling onto her husband.
A cruel joke, that was, as the creature's next move was to fold the fingers of his left hand, the one that hung over her, and squeeze tightly, taloned fingertips piercing the skin. A river of blackened crimson flowed down his palm, then his wrist, before dripping down onto her– the monster, the Devorari, tainting it further as it fell.
And on impact, she screamed– a strained, pathetic sound on account of the Bane she'd been afflicted with, but more than loud enough to wake her husband. Her skin sizzled, burning away in the few places where the Devorari's blood had fallen; he'd turned it to a powerful acid. Of course, her loving partner wanted desperately to spring into action, but woe, he couldn't– he, too, found his body heavy, unmoveable, weak. He couldn't even move his jaw nor tongue enough to yell curses at the damnable creature.
Musical laughter filled the room; her pain delighted him, her spouse's desperation even more so.
The sound faded into a satisfied sigh, "...oh, don't cry yet; I've such sights to show you~..." he almost cooed at the woman. He watched dreamily as blood from her wounds began to mix with the tears welling in her eyes; with his Sap, too, she struggled to even blink it away.
Without another word, the wraith would float across the room, trailed by ash. Unseen by the terrified, bedbound couple, he would collect and then place two chairs across from one another in the open space at the foot of the bed. As if the point to a triangle, Velho took his place in between but behind them. This would work for the night, he thought.
Now setting his gaze once more on those beneath the blankets, he'd raise both his arms in a somewhat theatrical manner and mutter a few dissonant, unknowable syllables. He'd invited Absentia to seep into their blood through Hemomancy, granting him control of them like sad, pathetic puppets. They would each rise, him pulling their strings, and move uncannily from their resting place and then into the chairs the wraith had previously set up.
Husband and wife stared at each other, each slumped in those chairs, barely able to hold themselves up. If it came to dying at the hands of an Æld'Norai, they'd hoped their deaths would be swift, efficient, as many of such kills were said to be– not this, not whatever nightmare this was.
"Watch," Velho said in an almost sing-song, mellifluous tone as he floated over to the woman.
He rested spindly, skeletal hands on her shoulders, his gaunt face centimeters away from hers as he stared into those wide, deep pools of amber. And for a moment longer, he'd linger there– drinking in that delicious fear of hers. But then, he'd inhale, and on his exhale, insidious Ash laden with Bane would be expelled onto her face, into her wounds, her airways. Within moments, the Rot would set in.
And Velho would float out of the way with a quickness, ending up behind the woman, his hands resting on the back of the chair. After all, he wanted her beloved husband to observe the spellwork he'd worked so very long to cultivate. The wraith smiled something big and broad, barely backlit by the moonlight, as the woman began to moan– there it was, the first symptom, pain. The other man, her spouse, looked at the scene before him with utter despair. He knew he was powerless to help the only person in the world about which he cared. Oh, what a delightful, delicious, expression of sweet, sweet torment.
The woman's husband got to watch as her weakened features would twist in a haggard sort of agony, her pale flesh turning sickly shades of yellow, purple bruises rising to the surface as blood vessels began to rupture within. The raw, open pockets of flesh where she'd been burned by his acid began to suppurate repulsively, pus and inflammatory fluids weeping down her face along with her tears. And they'd bloom red, bloom beautiful, those wounds spreading wider, skin splitting along her cheeks, down her neck.
The rest of her flesh was coated with a thin patina of sweat, slowly soaking into her nightclothes, making them stick to her skin in the clammy night air of the bog. Her breathing became heavy, ragged, and she tried, oh did she try, to scream. All that came out was a rasp– a wheeze, a cry, a whimper, her voice thick and bubbling with fluid and phlegm.
And that red, rotting flesh 'round her wounds continued to swell and seep until it turned black, finally necrotizing. Velho sighed something deep, something satisfied, and more of that same, insidious Ash expelled from his lips in a plume on his exhale. He laughed, then– more of a manic sort of giggle that carried with it a twisted sort of jester's glee. He did so love to watch his Banes work.
Choking, weeping, the woman's organs slowly became inflamed, her body swelling, flesh splitting like swollen seams in places all over, blood and pus leaking onto the floor below her. Her death came in the next few minutes as her writhing, her wailing, the twitching of her heavy limbs, slowly ceased. Eventually, she was still, still and heavy, as she slumped over, her body falling to the ground in a crumbled, broken, rotten heap.
And only a few feet away, her husband stared back at the wraith, his pupils two dark pools of venom, his lips a twitching arc of unadulterated contempt. Velho simply smiled sweetly, bringing his hands together quaintly, and clapping softly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" He said, his voice carrying with it all the joy in the world. But the other man was too Sapped to speak back.
Continuing to make a show of it, the wraith spread his arms wide as his own veins began to softly glow red, a crimson miasma forming 'round his palms as he muttered more maddening, incomprehensible sounds. The dead woman's blood began to rise from her body, flowing from her wounds or ripping open new ones as tendrils of it snaked through the air, rising and wrapping 'round the body of the Devorari.
Velho allowed himself to be wrapped in the warmth of her blood for a few brief beats, savoring the scent of it, before drawing it to his lips and slowly sucking it down 'til none was left. He heaved a sigh, deeply pleased. The woman's taste was fine, sanguine and sweet, nothing special. Mm, but for a monster like him, any decent blood instilled a soothing, ambrosial sort of satisfaction within…if only for a moment before the hunger began to gnash its teeth again.
And then he'd float on, drifting on the cool night breeze forward and into the lap of the living Fælnir. He'd languidly wrap his arms 'round the other's shoulders before leaning in for a passionate, spiteful kiss. The man noticed a strange texture, though he tasted, oddly, nothing at all. The sensation of the warm, oily liquid of Pathos dripping down his chin being the only flag of his poisoning. The only one, that is, 'til Velho pulled away and that same strange, caliginous fluid was smeared all over his lips.
He'd wink, "...your turn," before floating back to watch the man's fate unfold.
The process was a similarly slow, agonizing end as the Rot took hold. Still, Velho watched just as intently– if not more so– this second time, savoring every dimly lit moment as the man progressed through pain, discoloration, necrosis, septic shock and finally death. A flash of disappointment came when the rotted out husk finally stopped moving, but only for a moment, fading once more as he drew out the man's blood and consumed it in much the same fashion as before.
Now came the final part: body disposal. It was easier for Velho to create large quantities of acid through his Æcturnis at this point, and a small basin of Ardentvith bloomed into existence on his palm. From it, acid slowly began to seep out until it flowed like a faucet, and he dripped that devouring substance over the tortured husks beneath them. Sure, once they'd been eaten away, half the floor had been, too, but did it really matter? He wasn't trying to hide his crime, no, he was trying to hide the evidence of his Blights.
The Fælnir were chattel, fruit for the taking. They'd be missed and mourned, but no justice would be sought once they'd caught his trail– Æld'Norai like him could do as they wished. The wraith shifted back into a cloud and floated out into the night air on the breeze, leaving just as he had entered.
