Velho
Approved Character
- Messages
- 200
- Race
- Æld'Norai
- Profession
- Ferrier
- Location
- AElheim
- Arcana
- Character Sheet
༺༉❁ August 12th year 19,212 of the third age ❁༉༻
<notes>
<notes>
Velho's journey as a Ferrier within Ælheim was wrought with all the pitfalls standard to Scourge, though it was easier for him– and his peers– than being a Scourge elsewhere might be. His path was carefully guided by the hand of his mentor, an ancient Æld'Norai known only as Reykr. And now that he'd obtained a firm grasp over his Ashics enough to master the art of the Ashwraith, Reykr– and his mother– were both encouraging him to branch out into the field of Poetics and learn Syphon.
Velho was more than familiar with Poetics through his work as a Ferrier– all of the ghosts he encountered were capable of at least rudimentary Syphon and Apparation, and many of the older, more advanced souls had also branched into the remaining two, Possession and Remnant. In the early days of his training with Scourge and Mysticism, he often found himself envious of those capable of wielding Poetics fluidly.
As it stood, he was reliant on a combination of Draoidh, Malediction and the graciousness of others to keep himself from withering away. Though these things in combination produced a result that wasn't altogether dreadful, his connection to Draoidh had been weakened by his growing prowess with Scourge– certainly, excelling with his kin's Glamour was not impossible, but doing so was certainly harder because of it. Further, practicing Malediction on oneself was often inconvenient and in some locations, impossible. And lastly, relying on his mother and others with Syphon to grant him relief and rejuvenation was something he considered to be deeply embarrassing regardless of the fact that his mother didn't mind at all.
For the above reasons, he found himself quite excited at the prospect of learning Syphon; he craved the additional autonomy it would provide almost more than he did the easing of Scourge's physical burden. Though he was happy to pool his knowledge and cooperate with other Ferriers, relying on others was something Velho loathed deeply.
Ælheim had no shortage of life; finding a victim– mortal or animal– would be remarkably easy. The choice, really, of whom to pick came in how capable the creature was of defending itself, though this was something Velho luckily did not have to think much about at all. The Fælnir chattel were weak, easy to harvest things, and generally free of consequence. Velho wasn't particularly picky; he'd chosen the first dwelling he'd come across in a village not far from his own home.
The Ashes which composed his form swept in through an open window, swirling languidly upon the night's breeze and into the single roomed house. He was invisible in the darkness, only illuminated by what moonlight crept in through the window. Velho soon came to find the little building's sole occupant– a man who was something of a hunter and a scout. He lived on the village outskirts away from the rest, tasked with the duty of overwatch along with one other. One worked, the other slept; and thus, he was alone. He was young and strong, capable of defending against most of the local fauna, and the building even had a variety of rudimentary charms that would keep most basic threats at bay…but a Scourge was a creature of nightmares, something well beyond his scope.
Velho did not bother reforming his body at all, instead layering his Ashes like a thick, cold blanket over the man's body. It didn't matter whether his skin was outright exposed or not, as Ashes are fine enough that, after a few moments, they sifted through the fabric of his blankets and clothing. As something of a contingency, he'd produce a small amount of Pathos infused with Sopor, intent on ensuring that his victim would remain asleep until such time that his life was snuffed out. Once he'd gotten this far, he found himself quickly becoming consumed by his desperate excitement– Velho always struggled to subdue strong emotions, rare as they were for him. Though it took some effort to hone such feelings into a fervent focus, he was eventually able to draw upon the Absentia that roiled within him and began to burn it, pulling Saol from his victim in exchange.
Despite presently being an entity of Ash, the relief from the infusion of Saol was palpable though small; his mind sharper in moments. Still, he knew he needed more, and that with his rudimentary skills, it would take a while– but what little Saol he was Syphoning was ambrosial and gave him a unique motivation to take ever the more. He certainly wouldn't mind lingering here for as long as he could.
And linger he did– that is, until the other man who called this quaint building home returned intent on swapping shifts with Velho's present victim. When the sleeping man did not wake up at the call of the other's voice, the confused huntsman approached him to shake him awake by the shoulder. Immediately, however, he'd pull his hands away in recoiled disgust, drawing them back up in front of his face. His palms were coated in Ash and his features were writ in a cross of confusion, repulsion and concern. Before he could even begin to fathom what this silken substance was, however, he, too, would fall into a deep slumber, hitting the floor in mere moments.
For the next few days did Velho linger, draining the Saol away from both of them until there was nothing left. Another day after that, the two desiccated corpses were discovered, dry and mummified, by the woman sent to deliver the two men their weekly supplies. Though she was horrified, their killer had gone without a trace. The village's subsequent primitive attempts to figure out what had happened were utterly futile, too, thus leaving this incident to join the endless pile of mysterious deaths within Ælheim.
Velho was more than familiar with Poetics through his work as a Ferrier– all of the ghosts he encountered were capable of at least rudimentary Syphon and Apparation, and many of the older, more advanced souls had also branched into the remaining two, Possession and Remnant. In the early days of his training with Scourge and Mysticism, he often found himself envious of those capable of wielding Poetics fluidly.
As it stood, he was reliant on a combination of Draoidh, Malediction and the graciousness of others to keep himself from withering away. Though these things in combination produced a result that wasn't altogether dreadful, his connection to Draoidh had been weakened by his growing prowess with Scourge– certainly, excelling with his kin's Glamour was not impossible, but doing so was certainly harder because of it. Further, practicing Malediction on oneself was often inconvenient and in some locations, impossible. And lastly, relying on his mother and others with Syphon to grant him relief and rejuvenation was something he considered to be deeply embarrassing regardless of the fact that his mother didn't mind at all.
For the above reasons, he found himself quite excited at the prospect of learning Syphon; he craved the additional autonomy it would provide almost more than he did the easing of Scourge's physical burden. Though he was happy to pool his knowledge and cooperate with other Ferriers, relying on others was something Velho loathed deeply.
•════════════════════• ❀
Ælheim had no shortage of life; finding a victim– mortal or animal– would be remarkably easy. The choice, really, of whom to pick came in how capable the creature was of defending itself, though this was something Velho luckily did not have to think much about at all. The Fælnir chattel were weak, easy to harvest things, and generally free of consequence. Velho wasn't particularly picky; he'd chosen the first dwelling he'd come across in a village not far from his own home.
The Ashes which composed his form swept in through an open window, swirling languidly upon the night's breeze and into the single roomed house. He was invisible in the darkness, only illuminated by what moonlight crept in through the window. Velho soon came to find the little building's sole occupant– a man who was something of a hunter and a scout. He lived on the village outskirts away from the rest, tasked with the duty of overwatch along with one other. One worked, the other slept; and thus, he was alone. He was young and strong, capable of defending against most of the local fauna, and the building even had a variety of rudimentary charms that would keep most basic threats at bay…but a Scourge was a creature of nightmares, something well beyond his scope.
Velho did not bother reforming his body at all, instead layering his Ashes like a thick, cold blanket over the man's body. It didn't matter whether his skin was outright exposed or not, as Ashes are fine enough that, after a few moments, they sifted through the fabric of his blankets and clothing. As something of a contingency, he'd produce a small amount of Pathos infused with Sopor, intent on ensuring that his victim would remain asleep until such time that his life was snuffed out. Once he'd gotten this far, he found himself quickly becoming consumed by his desperate excitement– Velho always struggled to subdue strong emotions, rare as they were for him. Though it took some effort to hone such feelings into a fervent focus, he was eventually able to draw upon the Absentia that roiled within him and began to burn it, pulling Saol from his victim in exchange.
Despite presently being an entity of Ash, the relief from the infusion of Saol was palpable though small; his mind sharper in moments. Still, he knew he needed more, and that with his rudimentary skills, it would take a while– but what little Saol he was Syphoning was ambrosial and gave him a unique motivation to take ever the more. He certainly wouldn't mind lingering here for as long as he could.
And linger he did– that is, until the other man who called this quaint building home returned intent on swapping shifts with Velho's present victim. When the sleeping man did not wake up at the call of the other's voice, the confused huntsman approached him to shake him awake by the shoulder. Immediately, however, he'd pull his hands away in recoiled disgust, drawing them back up in front of his face. His palms were coated in Ash and his features were writ in a cross of confusion, repulsion and concern. Before he could even begin to fathom what this silken substance was, however, he, too, would fall into a deep slumber, hitting the floor in mere moments.
For the next few days did Velho linger, draining the Saol away from both of them until there was nothing left. Another day after that, the two desiccated corpses were discovered, dry and mummified, by the woman sent to deliver the two men their weekly supplies. Though she was horrified, their killer had gone without a trace. The village's subsequent primitive attempts to figure out what had happened were utterly futile, too, thus leaving this incident to join the endless pile of mysterious deaths within Ælheim.
