Post by dusk on Jun 19, 2006 14:47:54 GMT -5
Name: Destitution; goes by Detest
Age: 22?
Gender: Male
Race: Human/
Description: Detest stands some six foot four from heel to forehead, six-and-eleven-inches if you count his backwards-facing horns. Despite his immense size however, he does not seem to 'tower over' nor directly frighten those whom he does not intend to. His physical build, however, is broad-chested and full of strength. Every muscle of his body goes towards supporting his massive size, muscle over muscle laid about in a way that is not so much dependant on mass as function, providing liquid-fast movement and grace within deadly strength. His skin is a dark shade of brown.
Little can be read from form or face alone; as a master of emotion, he can withhold even the strongest notion of sadness or anger if he wills it.
His lips are reasonably set, bearing a thin forelip and a flat but full lowerlip, cresting honesty and care in the curvature of his mouth. Whiteish teeth might be considered his only flaw; they are not placky in nature, but bear a tannish offset, soaked one too many a time in blood to come away without stain. However, it fits into his character, merely blending with his other earth tones instead of appearing threatening or dirty. Spines, the same shade as his teeth as well as his forehorns, are set along his back, gradient to the color green of his eyes. The oval structure of his face squares judisciously at the chin.
Pale to paler hair clings to his features, pushed to either side of his face. Despite the strange colloration, it is natural, lightening only at the tips, which have been exposed to luminance longer than the roots, a signature attribute of people from the time of shadows, as well as Lights. Evenly set on his face outward like fans, his ears are one oddity to behold, wide and lapine-like, skin-brown with gold upon the edges.
His eyes are set slightly high on his face, resting on smooth cheekbones, over slight bags, evidence of the through thought in his mind, coloured in a shade of pale forest green that condones understanding and love as well as anger and ferocity.
Weapons: Himself, the blade Dusk has provided him with.
Items: Pants.
Personality: Genial in most situations, Detest enjoys peace more than war. Risen from the depths of poverty, born of a slave mother; he has come to find that he enjoys the company of others, and never discriminates for any reason, beside that of you being on an opposing side of war. He is an honest, good man; capable of great amounts of destruciton.
He is very good at masking his own emotions, and equally as talented at reading those of others.
While one might expect that being a warrior, he'd be a hard person to get along with, there's nothing Detest loves more than having a little fun, be it sharing some booze with complete strangers or amoung friends, he's an easy enough guy to get to know if you can get past his appearance.
He has alot of heart; and although his focus is entirely on wars and stratagies and such while there's something going on, he can have a bit of a romantic side when his concentration isn't pulled in other directions.
History: Detest began life as a cursed newborn, born to a Dark, Malevolent father, and a less than modest slave mother, Acetami. His parents were neither married nor assosciated; his conception had not been volintary; for this reason, he never knew his dad, accept that his mother had hinted that he was a member of the Demon Elitists, and that he was not human. Upon birth, three forces fought to inherit Detest's body; that of the lapine, that of the human, that of the tyrannasaur; each gaining and loing strength at time, leaveing him constantly and involintarily metamorphic. His mother was a modest woman, round and uplifting despite harsh conditions, which were really all that she knew. She was also not afraid to gossip about her overseers to her child, her only real way of retorting at the system. Had she been caught, she would have been
executed.
Because of the violence of the Demon rule, and the strangeness of her son, she fought constantly to keep him utterly concealed. The Empire would either see the boy as a threat and kill him; or take him from her at such a young age, for training and hardening, to become a part of the massive force that governed all lands. Despite being a poor, slave woman, with nothing to bring him into except for poverty, she could not imagine her son growing into his father, and was all the more careful. For the first five years of his life, this goal was plausible, however.. After this general period of time, the peices of his forms began molding together, horns and spines of his tyran becoming part of his sleek, boyish design, the stocky ears of the lapine becoming fans to the side of his face. It kept progressing, causeing him to double in pain nightly as new spikes rose from his back, as the horns that crested his head now continued to grow, so much so that they had to be hacked off at the ends to prevent the lanky child from losing balance. He was in more pain than his mother could bear to watch, even as the years passed, and he reached the age of twelve.
Silently, nightly, Acetami would pray for a miracle, or her son's peaceful death. Either was better than watching him cry, clenching his fists together in pain and gritting his teeth to prevent screaming, his eyes equally clotted with pain and a fear of the Empire.
The woman who came upon the lady and her son was lit only by fire light, but her features were clear to the shadow-adaptive eyes of the time. Her face was round, burdened with slyness in every angle. She must have been at least fifteen; but age had different measures back then, when normal men lived to only be thirty; she was built with strength enough for a woman's wirey frame, as well as a great deal of elegance. Her hair flowed behind her as she came to a breif hault, the insignia of the Lumini Movement one every crest of her traditional Lumière. She was of the rebellion.
A small group fleeted in behind her, taking no notice of the waked woman and her sleeping child. They continued to filter in through many angles, attacking the noble Elite's home in utter silence, moving with the steath and precision of cats.
The woman's eyes blazed like blue fire, an utter wildness contained within them, although not without controlled grace. Just by her stance, it could be told that she was the leader--perhaps even the Rumoured One, who planned the entire militia of the rebelion.
Yet, as others proceeded to filter between rooms, the woman almost psychically made her way up the stairs. In minutes, the nobles were dead, not even having the life in them to scream as the swift ones' blades came down. The insignia was on each handle, and were left where they were planted--though the hearts or the heads of her victims.
Strangely, even as Acetami heard her masters fall, she felt no remorse for them, only unsureness about her own future, and that of her son. Moveing, she knew, would likely get her killed.
The girl wiped her hands on the edges of her Lumière, reaching again the room where the woman and her son were. The boy was morphing again, still in his sleep.
As the forces that had followed her eventually remet, many carried food, money, and assets to continue fueling their movement; others brought with them nothing but the satisfaction of planted knives.
The lady knelt beside the slave woman who shrunk away from that gaze of hers.
"Your son." she said quietly, a sense of utter knowing in her voice, gazing at
the yet-young face. "Give him to me, and I will teach him to control that strength of his." she offered on a soft voice, far unlike that of a murderess.
"I will not hurt him." she ended.
Acetami did not even consider it, glancing down at her writhing son, her child born into Destitution... She stood, gently dislodging the lanky, weak thing from her side, and picking him up, placing him in the arms of the lady before her, the miracle she'd prayed for; whispering only,
"Care for him always, Your Grace." and bowing as the three fleetfooted people escaped like invsible, silent lightning into the night.
-
"The spell itself will take about two SH." Dusk spoke, telling him the it would take two Shadow Hours; which were measured with the speed of candles burning-- each candle was a part of a Shadow Hour, which eventually added up to about a day per Hour. Two days in present time.
The boy nodded meekly, refusing to meet the girl's face. He had nosed around the food he was given at first; but after deciding that the Lumini had no real good reason to poison him, he'd begun to eat healthily. Dusk continued.
"After that, you will be my squire. My curiculum is hard," she met his face, moving his chin up gentlely, but with a stern hand. "But once we've beat this curse of yours, you will be healthy enough to learn it." so much attatchment to his parent. The lady pat the side of his face,
"I miss my mum." he said quietly, slightly ashamed that a boy of his age would still claim
"Don't think about her. --You've got a bright future, full of promise.. She couldn't ask for more." she paused, dabbing her feather in the ashy black paint that was common in this time.
"Now, I need you to hold perfectly still." she stated, her eyes flickering in the dark as he silently complied, and she began applying the vaguely Crépusculian runes.
"I'm not sure about this, Dusk." Sybrant interjected, her Lumière-heavy arms crossed with a look of scrutiny. She was uncomfortable with the situation. "He's a kid yet."
"You don't build armies on air, Sy." Dusk replied, her voice clotted with concentration as she applied the runes acrose his forehead, arms and legs. The kid- Destitution, as Dusk'd discovered that his name was; didn't know who he was with. Dusk didn't need the runes, persay; it was all an act of show. She was still feeling him out; discovering just how far his potential expanded.
Of course, just like all the other mortals, he would also not be immune to the price of his spellbinding.
"If Dusk picked him, he'll do fine." Seth reasoned easily, leaning against the wall with one foot pressed against it for balance. His scythe was resting contently in the palm of his hand. He was watching Dusk intently, dark eyes never straying from the lithe movements of her hnds and the uniquely beautiful gaze her concentration created.
"You're just on her side because you like her." Sybrant stated, a mischevoius glint in her eyes. Seth's normally pale-blue skin turned a shade of pink, the equivelent of him as a deep blush--and he stared at Sybrant in disbelief, saying nothing. His hand shivered as he regained his prose.
"Everyone likes me," Dusk noted with a sense of humour, "That's my job, as the charismatic leader." She had not drawn herself away from her work. The color faded back out of Seth's face, and he sighed, his muscles relaxing spontaneously.
The conversations continued as such, occasionally switching topics to the next raid, or the newest idea for a symbol or name. The debate was mostly between Sybrant and Seth; Dusk was caught up in her craftsmanship.
Destitution didn't recall most of it, just that after some great, long and unabiding time, he was asked to stand up.
It was at this point, that Dusk placed her velvet hands over his dark face, whispering something that to Destitu, sounded like a loud of nonsense, until her started to feel the euphora rising in his chest.
There was light everywhere. Or, there must have been, because he had never felt quite like this; a warmed that covered all his skin without the harsh application of fire. He felt airy, and he was alone, more alone than he'd ever felt possible. His excess forms clamoured downward, embedding themselves in what felt like the pit of his stomach, releiveing him of the pain of growth, of the churning feeling of constant sickness.
The calamity that had defined him slunk away into nonexhistance. His green eyes reopened to find that the woman had withdrawn her healing hands, and that all of the runes had dissappeared, leaving no trace that they had ever exhisted. Infact, he was standing there, with a rather dumb look of pleasure across his face. Noticing those around him, he bounced back into his senses, bowing his head to the girl who stood before him. The other two were quiet, watching.
"Well, come, my little squire. Let's find a place to board you."
In respect, he nodded and followed her, clinging to threads of hope that this life would be better than that of clinging to his mother's side, and hiding at the beck and call of the Demons... As it became, the price for his control was a constant hunger; the cry that each form on it's own, had for nourishment. It was all but impossible to be full, and on meager supplies, it was hard sometimes even to not be lightheaded. Through Dusk he learned every combat that exhisted at the time; the cores of the fighting styles that would come into exhistance later. He was a supreme study; and with time, even Sybrant came to enjoy his company.
For five years, the Lumini Movement gained support amoung the slaves and droughs and non-demons of the city and those surrounding. Word spread; and soon the Symbol was everywhere, ingrained in wood, sewn slyly onto clothing, engraved in stone and in many cases, even tattooed... It was small but building, a force under pressure, gaining and procceeding to gain, even though many were to afraid of the Demonic Empire to support the movement. Dusk often smiled as she relayed the information recieved from Sybrant, her spymaster.
Destitution was crowned as Detest for the secondary subject to his control; that it was based upon the strength of his emotion, and crowned The Emozione`, as his squiring came to an end, himself only the age of seventeen.
He carried a blade as well as any man, and two as well as any demon, if not better. He'd hand crafted them himself--Dusk had rune'd them.
Of his swords, Rivet Scream was a terrible one indeed, designed for ripping the power out of the hands of his opponents, both in size and make. One cach of any of it's thre hooks and he could disarm you. Aim upon him and he could delfect it, pushing your own blade against you--and that, that was without the effects that the runes enforced.
Cut by this blade, and you would double over in magic-induced pain, bearing a wound, no matter how small, that refused to heal. A gash that hit even a minor blood vessel, would mean death; the bleeding, instead of clogging the wound; would simply keep running until the one whom was delt the strike died of blood loss. This worked on any opponent.
Strange Revenge was a blade that contained the essence of Light, tearing through the shadows that made up many demons like a blade through warm butter, a whirlwind of luminance that inflicted wounds and left streak of light in the air, a streamer to his every movement, as many as there were. Hooked and curved more than even Rivet, it was a grand defense in many cases, blocking blows whilst Rivet rendered their bearers useless.
Needless to say, Detest was a master of combat, and when the war did start up, almost upon his very christening as a Luminant Knight, he was one of the main generals, winning most of his war even as his men were starved and sheildless. In the First War(as it was called, even then) armour was for only the wealthy. In battle, his movements were commended like liquid; his eyes like green embers; his swordsmanship like no other. He was feared amoung enemies and revered amoung allies and aquantances. Amoung friends, he was loved.
Even without access to food without theivery of the demons, whom controlled almost all the farms; the group managed remarkably. It did help that the three most powerful entities in exhistance were on his side. They were considered the first elites; Two Enchantress, One Enchantor, and Detest; a Monster, a Man, and a Legend of his peers.
Years passed much like minutes, and for as many people Detest killed, he always seemed jovial to his comrades and his men; encouraging them that they were fighting for the right cause, that it would be worth it in the end. He placed his trust in Destiny, and fought each battle under the prospects that he had to be there for his people, always willing to extend a hand, a blade, or a tail, whichever was at the moment, the most useful.
Detest died in the very last battle, just before the sun and moon were placed in the sky, and the age of the Lights began. He never saw his first dawn.
He was only twenty-two.
Within the past month or so, for narrowly understood reasons, Seth pardoned Dusk, and allowed her to revive Detest. As one of her advisors, he has come into a great deal of power very quickly; but strays more to the feeling that something may be amiss. A strange taste to the air, the shadows jumping from the ground, and wings, and other things.
However, for the time being, he tries to remain jovial, watching the sun as it transitions to the moon, as the y cycle of day and night passes on and on...
To eyes that never saw anything but firelight, it is the most wonderful thing he could have ever hoped for, to see.
Other: His forms are Human-like, rabbit, and tyrannasaurus rex. Each of them is slightly deformed, due to the molding of early age, and the malevolence of his father.
