03-15-2012, 06:03 PM
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Wasn't sure which character to use, so I read up on some old threads and decided that this one was a good mix of "never met Cwmfen before" and someone who might have something in common with her. I was going to pick someone she'd known from before, but then was thinking on it and she's already plotted like crazy with Brennt, so there probably wasn't a lot left to write about between them!
Near the edge of the vine-ridden ruins, a one-eared wolf sat huddled against a low wall, its cement foundation crumbling from years of neglect and rainy days. It had once stood mighty among the other steel giants, but the elements had stripped away its walls, a gift from the age of mankind's power worn away to reveal the bare skeleton beneath. And so Asmodai stared with hollow eyes at his hands, his claws washed again and again but never clean, the art he had learned to work with them despoiled by its own application.
The wind shifted, and brought a new smell gusting through the alleyways. He did not recognize it...no one from Phoenix Valley, no one from Shadowed Sun. His hackles lowered and he looked sadly down the street from which the scent had come. Whoever was coming, he did not think they were coming for him. He did not know how that made him feel. His story had come to its conclusion; he had reached the end of the final chapter, and succeeded in his task. And now there was nothing left. He was broken...broken by the realization of what he had destroyed.
A life. A family. His friendship with Iskata, and the trust of a pack which had accepted him with no questions asked, had taken him in when they thought he needed a place to belong. Perhaps worst of all was that he had destroyed his illusions about the righteousness of his cause, destroyed his belief in what his friends had died defending. Skoll had used the art more appropriately than he had...if what Iskata had said was true, he had used it more appropriately than most of its practitioners from GreyClaw, as well.
A black she-wolf came into view, and he fixed her with his gaze, wondering what business brought her, if she would stay at all or pass him by like the discarded shell that he was. He saw the strangeness of her eyes, the war paint that shone bright and vibrant upon her ebon coat..the surety of her stride. Was she a spirit? An avatar of war or vengeance, summoned by his vile deed to cleanse the land of this betrayer? He did not know, but whatever her purpose, she seemed to notice him. Without rising from where he sat or moving at all, he watched as she came closer, unsure of what would come next...unsure of what he wanted to come next.
Wasn't sure which character to use, so I read up on some old threads and decided that this one was a good mix of "never met Cwmfen before" and someone who might have something in common with her. I was going to pick someone she'd known from before, but then was thinking on it and she's already plotted like crazy with Brennt, so there probably wasn't a lot left to write about between them!
Near the edge of the vine-ridden ruins, a one-eared wolf sat huddled against a low wall, its cement foundation crumbling from years of neglect and rainy days. It had once stood mighty among the other steel giants, but the elements had stripped away its walls, a gift from the age of mankind's power worn away to reveal the bare skeleton beneath. And so Asmodai stared with hollow eyes at his hands, his claws washed again and again but never clean, the art he had learned to work with them despoiled by its own application.
The wind shifted, and brought a new smell gusting through the alleyways. He did not recognize it...no one from Phoenix Valley, no one from Shadowed Sun. His hackles lowered and he looked sadly down the street from which the scent had come. Whoever was coming, he did not think they were coming for him. He did not know how that made him feel. His story had come to its conclusion; he had reached the end of the final chapter, and succeeded in his task. And now there was nothing left. He was broken...broken by the realization of what he had destroyed.
A life. A family. His friendship with Iskata, and the trust of a pack which had accepted him with no questions asked, had taken him in when they thought he needed a place to belong. Perhaps worst of all was that he had destroyed his illusions about the righteousness of his cause, destroyed his belief in what his friends had died defending. Skoll had used the art more appropriately than he had...if what Iskata had said was true, he had used it more appropriately than most of its practitioners from GreyClaw, as well.
A black she-wolf came into view, and he fixed her with his gaze, wondering what business brought her, if she would stay at all or pass him by like the discarded shell that he was. He saw the strangeness of her eyes, the war paint that shone bright and vibrant upon her ebon coat..the surety of her stride. Was she a spirit? An avatar of war or vengeance, summoned by his vile deed to cleanse the land of this betrayer? He did not know, but whatever her purpose, she seemed to notice him. Without rising from where he sat or moving at all, he watched as she came closer, unsure of what would come next...unsure of what he wanted to come next.