03-16-2012, 10:01 AM
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Ah, thanks for the tip about the table! I didn't want to bust this guy back out without showing off Pilot's (now ancient but still wholly awesome) table!
The moaning wind went quiet, and when the painted woman stepped into the moonlight her eyes came alive with an eldritch glow. A raven soared over the two of them, cackling into the night as her luminous gaze fell upon him. Suddenly, his trepidation fell away. She was beautiful...serene and terrible to behold, and he knew that she was in truth some spirit of war descended onto this mortal plane for him. Discipline reasserted itself in his mind, and Asmodai rose slowly to his full height, leaving his pack and its weapons on the cracked tar by his feet.
Nearly eight feet of werewolf stood in silent vigil of her approach, the nicks and scratches of a life lived killing staring back through the moonlit alley, a mass of scar tissue marking his belly where he had once been brutally savaged. He was the larger of the two by far, but he had no thought of opposing this apparition. If she had come for him, then he was blessed that his killer should be so elegant...so awe-inspiring. He met her gaze, never wavering, drawing courage from her ghostly grace, strength from the wraithglow in her eyes. He heard her voice, and its melodic tones echoed in his good ear as she paused, waiting for his answer.
"I welcome the intrusion." His voice was gruff, but failed to reclaim the apathetic coldness it had acquired prior to his duel. His thoughts were a plague on his mind, his guilt a corroding poison on his soul. The wolf called Asmodai had been broken by the realization of his deed, and he would need to discover--over the following months as he made his way back to GreyClaw--what new wolf would emerge from the shattered pieces. For now, he was a shell with nothing but his discipline to get him through. Before this spectral glamour, he would show none of the weakness that wormed its way through him. He did not doubt that her eyes saw through him, saw his weakness, but if she was in truth an avatar of battle then he would present her with his strongest side...perhaps as a last send-off to the way that he had lived, a debriefing for a life that he knew he must now turn from, or be destroyed.
"You are most welcome here, lady of the night. Whatever tidings or tasks bring you here, I am glad of them. Whether I am graced with your presence by happenstance or in the spirit of vengeance for what I have done, it is enough to see you before I depart." Forever. Whether she killed him here or he made it away, he did not ever plan on returning to Souls lands. The hurt was still fresh within him, and he knew that he would not--could not--ever deserve to visit Soro or Skoll's graves after how he had failed them. His devil's errand was completed for good or ill. When he departed this woman's company, he would be away for good.
Ah, thanks for the tip about the table! I didn't want to bust this guy back out without showing off Pilot's (now ancient but still wholly awesome) table!
The moaning wind went quiet, and when the painted woman stepped into the moonlight her eyes came alive with an eldritch glow. A raven soared over the two of them, cackling into the night as her luminous gaze fell upon him. Suddenly, his trepidation fell away. She was beautiful...serene and terrible to behold, and he knew that she was in truth some spirit of war descended onto this mortal plane for him. Discipline reasserted itself in his mind, and Asmodai rose slowly to his full height, leaving his pack and its weapons on the cracked tar by his feet.
Nearly eight feet of werewolf stood in silent vigil of her approach, the nicks and scratches of a life lived killing staring back through the moonlit alley, a mass of scar tissue marking his belly where he had once been brutally savaged. He was the larger of the two by far, but he had no thought of opposing this apparition. If she had come for him, then he was blessed that his killer should be so elegant...so awe-inspiring. He met her gaze, never wavering, drawing courage from her ghostly grace, strength from the wraithglow in her eyes. He heard her voice, and its melodic tones echoed in his good ear as she paused, waiting for his answer.
"I welcome the intrusion." His voice was gruff, but failed to reclaim the apathetic coldness it had acquired prior to his duel. His thoughts were a plague on his mind, his guilt a corroding poison on his soul. The wolf called Asmodai had been broken by the realization of his deed, and he would need to discover--over the following months as he made his way back to GreyClaw--what new wolf would emerge from the shattered pieces. For now, he was a shell with nothing but his discipline to get him through. Before this spectral glamour, he would show none of the weakness that wormed its way through him. He did not doubt that her eyes saw through him, saw his weakness, but if she was in truth an avatar of battle then he would present her with his strongest side...perhaps as a last send-off to the way that he had lived, a debriefing for a life that he knew he must now turn from, or be destroyed.
"You are most welcome here, lady of the night. Whatever tidings or tasks bring you here, I am glad of them. Whether I am graced with your presence by happenstance or in the spirit of vengeance for what I have done, it is enough to see you before I depart." Forever. Whether she killed him here or he made it away, he did not ever plan on returning to Souls lands. The hurt was still fresh within him, and he knew that he would not--could not--ever deserve to visit Soro or Skoll's graves after how he had failed them. His devil's errand was completed for good or ill. When he departed this woman's company, he would be away for good.