Member
Name
Luu Skatu (Anointed Seer)
Age
Approximately three hundred, was seventy-two when his mutation was absolute.
Backstory(WIP) Any criticism with constructive advice is welcome. :3
Luu Skatu (Anointed Seer)
Age
Approximately three hundred, was seventy-two when his mutation was absolute.
Backstory(WIP) Any criticism with constructive advice is welcome. :3
In the earlier years of this creature's life, it was a farmer of four acres of land, and a father of three kids. Whilst out in his fields, tending to any infestations or general care for his land, a strange anomaly occurred just outside his property. Foreboding wisps of thread-like darkness emanated from within a forest neighboring his land, sly whispers of incomprehensible babbles tickling the farthest reach of his hearing. But this farmer was a faithful man, holding true to his beliefs like a knight to chivalrous code. He approached the woodlands, believing his god will keep him safe. What this poor, ignorant man didn't know, was that this predated the gods themselves.
The farmer braved onward to the woods, albeit cautiously. As he neared the seemingly now-forsaken forest, the babbles of daft whispers grew ever-more greater in his ears. The wisps, as his foot breached the border of the shrubbery, seemed to dissipate from sight. All that he could hear and see was the steadily growing whispers of daft gibberish and woodland, a steady feeling of resentment, of reluctance, of so many emotions that one man simply couldn't hold flowing through and out his being- Silence. The farmer stopped... The onslaught of noises and emotions just... ceased. He was thrown completely into a phased state of confusion. But then his eyes caught the glimmer of something inside a bush. He knelt down, and reached within the leaves and stems to grasp whatever it was. And what he pulled out from within the bush was strange. For him, at least.
It was a prism, no larger than an ale mug. Crystal clear was its composition, although light refraction bent what was seen through it. The farmer, fascinated but reluctant, fiddled with the prism, tapping its glassy surface and grazing it in touch. He felt ridges that seemed invisible on its surface, and as he traced them, he was reminded of something. His faith used runic symbols and carvings in many religious artifacts and objects. And the very engravings he felt on this prism reflected those runes. His heart brightened, and the apprehensive sensation receded. This, to him, was a holy relic, gifted to him by god himself. The farmer, in newfound happiness, trekked back to his home, and proudly shown his children what their god has given them. He put aside tending his farmland for the day, too raptured by what he had found. It was a strange thing, indeed. Found amongst a swirl and cacophony of foreboding anomaly. Yet innocently appearing, decorated with holy runes. It wasn't until a week later did its nature become less obscure to the farmer.
Several weeks after the acquisition of the 'heavenly' prism, the farmer's children began to manifest an imagination that seemed to steadily grow. His two sons would be out in the yard, communing with each other about the prism. Yet at random points in their conversation, they would glance at the space next to them and nod, sometimes even speaking to it as though someone was there. Yet the farmer saw nothing. But, children are more imaginative in his opinion, so thought little of it. The farmer's daughter, too, was beginning to become subject to this phantom of imagination, playing with her dolls, offering it to the ground beside her. While this was sudden, the farmer thought nothing of it. Until he went to procure the prism from the last few weeks, finding it had changed. Its engraved ridges, its crystal-clear composition was beset by an odd, cloud-like purple 'mist' that remained inanimate within the prism's core, the farthest branching arms of it beginning to smudge against the holy runic engravings. This recently pure object was changing, and the farmer didn't know if it was for the best or the worst.
The farmer braved onward to the woods, albeit cautiously. As he neared the seemingly now-forsaken forest, the babbles of daft whispers grew ever-more greater in his ears. The wisps, as his foot breached the border of the shrubbery, seemed to dissipate from sight. All that he could hear and see was the steadily growing whispers of daft gibberish and woodland, a steady feeling of resentment, of reluctance, of so many emotions that one man simply couldn't hold flowing through and out his being- Silence. The farmer stopped... The onslaught of noises and emotions just... ceased. He was thrown completely into a phased state of confusion. But then his eyes caught the glimmer of something inside a bush. He knelt down, and reached within the leaves and stems to grasp whatever it was. And what he pulled out from within the bush was strange. For him, at least.
It was a prism, no larger than an ale mug. Crystal clear was its composition, although light refraction bent what was seen through it. The farmer, fascinated but reluctant, fiddled with the prism, tapping its glassy surface and grazing it in touch. He felt ridges that seemed invisible on its surface, and as he traced them, he was reminded of something. His faith used runic symbols and carvings in many religious artifacts and objects. And the very engravings he felt on this prism reflected those runes. His heart brightened, and the apprehensive sensation receded. This, to him, was a holy relic, gifted to him by god himself. The farmer, in newfound happiness, trekked back to his home, and proudly shown his children what their god has given them. He put aside tending his farmland for the day, too raptured by what he had found. It was a strange thing, indeed. Found amongst a swirl and cacophony of foreboding anomaly. Yet innocently appearing, decorated with holy runes. It wasn't until a week later did its nature become less obscure to the farmer.
Several weeks after the acquisition of the 'heavenly' prism, the farmer's children began to manifest an imagination that seemed to steadily grow. His two sons would be out in the yard, communing with each other about the prism. Yet at random points in their conversation, they would glance at the space next to them and nod, sometimes even speaking to it as though someone was there. Yet the farmer saw nothing. But, children are more imaginative in his opinion, so thought little of it. The farmer's daughter, too, was beginning to become subject to this phantom of imagination, playing with her dolls, offering it to the ground beside her. While this was sudden, the farmer thought nothing of it. Until he went to procure the prism from the last few weeks, finding it had changed. Its engraved ridges, its crystal-clear composition was beset by an odd, cloud-like purple 'mist' that remained inanimate within the prism's core, the farthest branching arms of it beginning to smudge against the holy runic engravings. This recently pure object was changing, and the farmer didn't know if it was for the best or the worst.