Avatar of Helo

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts



Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Cargo Hold
Interactions:Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 87
Injuries: New injuries; concussion, fractured ribs, giant splinter in his leg, injured shoulder, all bruised up. Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.



Ezekiel felt it, the strength of The Silver Flame working through him. Guiding his hand, strengthening his grip so that he did not falter in this moment. He could hear the crackle of holy fire in the sound of steel against steel, as the righteous light cleaved its way through wretched darkness.

One hit. That was likely all he had in him right now.

And thank the gods it had been enough.

This moment was more than just two warriors clashing over the fate of an airship. For Ezekiel the scythe wielder in black and red had stood as a representative of Karrnath and all their crimes. Brutal and cloaked in an aura of unfiltered evil that dissipated into the form of worms and serpents that slithered from the light as their avatar fell never to rise again.

He stood for one lingering moment, clutching Retribution like a holy relic, with a deep sense of pride. It rose and burned. The smile that formed from a feeling of true accomplishment became a wince as that burn swelled.

Heartburn. A pressure that seized his heart and burned its way up into his throat. The sickening feeling of guilt deep in his gut followed it. He almost choked on the bitter taste of pride.

Pride which comes before the fall.

His Aasimar blood rejected the feeling, it turned his body against him even at the slightest inclination to stray from his path. To take pride in a kill, to relish in the spilling of blood, to linger in the violence – these were the first steps towards a path strayed into darkness. Ezekiel’s cheeks burned with the shame of his momentary stumble towards such a path.

He stepped around the writhing mass of serpents and worms, he returned to following Scratch’s commands. He wiped the blood from his blade on his tattered sleeve and resheathed the sword. His shoulder burned. The world became an unfocused mess. His injured leg shook with the effort of every step.

Without the promise of battle to sharpen his focus, everything else seized hold. His steps toward Val were slow and shaky, the light of his eye dimmed, and the sound of the turret rattled his bones. A musket shot rang out.

He didn’t bother to check and see if Scratch had slain his mark. He was simply sure the dark elf had; everything that had taken place inside the cargo hold left the paladin without a trace of doubt in Scratch. He simply put one foot in front of the other until he made his way to Val and the door that stood between them and getting out of this mess.

Ezekiel placed a hand on two of the levers and allowed none of the weakness in his body to show on his face as he gave Val a single nod. “At your command.” He spoke and stood ready to pull the levers and then push that door open with every bit of his body weight. The floor continued to rattle beneath their feet.


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Black Spire - Noah’s apartment • Time: Dusk

Interactions: Wren@TpartywithzombiMentions: Locke

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



“Breakfast.” Noah repeated the word with false gratitude. He really wished she wouldn't. Not a thing on that tray looked the least bit appealing.

“I love it.” He did not. Maybe the Fae liked eating hearts and tongues, but vampires? No. And cold blood? Foul, as bad as those stale bags of blood the weaker of his kind fed on rather than catching something fresh.

Noah didn’t allow any of that to show, not a trace of his displeasure etched its way onto his face or into his tone. He refocused his attention, not on the breakfast itself but the mutilated body it rested on top of. The wounds that spoke of a long, drawn out death. Dead eyes that stared off into a place far away, devoid of hope and forever locked in despair. He looked at the corpse and saw it only as Wren’s masterpiece; the work of art she had carved just for him.

“It’s gone cold now,” Warm would not have made the tongue and heart anymore appealing.

“I’ll eat it anyway.” He promised. It may not be his ideal breakfast but it did add to the fear. When creatures whispered rumors about Noah Corvane, his fangs tearing into human hearts that were served up to him by a Fae both hauntingly beautiful and terrifyingly mad; it painted an image.

Like how Blackbeard would light fuses in his beard. Crazy shit freaked people the fuck out. There was wisdom tucked away in Wren’s brand of crazy.

Wren ventured beyond madness, a point where things began to make sense again but in ways most people couldn't understand. Sometimes Noah didn't understand it, but he always went with it until it eventually made sense to him too.

“I thought of you while I carved him up,”

His eyes followed her hand as she reached up to smear blood across his face. He could hear it, the steady rhythm of her pulse, just as easily as he could see the veins through flesh pale as a ghost. It was so close. That warm rush of blood that pumped through her veins and lingered so damn close to his teeth.

“Every slice.” Her hand fell away from him and it took its warmth with it.

“I sliced out a tongue tonight too. After I learned all its secrets.” He whispered, reaching for the hand that had just been dangerously close to his mouth. His fingers wrapped around her wrist just tight enough to feel her pulse.

“How delightfully simpatico we are.” His laugh held a wicked edge and his fingers moved from her wrist, up her arm, and rested softly against her neck.

““I wanted it to be perfect…” ”

“You're the only perfect thing in this world, little bird.” He whispered words into her ear as his hand moved her hair away from her neck. Then he kissed his way down her neck, fangs gently scratching at her skin but without the force of a bite. The rhythm of her pulse made his hunger scream for satisfaction, and Noah only lingered in the sublime torment of that denial.

He meant those words. How could he not? Wren was like his reflection, something he'd created. Marks left deeper than skin, his shadow embedded in her psyche. His only living work of art.

And her shadow twisted around him. What he felt for Wren was dug in deeper than love. Held on tighter than obsession.

Addiction.

It snuck into dreams, carved its way into the soul, and squatted in blood and bone for the rest of your days. A craving that could torture a person for lifetimes.

Love wished it had that kind of staying power.

Noah would do anything Wren asked. Anything to ensure she felt the same addiction he felt. He would eat two cold lumps of muscle that squelched with the soured blood of the dead. He would wash it down with a teacup of that same soured blood. Noah would pretend it was the most delightful meal he'd ever had.

Anything to ensure he'd never be without her.

“Now be a good pet and get cleaned up, we’re meeting Locke at The Pink Room tonight.”


Time: 6 pm
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Attire: Winners wear red & black!
Interactions/Mentions: Cassium, Edin, Morrigan, Roman, Wulfric, Ari, Thea, & Hala





“And even still…” The bastard’s eyes held steady as he delivered a blow with no force behind it. “My father loves me more than our King has ever even pretended to love you.”

For Clarence neither craved, nor felt the sting of the absence of Edin's love. He smiled and sipped his wine as the unwanted mother, the distant elder brother, and the chaotic sprite of a sister all jumped to Callum’s defense.

“Appears that I have love in spades.” He shrugged, and although Cassius’s attention had shifted to the woman that embraced him, Clarence addresses the comment more for Edin’s ears.

“But I think a father’s love is best shown by being there for his children, through their whole lives, no matter how difficult they get, and how far they stray in their youth.” He looked at Edin as he spoke and gave the king a respectful nod. It only added a cherry on top that his words might add a little sting to Calbert. There was no reason to let a count think itself an equal among royalty. It was a point he suspected Edin might be able to wrap his feeble mind around if explained privately. Another time, another setting, but he’d find a way to detangle the Damiens from the Danroses.

It was something Callum wanted after all.

Lady Morrigan broke her silence, “Who are you?” She leaned in to whisper.

“Do you not recognize your cousin, Morrigan?” He whispered back, a voice so low only she could hear, his wine glass held perfectly to hide his lips.

“Too much wine, or has memory faded in your advanced age?” He mocked and spoke with the same disdain he felt seething within every memory Callum had of his cousin.

“I am Callum Danrose.” He reminded her, and that was true enough. He was Callum in every way that mattered, and soon Callum would be indistinguishable from him. It was not a maybe, he’d already been let in. It was only a matter of time. He sipped his wine. He ate from his plate. He watched the room.

“As the king decrees I acquiesce. I shall not pursue courtship with Lady Violet Damien until it is otherwise allowed by the powers that be. Am I of the understanding that these wishes apply to Lady Crystal Damien as well?”

Clarence smiled as he chewed. Roman was far more interesting than Callum’s memories suggested. The promise of a duel flared up and quickly died away. It would’ve been fun to watch the bear pummel the wolf to death, but, alas, mortals tried so hard to pretend to be civil these days. He appreciated Wulfric’s encouragement to drop the masks, nonetheless.

The bickering continued. More minor squabbles flared around the tables. Nobles bleed from the room. To the balconies. To the hallways. To the courtyards. They spilled out in droves.

The king had such little control of his people. They mocked him in the way they fled his feast. Gods, it was hilarious. This regime was already teetering and overdue for a toppling. Clarence sipped his wine and ate his food. He’d watched Ari’s gaze linger in his direction before she had left the room. Clarence turned to Wulfric.

“I know I shouldn't leave the table, but I must check on Ariella.” He informed Wulfric as he stood up. He followed the same path she had taken, as if compelled by matters of the heart. For as terrible a poet Callum was with words, there was something tragically poetic about his actions. It was part of what drew a spirit like himself to such a mortal.

He found Ari outside in the company of Thea and another he didn’t recognize. He’d caught just the tail end of Hala’s speech and wore his approval in the form of a mischievous grin.

“Whatever you three are plotting, I approve wholeheartedly. This entire feast is a chaotic disaster. Isn’t it delightful? He asked.

“Prince Callum Danrose, pleasure to meet you.” He dropped into a bow that held not an ounce of Callum’s awkwardness, but with all the agile grace of a monkey, as he introduced himself to the one he didn’t recognize. His crown never slipped, it sat upon his head like it belonged there.

“And a very happy birthday to you, Thea. I’m looking forward to the real party.” Clarence spoke with only sincerity. The feast required too much pretending, but a party promised something more freeing.

“Did you enjoy my gift?” He asked, his attention finally settling on Ari. “That little dose of public embarrassment thrown your mother’s way.” Something just behind his eyes promised that was only the beginning, that Victoria Edwards was just another thing he couldn’t wait to see topple and fall apart.


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Gutter's End - Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions:Wren@TpartywithzombiMentions:Locke@Oso

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________







Noah paused for a moment, admiring his work, his art. What was once a man, now something mangled and unrecognizable, sat burning on a chair. Poor ol’ Jimmy Salvatore, formerly a promising blood slave, now just a dead rat. Noah lingered just long enough to ensure the body, and the evidence against Jimmy, got nice and crispy.

The flames were inspiring, they lit up the scene perfectly. Noah plucked his phone from his pocket, picked up the severed eyes from the floor, and set up the perfect selfie. One with a burning Jimmy, pieces of him scattered about the floor, glowing in the background.

Finished work
Headed home
Eye can’t wait to see you



He sent the string of messages to Wren with a lovesick smile strewn across his face before making his way out of the warehouse just as the building started to catch like the brittle tinderbox it was. He’d grab someone to eat on the way home, the smell in the warehouse had really tickled his appetite. Noah got into a sleek black sedan, one that looked drastically out of place in Gutter's End, and never once looked up from his phone.

Bloody fingers still tapped away at the phone screen as he sent a message to Lachlan Devlin, tonight’s second order of business.

We need to talk. Tonight. Pink Room.

Simple. Short. Straight to the point. Let ol’ Lucky Locke wonder what he wanted. Let the bastard stew a little. After what he’d done, after Locke had just up and left them, when once they were inseparable, the man deserved much worse than what he’d gotten. It was aggravating that the Fae had made himself so useful, the best in the business, and Noah wouldn’t trust less than the best for this.

Locke’s luck wasn’t set to run out and this wasn’t about old betrayals. It was about a fresh one. Angel’s; his stupid ungrateful sister who had decided she was too good for her family. It was long past time to drag her back home.

On the way, Noah grabbed the first human dumb enough to be walking the streets alone and dragged them into the car. It was lazy, but what was wrong with a lazy breakfast every now and then? The car continued towards the foreboding obsidian skyscraper, The Black Spire, as if a quick killing in the backseat was nothing out of the ordinary. In Halcyon, it certainly wasn't, and those employed by vampires got used to cleaning up the blood they left behind.

Noah paused just behind the door to his room. He could smell the long dead corpse from down the hallway and it wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of other rooms, that weren’t his damn bedroom, to play with dead things. No…no. Not my problem. One of the thralls can clean this up. They were going out anyway.

He flung the door open and didn’t bother to close it. A short walk past the main room of the high rise apartment and into the bedroom greeted him with a scene almost right out of The Godfather. His sheets were covered in old, soured blood. He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his jacket, plucked one out, and lit it. A long drag mixed with the scent of tobacco helped hide the scent of blood long since expired.

“Wren? Am I going to find a goddamn horse head in that bed?” He asked, his words teasing and his eyes watchful.


Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Cargo Hold
Interactions:Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 87
Injuries: New injuries; concussion, fractured ribs, giant splinter in his leg, injured shoulder, all bruised up. Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.




Ezekiel kept one hand tightly coiled around the netting that secured a stack of secured crates. The other remained wrapped around Venn, who he’d caught just in time before she could be blown away by the winds that filled the cargo hold. He shielded her from the worst of the flying debris. Between the powerful gusts, the shrieking griffon, and the clatter of wood and metal - the room descended in indistinguishable chaos.

Then the griffon soon shrieked no more.

The winds softened just enough.

Little remained in the cargo hold to be flung around.

As the paladin rose amongst the wreckage; the damage to the cargo hold was startling. If he was certain of anything at that moment it was that a giant hole in the side of an airship was a huge problem. If red-hooded terrorists didn’t kill them before that door opened a crashing airship certainly would, and if the ship was left so damaged and without its engineer…well that couldn’t be an option.

The griffon was gone, as was the warrior with twin blades, and only two enemies remained. The odds shifted just enough as divine favor blessed them with an evened up battlefield.

“I’m tired of these fucking tricks…Fight me, you cowards.” The warrior with the sickle surged forward, his weapon dragging behind him. Sparkler’s eyes burned, the rage in them was unmistakable. Good. Anger made men sloppy.

Ezekiel matched the intensity but not the emotion. It wasn’t rage Sparkler looked back at, it was judgement. The sickle wielding warrior would not commit another wicked act. The only mercy Sparkler would find now was with whatever god he prayed to and his soul would soon journey to the next plane.

The floor rattled. A pressure pulsed like an urgent warning. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good, and it could not be heeded until those last two warriors were slain and the door to cargo had opened.

One thing at a time.

He freed his sword from its sheath once more. Magic powered by unshakable faith followed from Ezekiel into the weapon. It not only glowed but hummed softly with the protective light of Holy Bulwark. If Sparkler dealt the first blow, the Aasimar’s sword was poised to handle it and any magical force that came with it. But he didn’t intend for the opponent to have a chance to lift his heavy sickle from the ground where it dragged and screeched.

Both hands gripped the hilt of his sword, his eye remained locked on the enemy with intensity of a hawk, and Ezekiel charged forward. He couldn’t match the speed Sprakler had, but he wasn’t giving the spellcaster any more time to throw them another curveball. This fight was happening right now.

A shot rang out, and Sparkler’s shield sputtered and died. Scratch held tight to the musket.

"I'll focus on the spellcaster," Scratch’s voice carried through the hold with ease. "You focus on taking the one with the sickle out as quickly as you can!"

As the two warriors closed in on one another, that momentary distraction was put to use. Retribution, aglow with light, swung at the red-hooded figure with unyielding intent to kill and decades of precision. He aimed not to merely strike the opponent with the blade but to cleave through him. As deep as the blade could cut and then just a little bit further, propelled by the paladin’s sheer will alone.


&


Submitting, 1 Crazy Fae



And his paranoid human servant



I will add the history bit tomorrow, but here's the improved??? version of Noah so far...

Definitely in
© 2007-2025
BBCode Cheatsheet