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Author Topic: Cinaed, Hjorian Scribe to the Fae  (Read 6518 times)
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Cinaed
Tormented One
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Human, Hjorian


« on: February 14, 2008, 09:12:13 AM »

Name: Cinaed
Gender: Male
Age: 20
Race: Human
Tribe: Hjorian
Occupation: Scribe to the Fae
Title: The Tormented One

Height: One ped, two fores
Weight: One pygge, four hebs
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Grey

Below is the report of an individual who by all accounts seems to believe himself to be Polmaen, Lord Over the Dark. He is to be avoided and regarded as dangerous. But far more dangerous than the scimitar at his hip are the words, the blasphemies, that pour forth from his lips. They are not to be heeded, lest you seek the rejection of the Light and eternal damnation.

Description as told by Aisha, commoner and midwife.


Darkness surrounded him, a black cloak into the depths of which all light disappeared. I could but quail as that hooded face turned toward me, his eyes a piercing grey. There was no joy in that shadowed face, no happiness, only a sorrow and agony beyond words. I found myself lost in his gaze, unable to move, drowning in his pain. His pale lips pursed in a thin line, no hint of a smile upon them. How strange a smile would have appeared on that grim visage. Yet he seemed graceful, noble even, simply by how he moved.

I could see nothing more of his face, for it was cast into shadow. That is, until slender fingers slipped the hood of his midnight black cloak onto his shoulders. Greasy, black locks cascaded to those very shoulders, unwashed and unkempt, locks that had not known brush or comb in a decade or more. They hid his ears from view, but I knew from the earthly quality of his face that this was no elf. I shrank back even more, huddled as far as I dared into the shadows, the moment I realized his heritage. Accursed Hjorian, there could be no doubt with skin as fair as finest ivory, untouched even here in the scorching desert.

The madness in his eyes made all the more sense to me, the way his eyes looked through and beyond me, as if seeing to another world or even the mists of the Void. But it was as my eyes flickered lower, finally free of his gaze, that his blasphemy became known to me, apparent by the very way he dressed, in the garb of Polmaen, High God of the Dark and King Over All. Beneath the cloak that concealed him, he wore robes of black and grey, dominated by black only to be offset by grey along the cuffs of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt. Most blasphemous of all was the red sash wrapped about his waist, symbol of the blood spilt in the battle against the Dark.

Personality as told by Farah, commoner and maidservant.

He was so sad, overcome with sorrow and guilt. I could not help but want to reach up and stroke his cheek, to soothe him, but those pale eyes warned me that it would not be welcome, that no smile would greet my compassion. In the time that I watched him, no smile broke across his lips, no joy shone within his eyes. It was a foreign concept to him, this joy that we all come to know in our lives, but not him. He knew only despair, weeping that his people could succumb to the Dark. How beautiful his tears were, so pure and untainted by selfish desires. There could be no one more generous than this dark figure I found myself drawn to, giving of his own soul to save others from the taint that would damn them all.

A rich baritone broke me of the spell of his piercing grey eyes. He spoke of salvation, of turning away from the Dark to embrace the Light. Evil would whisper to us all in the night, promising that which would not be delivered, but we had only to turn away, to shut out the foul lies of the Dark and accept the Light. His belief in his own words was adamant, that much you could hear in his voice. But the passion therein was enough to make my knees weak with its power, its masculinity.

I could only wonder about the inner workings of his mind and the tomes he so studiously pored over. Thick and ancient, I could only guess them to be religious texts, written in a script I could not read the few times I managed a glimpse of their pages. Newer tomes there were also, these with blank pages he faithfully filled with his own writings, perhaps the recording of his journeys. As to his mind, I could not begin to understand one who considered himself a god embodied, divinity set in flesh. His sorrow was that of Polmaen and his duty the same, a righteousness that infused him in his struggle against the Dark.

He was not one to come out and preach without provocation. Most of the time he was a silent, brooding figure, ever watchful and speaking only as needed. Nothing transpired in his vicinity without catching his notice, without being duly noted as an act of good or evil. Only the latter aroused his ire and only the transgressions of those given into the Dark could anger him. I saw it only the once, but his anger was a frightful thing. Righteous and intense, his rage overcame him, overwhelming any and all sense he might have had as he exacted justice upon those he perceived as wrong-doers, fighting his own supposed war with the Dark.

Strengths as told by Baki, street urchin.

- With awe I watched him practice outside the city walls, his dance one of death as he wielded the scimitar with ease. Eagerly I awaited the day I would have my own weapon and my own training, but for now I had to content myself with watching guards and the occasional stranger. His skill was not even anything special; if anything I’d say it was less than that of most guards and no greater than that of most travelers possessing some knowledge of the blade. There was just something devastatingly beautiful about the dark figure and his whirling blade.

- I followed him into the city and was amazed to hear him speak. His faith was without a doubt adamant and absolute, and I shrank back to hear the passion that filled his voice when he spoke of it. Nothing could deter him from that which he spoke of, saving mankind from the Dark that threatened to corrupt us all. It was clear that he viewed material possessions with disdain and would not accept a bribe in any form; that much I saw when an innkeeper tried to persuade him to leave with coins.

- Tears filled my eyes the moment those arms lifted, a jeweled dagger held in one hand. I feared for my life, crying out for mercy, but he only ignored me. It was then that I saw the scars running along his arms, scars both old and new. I cringed to see the dagger flash and watch as the blood flowed after it pierced his flesh. But most frightening of all was the look on his face. He smiled. With that sacred dagger he banished his sorrow, his despair, and the madness that gripped him. He looked almost sane.

Weaknesses as told by Basma, sister to Baki and fellow street urchin.

- I followed him from a distance, trying to stay out of sight as best I could. How I admired him so for his bravery and feared for him at the same time. Did he not know that the blasphemies falling from his lips were enough to earn him a painful death? He had not quite come out and said it, but he talked as though it was his struggle with the Dark and not Polmaen’s. If there had been any doubts to his blasphemy, then his choice of dress would have soon dispelled them.

- His blasphemy I shut out as best I could but ever more frightening were the moments he spoke to himself and even answered himself, speaking to voices within his own mind. They tormented him relentlessly; I heard the pain in his voice as he argued for them to leave him be and even begged for a moment’s peace. To hear him describe it, evil whispered to him from the Dark.

- I learned to fear him for more than his apparent insanity. Rage overcame him the moment a cutpurse more foolish than I dared to practice her trade. There was no mercy in his eyes, nothing save rage, a nothingness that knew no fear. He looked upon her as though she was less than human and did not even seem to notice when her dagger grazed his side. I could not look away as he butchered her, this thief that was little more than a child herself.

History as told by Ghada, mother to the abomination.

He was a beautiful boy, my son Cinaed. From birth he possessed the most gorgeous grey eyes, eyes that would only have to look at me in a certain way for me to give in entirely to his demands. Laughter was never far from his lips; never before had I seen a happier child. Everything amused him as he took joy in life itself, a carefree joy that only a child could know. Cinaed was not my first son, but he was my most cherished, my beautiful baby boy that I could not say no to.

The rapscallion grew quick as a weed and soon had black locks falling about his round face, a face almost never devoid of a smile. Even disappointment could not erase that smile for long, could not keep it from blooming anew with hope. He could never be serious, that boy of mine, but I forced him to dedicate himself to his studies. Or at least I tried to while struggling not to give into that boyish grin. I pitied and admired the woman he would someday marry. Pity for the vain hope of trying to resist his charm, and admiration for the patience to put up with him. Oh, what a heartbreaker he would become.

His studies tamed him, somewhat, as he learned of the fae, our Gods. Whereas before my heart had swelled with joy, it now swelled further with pride as he recited without error the name of each God and their place in the pantheon. No child possessed a faith stronger than his, strong as his ever present joy. And it was his faith that led him to study all the harder, even to the point that he ignored all else, lost in his books and the history of our people. I was proud and yet sad to see him so, proud that he cared so passionately about our people yet sad to see him lose touch with them, with the friends of his childhood.

My pride in him only grew as he was chosen to be a scribe to the fae in his youth, just entering his years of adolescence. There were none more qualified than he, none more skilled in reading and writing or more faithful to our Gods. So, he was trusted with the works dedicated to their worship. My sweet boy began to brood as the ever present smile on his lips faded until it was gone forever. Every waking moment of his seemed to be spent lost in thought, and I could only wonder what he was learning in those sacred texts. His speech focused more and more on the Dark and defense against it, even to the point that he persuaded me to change the shrine outside our door from one to Nakashi, Goddess of Light, to one worshiping her husband, Polmaen, God of the Dark, instead.

His world became one of darkness, long nights spent in the library studying I knew not what. Each night I would stay up, awaiting the moment my son came home, only to be greeted with barely a grunt when he finally arrived. My heart was breaking to see him so, held together only by the faint memory of the carefree child he had once been. Now was the time he should have been interested in girls, as he had become a handsome, young man. The girls would have gladly welcomed his advances, I could tell by the looks they gave him, but he paid them no mind. He cared only for his studies.

I had hoped a lust for combat might awaken within him, if only to assure me that he was a typical man, but he cared not for his lessons with the scimitar. The sneer on his face revealed a contempt for the weapon, and it was clear that he only trained with its use because it was required of him. It was with an abject coldness that he wielded it, a far cry from the fire that filled his eyes when speaking of the Gods, Polmaen in particular. I learned to break his customary silence by speaking of the God of the Dark and his struggle against evil, only I could never hope to keep up with Cinaed, I could only sit back and listen to the torrent of information pouring forth from his lips.

I should have been proud. It was my duty to be proud, to take pride in a son whose faith soared high even among the Hjorians, the chosen people of the Gods. I was proud of him, but he worried me still. It was not natural for a young man to imprison himself in a library so, to lose himself to the words that passed before his eyes. His humanity was slipping with each passing year, and I worried for the moment that he ran out of texts to read and this place no longer held any interest for him. I did not fool myself into thinking that a love for me would hold him here. His absolute faith had long since grown to the point that he loved nothing mortal, not even his own mother. Only the Gods claimed his love and devotion now.

Most alarming of all was the day his speech changed. No longer did he preach of Polmaen rescuing our people from the Dark; now he spoke of himself as if he was the Lord Over the Dark manifested in human form, come among us to carry on his eternal struggle. It was all I could do to convince him to keep this blasphemy to himself, lest our people kill him. But I knew he could not, would not remain silent for long. So I urged my son to leave, to flee the city of his birth, the city that would be his death if he stayed. He was to tell no one of his departure and take only those things he would need to cross the desert, a perilous journey even under the most favorable of conditions. In the darkness of night he fled, losing himself in the shadows that had already claimed his mind.

It was not until the next morning that I noticed the absence of the jeweled dagger that had been the centerpiece for our shrine to Polmaen, secure from thievery by its very sacred nature. My mind went to my son then, overcome with worry for his well-being. What harm did the hardships of the deserts work upon his already fractured mind? Would he give into the darkness that consumed his mind and his self-delusions? I could only imagine how a lack of food and water and merciless heat twisted his mind and forged him into a man even I would not recognize. Had I made a mistake in sending him away? The answers to all of these questions eluded me, but I knew that only death would have found him had he stayed. Whatever his mental condition, at least he yet lived.

Weapons as told by Jalal, guard and protector of the city.


I was not at my post long before I noticed the approach of a stranger, a dark figure approaching the city gates in the night. A chorus of gasps arose from the lips of my companions as we took in his garb, blasphemous in that it was that of a God. But we were not the accursed Hjorians and would not kill him just for that offense. Still, it was with apprehension that we took his weapons from him at the gate, to be returned upon his departure from the city. First was a simple yet serviceable scimitar he wore at his hip, unremarkable in any way other than being a good sword. Yet the jeweled dagger was beyond compare with its splendor. Rubies adorned the hilt, accompanied by a larger one set into the pommel, their radiance offsetting the darkness of the black leather wrapped around the hilt.

Belongings, further chronicled by Jalal.

His belongings were simple, no more than a learned man might require for a journey. First to be pulled out of his pack was ink and parchment, some of the parchment filled with his own writing. I could not bear to look on it for more than a moment, filled as it was with Hjorian insanity about the Dark coming to claim us. His quill pen followed, and I could feel his eyes on me as I handled it. A shiver traveled along my spine to feel those eyes as I quickly set it down to avoid his gaze. Unsurprisingly, books were the next items to be drawn forth, and, just as predictably, they were more Hjorian drivel about religion.

The rest of his items any traveler might have on him. They were simply a blanket, a canteen, flint and tinder, and rations for the journey. Of money he did not have much, enough perhaps to buy a few meals at a tavern but surely not to stay at one continuously. That at least comforted me; his stay within the city would be short.
« Last Edit: December 05, 2012, 12:41:49 PM by Cinaed » Logged

Azhira Styralias
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Half-elf, Aellenrhim/ Erpheronian


« Reply #1 on: February 14, 2008, 10:47:55 PM »

Hi Cinaed! Welcome to Santharia.

I'm no mod, but I like to make comments on CDs so here are a few for you.

1. The CD is very descriptive and detailed. I enjoyed the first person viewpoint (it is not exactly the typical format for a CD...you may need a mod's permission to have it this way.) Nevertheless, the CD is beautifully written and was a joy to read (if not a bit depressing too, but only because of the dark nature of the character).

2. Your history (as far as I could tell) mentions no training that Cinaed may have received with the scimitar or dagger. Yet, your Strengths reveal him to be using it like an expert. Who trained him and how?

3. This is more of a curious question but what would a scribe need with a scimitar and dagger? Cinaed reads more like an assassin then a scribe. (In fact, the jeweled dagger brought to mind the character Artemis Entreri... evil)

4. When reading it, I was never certain just what Cinaed was studying or scribing. In what way are his books or writings significant to him?

5. I read the strengths and weaknesses a few times but never got a true understanding of what exactly they were (with the exception of his swordsmanship). They were vague to me. They were written very well, but I suppose I am accustomed to a list.

6. Lastly, I must compliment you on the CDs grammar and spelling. I found not one mistake and I usually catch them right away. But, I am no grammar teacher and I leave that to the mods.
« Last Edit: February 14, 2008, 10:51:33 PM by Azhira El'rosse » Logged

"Be still and I shall calm your mind and mend your broken body."
Cinaed
Tormented One
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Posts: 26


Human, Hjorian


« Reply #2 on: February 15, 2008, 02:18:19 AM »

Thank you for your comments. :)

I'll do my best to answer them in order.

1) Thank you. I have discussed the format of my CD with the mods and admins, and they approved the idea of it. I only hope the finished product matches what I initially described.

2) He does not possess the skill of an expert with the scimitar. That strength describes his skill as less than most guards, but I can see why that might not be quite clear, so I will elaborate further. As to his training, it is mentioned in the history that he trained with it. But I will elaborate there to make it clear that it was the scimitar I meant. As to the dagger, he possesses no skill with it and does not use it to fight, it is sacred to him. I did not claim skill with the dagger, and I hoped its sacred nature would be made apparent by where he took it from, a shrine to Polmaen.

3) Every Hjorian male is trained in the use of the sword. Cinaed could not escape this even as a scribe. I personally chose the scimitar because I liked the look of it, and the entry didn't specify. As to the dagger, it is a symbol of his faith in Polmaen, as a jeweled dagger piercing a heart is a symbol of the god.

4) The history described them as works dedicated to the worship of his gods. I hoped that would be enough to make it clear that they were religious texts. I should have listed the title of his full occupation, as he is not simply a scribe but a scribe to the fae, which entails a bit more than just writing any old thing.

5) I don't know how I could make them more clear without stepping outside of the format and style I established throughout the CD. Any suggestions are welcome, but I do want to maintain that style.

6) Thank you. I tend to proofread anything I write, and I'm a stickler for grammar myself, so I would be embarrassed were there any mistakes.

Edit: I wanted to edit to add that the style prevents me from being obvious with some things. I am limited by the perspectives of those telling us about Cinaed. I cannot reveal more about him than what they know, though I did my best to hint where I could.
« Last Edit: February 15, 2008, 02:25:53 AM by Cinaed » Logged

Kyrridhil Culná mo
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Elf, Aellenhrim / Eophyrhim.


« Reply #3 on: February 16, 2008, 10:42:38 AM »

Reading through it quickly i saw a couple of  mistakes, but it is past 1am here so i may well be lying. It reads beautifully and as it has been said before is a pleasure to read through. Far more interesting than a traditional CD.

My one concern is that it doesn't really sound much like a Scribe but that has been said earlier. This aside, I love the character already and wish you luck with approvement.
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Smell that? Yeah thats you wallowing in self pity.
Deal With It

-Kyrridhil Culná mo to a Remusian guard after being told he had brittle hair.
Kyrridhil Culná Mo
  | Frozen Darkness
Pikel Thunderstone
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« Reply #4 on: February 17, 2008, 12:59:45 PM »

I like this CD a lot :)

One thing I'd like to suggest is this: Flesh out your personality more. Describe more of what he considers himself, and how he thinks. :)

S&W seems pretty balanced.

I'd like more elaboration on the fact that he is a scribe....It's not *truly* mentioned in your CD that i can see, only in history it's mentioned that he "studies". Put this in personality as well.
« Last Edit: February 17, 2008, 01:04:22 PM by Pikel Thunderstone » Logged
Celebriän Véneanár
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Elf, Eophyrhim


« Reply #5 on: February 17, 2008, 02:11:37 PM »

I must say that this is one good read! grin
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iuá lythán iuá eophyrán.-Celebriän Véneanár
lukecash
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« Reply #6 on: February 17, 2008, 03:09:44 PM »

Lesss ge-ge-get it on!!!IRISH GREEN COMMENTS!!!!!



Name: Cinaed
Gender: Male
Age: 20
Race: Human
Tribe: Hjorian
Occupation: Scribe to the Fae
Title: The Tormented One

Height: One ped, two fores
Weight: One pygge, four hebs
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Grey

Below is the report of an individual who by all accounts seems to believe himself to be Polmaen, Lord Over the Dark. He is to be avoided and regarded as dangerous. But far more dangerous than the scimitar at his hip are the words, the blasphemies, that pour forth from his lips. They are not to be heeded, lest you seek the rejection of the Light and eternal damnation.

Description as told by Aisha, commoner and midwife.


Darkness surrounded him, a black cloak into the depths of which all light disappeared. I could but quail as that hooded face turned toward me, his eyes a piercing grey. There was no joy in that shadowed face, no happiness, only a sorrow and agony beyond words. I found myself lost in his gaze, unable to move, drowning in his pain. His pale lips pursed in a thin line, no hint of a smile upon them. How strange a smile would have appeared on that grim visage. Yet he seemed graceful, noble even, simply by how he moved.

I could see nothing more of his face, for it was cast into shadow. That is, until slender fingers slipped the hood of his midnight black cloak onto his shoulders. Greasy, black locks cascaded to those very shoulders, unwashed and unkempt, locks that had not known brush or comb in a decade or more. They hid his ears from view, but I knew from the earthly quality of his face that this was no elf. I shrank back even more, huddled as far as I dared into the shadows, the moment I realized his heritage. Accursed Hjorian, there could be no doubt with skin as fair as finest ivory, untouched even here in the scorching desert.

The madness in his eyes made all the more sense to me, the way his eyes looked through and beyond me, as if seeing to another world or even the mists of the Void. But it was as my eyes flickered lower, finally free of his gaze, that his blasphemy became known to me, apparent by the very way he dressed, in the garb of Polmaen, High God of the Dark and King Over All. Beneath the cloak that concealed him, he wore robes of black and grey, dominated by black only to be offset by grey along the cuffs of the sleeves and the hem of the skirt. Most blasphemous of all was the red sash wrapped about his waist, symbol of the blood spilt in the battle against the Dark.

Personality as told by Farah, commoner and maidservant.

He was so sad, overcome with sorrow and guilt. I could not help but want to reach up and stroke his cheek, to soothe him, but those pale eyes warned me that it would not be welcome, that no smile would greet my compassion. In the time that I watched him, no smile broke across his lips, no joy shone within his eyes. It was a foreign concept to him, this joy that we all come to know in our lives, but not him. He knew only despair, weeping that his people could succumb to the Dark. How beautiful his tears were, so pure and untainted by selfish desires. There could be no one more generous than this dark figure I found myself drawn to, giving of his own soul to save others from the taint that would damn them all.

A rich baritone broke me of the spell of his piercing grey eyes. He spoke of salvation, of turning away from the Dark to embrace the Light. Evil would whisper to us all in the night, promising that which would not be delivered, but we had only to turn away, to shut out the foul lies of the Dark and accept the Light. His belief in his own words was adamant, that much you could hear in his voice. But the passion therein was enough to make my knees weak with its power, its masculinity.

He was not one to come out and preach without provocation. Most of the time he was a silent, brooding figure, ever watchful and speaking only as needed. Nothing transpired in his vicinity without catching his notice, without being duly noted as an act of good or evil. Only the latter aroused his ire and only the transgressions of those given into the Dark could anger him. I saw it only the once, but his anger was a frightful thing. Righteous and intense, his rage overcame him, overwhelming any and all sense he might have had as he exacted justice upon those he perceived as wrong-doers, fighting his own supposed war with the Dark.

Strengths as told by Baki, street urchin.

- With awe I watched him practice outside the city walls, his dance one of death as he wielded the scimitar with ease. Eagerly, I awaited the day I would have my own weapon and my own training, but for now I had to content myself with watching guards and the occasional stranger. His skill was not even anything special; if anything I’d say it was less than that of most guards and no greater than that of most travelers possessing some knowledge of the blade. There was just something devastatingly beautiful about the dark figure and his whirling blade. How is it that one can be impressive with a blade, and seem utterly naive with one also? Maybe this is an elaborate bluff concocted by the master swordsman, so that he may slay his foes by simple counter measures after drawing up the enemies confidence?

- I followed him into the city and was amazed to hear him speak. His faith was without a doubt adamant and absolute, and I shrank back to hear the passion that filled his voice when he spoke of it. Nothing could deter him from that which he spoke of, saving mankind from the Dark that threatened to corrupt us all. It was clear that he viewed material possessions with disdain and would not accept a bribe in any form; that much I saw when an innkeeper tried to persuade him to leave with coins.

- Tears filled my eyes the moment those arms lifted, a jeweled dagger held in one hand. I feared for my life, crying out for mercy, but he only ignored me. It was then that I saw the scars running along his arms, scars both old and new. I cringed to see the dagger flash and watch as the blood flowed after it pierced his flesh. But most frightening of all was the look on his face. He smiled. With that sacred dagger he banished his sorrow, his despair, and the madness that gripped him. He looked almost sane. There should probably be some clarity here as to who the victim of this passion driven assault is.

Weaknesses as told by Basma, sister to Baki and fellow street urchin.

- I followed him from a distance, trying to stay out of sight as best I could. How I admired him so for his bravery and feared for him at the same time. Did he not know that the blasphemies falling from his lips were enough to earn him a painful death? He had not quite come out and said it, but he talked as though it was his struggle with the Dark and not Polmaen’s. If there had been any doubts to his blasphemy, then his choice of dress would have soon dispelled them.

- His blasphemy I shut out as best I could but ever more frightening were the moments he spoke to himself and even answered himself, speaking to voices within his own mind. They tormented him relentlessly; I heard the pain in his voice as he argued for them to leave him be and even begged for a moment’s peace. To hear him describe it, evil whispered to him from the Dark. This seems to be more of a trial of woe than a weakness, as those who speak to themselves would be seen as dangerous, and therefore, no individual would want to attack him. There are, however, ways that this can be sen as a weakness, but this characteristic seems to show no sign of how this might hinder him in his cause.

- I learned to fear him for more than his apparent insanity. Rage overcame him the moment a cut purse more foolish than I dared to practice her trade. There was no mercy in his eyes, nothing save rage, a nothingness that knew no fear. He looked upon her as though she was less than human and did not even seem to notice when her dagger grazed his side. I could not look away as he butchered her, this thief that was little more than a child herself. Once again, this seems to be more of a trait than a weakness in the way you depict it. Please tell me how this overbearing rage would cause him harm.

History as told by Ghada, mother to the abomination.

He was a beautiful boy, my son Cinaed. From birth he possessed the most gorgeous grey eyes, eyes that would only have to look at me in a certain way for me to give in entirely to his demands. Laughter was never far from his lips; never before had I seen a happier child. Everything amused him as he took joy in life itself, a carefree joy that only a child could know. Cinaed was not my first son, but he was my most cherished, my beautiful baby boy that I could not say no to.

The rapscallion grew quick as a weed and soon had black locks falling about his round face, a face almost never devoid of a smile. Even disappointment could not erase that smile for long, could not keep it from blooming anew with hope. He could never be serious, that boy of mine, but I forced him to dedicate himself to his studies. Or at least I tried to while struggling not to give into that boyish grin. I pitied and admired the woman he would someday marry. Pity for the vain hope of trying to resist his charm, and admiration for the patience to put up with him. Oh, what a heartbreaker he would become. Amusing...

His studies tamed him, somewhat, as he learned of the fae, our Gods. Whereas before my heart had swelled with joy, it now swelled further with pride as he recited without error the name of each God and their place in the pantheon. No child possessed a faith stronger than his, strong as his ever present joy. And it was his faith that led him to study all the harder, even to the point that he ignored all else, lost in his books and the history of our people. I was proud and yet sad to see him so, proud that he cared so passionately about our people yet sad to see him lose touch with them, with the friends of his childhood.

My pride in him only grew as he was chosen to be a scribe to the fae in his youth, just entering his years of adolescence. There were none more qualified than he, none more skilled in reading and writing or more faithful to our Gods. So, he was trusted with the works dedicated to their worship. My sweet boy began to brood as the ever present smile on his lips faded until it was gone forever. Every waking moment of his seemed to be spent lost in thought, and I could only wonder what he was learning in those sacred texts. His speech focused more and more on the Dark and defense against it, even to the point that he persuaded me to change the shrine outside our door from one to Nakashi, Goddess of Light, to one worshiping her husband, Polmaen, God of the Dark, instead.

His world became one of darkness, long nights spent in the library studying I knew not what. Each night I would stay up, awaiting the moment my son came home, only to be greeted with barely a grunt when he finally arrived. My heart was breaking to see him so, held together only by the faint memory of the carefree child he had once been. Now was the time he should have been interested in girls, as he had become a handsome, young man. The girls would have gladly welcomed his advances, I could tell by the looks they gave him, but he paid them no mind. He cared only for his studies. It would be better if there was a time line in how old he was as these events are happening, and these key changes in his outlook on Santharia change. I'm not saying that there needs to be too much of a time line, but his age should probably from time to time in the history...

I had hoped a lust for combat might awaken within him, if only to assure me that he was a typical man, but he cared not for his lessons with the scimitar. The sneer on his face revealed a contempt for the weapon, and it was clear that he only trained with its use because it was required of him. It was with an abject coldness that he wielded it, a far cry from the fire that filled his eyes when speaking of the Gods, Polmaen in particular. I learned to break his customary silence by speaking of the God of the Dark and his struggle against evil, only I could never hope to keep up with Cinaed, I could only sit back and listen to the torrent of information pouring forth from his lips.

I should have been proud. It was my duty to be proud, to take pride in a son whose faith soared high even among the Hjorians, the chosen people of the Gods. I was proud of him, but he worried me still. It was not natural for a young man to imprison himself in a library so, to lose himself to the words that passed before his eyes. His humanity was slipping with each passing year, and I worried for the moment that he ran out of texts to read and this place no longer held any interest for him. I did not fool myself into thinking that a love for me would hold him here. His absolute faith had long since grown to the point that he loved nothing mortal, not even his own mother. Only the Gods claimed his love and devotion now.

Most alarming of all was the day his speech changed. No longer did he preach of Polmaen rescuing our people from the Dark; now he spoke of himself as if he was the Lord Over the Dark manifested in human form, come among us to carry on his eternal struggle. It was all I could do to convince him to keep this blasphemy to himself, lest our people kill him. But I knew he could not, would not remain silent for long. So I urged my son to leave, to flee the city of his birth, the city that would be his death if he stayed. He was to tell no one of his departure and take only those things he would need to cross the desert, a perilous journey even under the most favorable of conditions. In the darkness of night he fled, losing himself in the shadows that had already claimed his mind. Why would one so fearful and loathing of all things terrible suddenly beleive that he himself was the manifestation of evil? I think there should be an explanation said at some point.

It was not until the next morning that I noticed the absence of the jeweled dagger that had been the centerpiece for our shrine to Polmaen, secure from thievery by its very sacred nature. My mind went to my son then, overcome with worry for his well-being. What harm did the hardships of the deserts work upon his already fractured mind? Would he give into the darkness that consumed his mind and his self-delusions? I could only imagine how a lack of food and water and merciless heat twisted his mind and forged him into a man even I would not recognize. Had I made a mistake in sending him away? The answers to all of these questions eluded me, but I knew that only death would have found him had he stayed. Whatever his mental condition, at least he yet lived.

Weapons as told by Jalal, guard and protector of the city.


I was not at my post long before I noticed the approach of a stranger, a dark figure approaching the city gates in the night. A chorus of gasps arose from the lips of my companions as we took in his garb, blasphemous in that it was that of a God. But we were not the accursed Hjorians and would not kill him just for that offense. Still, it was with apprehension that we took his weapons from him at the gate, to be returned upon his departure from the city. First was a simple yet serviceable scimitar he wore at his hip, unremarkable in any way other than being a good sword. Yet the jeweled dagger was beyond compare with its splendor. Rubies adorned the hilt, accompanied by a larger one set into the pommel, their radiance offsetting the darkness of the black leather wrapped around the hilt.

Belongings, further chronicled by Jalal.

His belongings were simple, no more than a learned man might require for a journey. First to be pulled out of his pack was ink and parchment, some of the parchment filled with his own writing. I could not bear to look on it for more than a moment, filled as it was with Hjorian insanity about the Dark coming to claim us. His quill pen followed, and I could feel his eyes on me as I handled it. A shiver traveled along my spine to feel those eyes as I quickly set it down to avoid his gaze. Unsurprisingly, books were the next items to be drawn forth, and, just as predictably, they were more Hjorian drivel about religion.

The rest of his items any traveler might have on him. They were simply a blanket, a canteen, flint and tinder, and rations for the journey. Of money he did not have much, enough perhaps to buy a few meals at a tavern but surely not to stay at one continuously. That at least comforted me; his stay within the city would be short.
[/quote]


Well written character. Sure to be approved in a small matter of time, after some things are clarified...
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Cinaed
Tormented One
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Posts: 26


Human, Hjorian


« Reply #7 on: March 17, 2008, 03:16:59 AM »

Thank you for the comments Pikel, edits have been made.

... only a month later.

Edit: Those edits have been marked in red, because yeah, it took me a month to write that little paragraph.
« Last Edit: March 17, 2008, 03:18:38 AM by Cinaed » Logged

Twén Aråerwén
Death's Mistress
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Posts: 4928


Elf, Ifer’hém


« Reply #8 on: March 17, 2008, 05:56:01 AM »

I am glad to see my not so silent requests for you to finish this were not completely unheard. :)

Overall I am quite happy with all you have here. ~First Approval~
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•º•The spell fell upon the crowd like a dragon, •º•
•º•ancient and full of death.•º•
_.·´¯) Twén Aråerwén's CD(¯`·._
Azhira Styralias
Shamaness
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Gender: Female
Posts: 1176


Half-elf, Aellenrhim/ Erpheronian


« Reply #9 on: March 17, 2008, 10:25:49 AM »

Oh yes, I am quite happy to see this CD come back as well...a well deserved first approval! If I were a mod, I'd give it a few more!  Thumb up
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"Be still and I shall calm your mind and mend your broken body."
Simonne Miller
Guest
« Reply #10 on: March 18, 2008, 04:27:30 AM »

And here's your second approval! Have fun playing this very unique character ^.^
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Twén Aråerwén
Death's Mistress
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Posts: 4928


Elf, Ifer’hém


« Reply #11 on: March 18, 2008, 05:53:07 AM »

And Titled! Although "The Tormented One" was to long so I shortened it. If this is ok just say so, if you prefer something else let me know before I archive this.
« Last Edit: March 18, 2008, 05:53:43 AM by Twén Aråerwén » Logged

•º•The spell fell upon the crowd like a dragon, •º•
•º•ancient and full of death.•º•
_.·´¯) Twén Aråerwén's CD(¯`·._
Altario Shialt-eck-Gorrin
Adventurer
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Gender: Male
Posts: 7033


Human, Remusian


« Reply #12 on: December 05, 2012, 10:56:47 AM »

Brought forth as requested. :)
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Favorite Cartoon Quotes
"It was a dark and stormy night."  - Snoopy
"Ack!" - Bill the Cat
"I did not have sex with that woman, Monica Lewinski." - President Bill Clinton

My Character can be viewed @Angelina Jolie's house.  But knock first, in case I'm in my underwear.
Cinaed
Tormented One
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Human, Hjorian


« Reply #13 on: December 05, 2012, 12:42:17 PM »

All coloring has been removed.

Thank you.
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Irid alMenie
Wolf-Lady
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Elf, Quaelhoirhim


« Reply #14 on: December 05, 2012, 03:58:48 PM »

Rearchiving then :)
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Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus.
Irid al'Menie
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