Dance With Me, Chaos



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The rain thundered on the horizon, threatening to pour from the sky in an unrelenting cascade. Nestled in between the two mountains was a small town by the name of Eldrios. It was large enough to have a few hostles and an inn, but small enough to remain elusive to any who were searching for it on a map. It was in this small town that Saevio was staying for a while. The six-foot, one-inch man had sought solice in the upstairs room of an elderly woman's house. She had seen him trudging down the cobblestone streets on her way back from the market and had nagged tirelessly at him until he gave in.
Truthfully, the reason he had ever come to such a little place in the world was so that he could still be around civilization, and if he ever lost his control again, the town would be leveled with as few lives lost as possible, as well as no one noticing right away if the village got wiped off of the planet. He looked to the bed in the corner, where, underneath the pillowcase, was a blood-thirsty blade. Enscribed on the hilt of it were runes of a foreign character, yet Saevio knew what it said. "The Sword of Enethia". The entire blade was able to be hidden beneath the pillow, no sign of it showing. Its' length was a little longer than his forearm, the edge glinting a little too brightly. Even now, with it completely hidden, Enethia tempted him. It coaxed him closer, to feed it with the thing it craved most--human blood.
"No," he growled, ripping his eyes from the weapon.
He would not fall prey to it again. Not this time.
Poor Saevio, he doesn't know what to do with himself now, came that mocking voice that only he beared witness to. Now was just the time for this nonsense. Groaning in exasperation, he ran his slender fingers through his obsidian black, shoulder-length hair. The candle on the end-table in the corner of the room provided slight illumination, yet just enough for Saevio to see that, when he stood in front of the mirror, his cheekbones looked even more pronounced than normal. He had been eating regularly, retaining all of his weight, so he presumed that it was just the shadows playing off of his face. Oh, dear, sweet Saevio, how long before you murder all of these wonderful people? You can't stay with the rest of humanity. You have been exiled since the day you were born. You know that. Ignoring the voice, knowing it would do no good to argue against the truth in her words, he sighed, murmuring, "You're right, Adsun." As far as he could remember, this woman's voice had been calling to him, mocking him, and providing him with some bit of company amidst his lonliness. He knew it wasn't normal. That there was something wrong with the wiring in his brain. Every now and then, he would see things that he knew in his gut weren't really there.
The sensation of magic running through his blood was tempting. Oh, so tempting. It was like a drug addict trying to quit, yet having their obsession rubbed all over them. He had to get the fuck out of that building before it went up in flames--literally. Quickly grabbing his few belongings, he bolted out of the house, mumbling a thanks for the woman's hospitality, but that he had to leave. Racing towards the stable he had lodged his horse in during their stay, he quickly tacked the dapple-grey stallion and mounted, charging out of the stable at a full gallop. Trying to get as far as he could away from that village and the innocent people in it, he headed for the woods, but didn't get very far before small sparks began to fly out from under the horse's hooves. The magic that was bundled up in his body was trying to escape in any way that it could, and since he was touching the horse, the magic flowed down into the animal beneath him, making itself known. Quickly dismounting, he dropped his items and immediately reached into the air just as a massive, swirling amount of energy flowed out of him and lit up the sky like a beacon. The trees within radius went up into flames, instantly turning into ash from the amount of heat that just ripped through them. With a good portion of the forest around him now melted, and the energy containable once more, he stopped his magic stream and collapsed onto his hands and knees, thoroughly spent. His horse nudged him gently with its' muzzle, having been placed under a protective spell for instances just like this. It was designed to keep the stallion and Saevio from harm. Reaching up to weakly pat the horse's neck, he shook his head and clambered up on top of the steed, just needing a place to rest for a little while without moving.
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
Fantasy, Horror and Sci-fi. I'll try basically anything though. I also love strange and unusual RP genre concepts. Different is good!
View attachment 3442 Titus, even as he breathed, regretted many things in his life. At one time he was a widely respected holy-man, vastly feared battle priest and well loved local Cleric, who was more than proficient in doing the lords work. He had trained under the Arch-Bishop in the kingdom of Helsink, his home country, that lied deep within the icy northern continent. However, during his years of killing and blessing on the battle field, the young Cleric suffered deeply. At times, especially on dark and rainy nights such as this, he felt as if all the violence he had witnessed were crashing down upon him.

He began having nightmares, better known as flash backs, that would ignite his dreams and send him waking in a cold sweat, more often than not, screaming. His peers in the priesthood took this as a sign that he had been possessed. He was immediately banished and the mark of the dammed was tattooed across his face. The mark of the dammed is a tattoo given to an individual believed to posses a dammed soul. In Helsink, a very religious Kingdom, it is a sign of expulsion, not only from the land and kingdom, but also from humanity. Weather or not it is viewed as such in other lands has long since been a question. However the King, and ruler of Helsink, deems it necessary so those marked may never return again. In the hundreds of years that Helsink has controlled the Northern continent, only two have ever been marked as such, ironically, they were both holy men.

As the rain poured down from the heavens, Titus trudged on. For days now he had been walking without so much as a break in at least a week. He was growing tired and his mind was heavy with burden. In his heart he knew that his banishment was under false pretenses. His powers as a cleric were still alive and well. Just three days ago he had used his magic to heal a young boy who had fallen out of a tree. His parents were grateful, crying and hugging Titus as he held the boy in his arms. Surely if he was cursed his Clerical powers would be null, but this was not the case.

Titus had lost all of his hair at the age of 21, an aliment afflicting him and his two older brothers (Who were both Knights in the kingdom of Helsink). Now at 33, While small patches of hair did grow on various parts of his head, he kept them shaved with a straight razor. Below his forehead, which seemed to have constant worry lines plastered on it, were a pair of piercing gray-blue eyes. And although he hadn't smiled in years, a perfect set of teeth hid behind full lips and a cut jawline.

Against a well defined chest hung a sterling silver cross. Draped over it were his gray robes, and over them a suit of fine chain mail armor. Two battle maces, crafted from a light weight, but strong metal, hung at his sides. He stayed armed, because above all else he wanted to live, despite the pitiful course his life had taken. Sometimes, Titus believed, god punished us so that we could better appreciate the life we all lived. Without hardship, there is no joy. Without struggle, there is no power. Without pain, there is no love. Titus beat the lessons he had learned as a young priest into his head day after day, trying in vain to replenish the faith that he had recently lost.

At some point in the night, with a light protection spell cast to prevent him from becoming totally soaked to the bone, the rain seemed to be coming down with the force of a raging river. Titus needed shelter, and more than that , he needed rest. His protection spell was not going to last much longer. Then, as if his prayers were answered, a small forest was visible up ahead. He made his way across a lonely field and into the heart of the forest. Over the last few years Titus had learned to survive in the wilderness. During his travels he often wished to avoid towns and other establishments. So he was forced to take refuge wherever he was able. Over time he had grown to appreciate nature and all the beauty that lied within.

No sooner than he set foot within it's tree lined border, he sensed something. Not something entirely evil, but definitely something capable of evil. He gripped the cross that hung over his heart and moved forward, for the moment the weapons at his side were forgotten. As Titus walked deeper into the woods, he noticed that many of the trees were burnt and melted. He moved on slowly until reaching a small clearing, where almost every tree lay in burnt ash. In this clearing was a man, a tall man, laying next to a beautiful horse. Titus moved the hood from his face and tried his best to look noble and forthright; The last thing he wanted from this man, or anyone for that matter, was a fight. From the angle that Titus was at he could not tell weather or not the man was asleep of injured, but he chose to speak anyway.

"I don't mean to startle you, my friend, but I am only passing through. Perhaps I can help you?"

It was in his nature to offer his assistance to any he came across, once a cleric always a cleric.