Post by Deleted on Nov 2, 2021 6:46:03 GMT -6
the good and loyal knight just and true the brightest of the valiant and the strongest of the brave nothing you claim shall make me question myself for though i bear the horns of a demon to strike fear in fell hearts i remain of the light
-- order or chaos --
"As you suggest." With great reluctance and resignation to the reminders of how easily the lost child could fear a rescuer, Garland removes his helm.
The first thing visible is the hair. If Cecil had been expecting the silver-white hair of a Lunarian, he's... not quite wrong but not entirely right either. Sir Garland has long black hair but it is peppered with strands of silver to the point that the whole seems like a dirty shade of gray. Stress or perhaps traces of magic. His skin is pale, his features strong, eyes sharp and a piercing blood-red. A closely trimmed beard with some stubble scattered about the jawline. Garland is very image of the fearsome knight or cold lord, particularly when compared to the noble young paladin-king that is Cecil.
The town calls to mind... many places. Many more that he's never dreamed of but knows deep in his bones. It feels like the work of a lich, of a deadly cavern that he's never set foot in. The familiar twist of Earth darkened and corrupted. The edge of something wrong yet also right. But there is no undead, no rising Bones, nothing... yet.
"Haste, then. Call to her and pray she still lives."
The search brings the pair to the side of a ruined house. The first sign of any life is a child's cries through the building's ageworn walls. "Rosette?" Garland carefully opens the backdoor.
There is a sobbing child huddled against the wall. A passing resemblance to the woman who begged for help, though the clothes seem strange to Garland's eyes. It tenses at the sound of their approach. But it opens its mouth, far too wide for a natural existence, the air is pierced with the sharp and unholy scream of the dead. A scream that sends a wind as cold as winter's grip through every living soul.
"Damn! She isn't here!" Garland barks out as the specter vanishes from sight. At the edge of Cecil and Garland's sense of hearing there is a warped and echoing giggle. The restless dead are feeling playful today. Suddenly there's the terrified screams of a little girl echoing from all over the empty town. The game is on: find the child, or else. A cruel sort of hide-and-seek which surely only causes the child's own fear to grow.
[tag] @cecil
The first thing visible is the hair. If Cecil had been expecting the silver-white hair of a Lunarian, he's... not quite wrong but not entirely right either. Sir Garland has long black hair but it is peppered with strands of silver to the point that the whole seems like a dirty shade of gray. Stress or perhaps traces of magic. His skin is pale, his features strong, eyes sharp and a piercing blood-red. A closely trimmed beard with some stubble scattered about the jawline. Garland is very image of the fearsome knight or cold lord, particularly when compared to the noble young paladin-king that is Cecil.
The town calls to mind... many places. Many more that he's never dreamed of but knows deep in his bones. It feels like the work of a lich, of a deadly cavern that he's never set foot in. The familiar twist of Earth darkened and corrupted. The edge of something wrong yet also right. But there is no undead, no rising Bones, nothing... yet.
"Haste, then. Call to her and pray she still lives."
The search brings the pair to the side of a ruined house. The first sign of any life is a child's cries through the building's ageworn walls. "Rosette?" Garland carefully opens the backdoor.
There is a sobbing child huddled against the wall. A passing resemblance to the woman who begged for help, though the clothes seem strange to Garland's eyes. It tenses at the sound of their approach. But it opens its mouth, far too wide for a natural existence, the air is pierced with the sharp and unholy scream of the dead. A scream that sends a wind as cold as winter's grip through every living soul.
"Damn! She isn't here!" Garland barks out as the specter vanishes from sight. At the edge of Cecil and Garland's sense of hearing there is a warped and echoing giggle. The restless dead are feeling playful today. Suddenly there's the terrified screams of a little girl echoing from all over the empty town. The game is on: find the child, or else. A cruel sort of hide-and-seek which surely only causes the child's own fear to grow.
[tag] @cecil
The cycle turns as countless souls are joined in the endless song of misery and destruction there will be no escape from your inevitable fate you shall fall and you shall turn and you shall curse the world anew beyond the end of time itself
ulla
