Post by Azrael on Apr 25, 2009 9:53:45 GMT -5
name - Azrael
aged - Innumerable
persuasion - Prince
allegiance - Rogue
relations - Those among the clouds
reflection - Raven silk wraps around his youth-like frame, spotted around the hips with encroaching bits of virginal ivory. The innocent color has never spread, despite his increasing years, and heavenly lineage-- purity can not grow on the hearts of the damned.
Eyes of the palest azure peak starward, shaded by long curling lashes, his slightly dished face taking on an almost cheribic beauty. But beyond the smooth muscles, graceful movement, and angelic demeanor lies a curse, an eternity of night and servatude-- the sun hangs charred in the eyes of Death.
psyche - Encompassed by death's prying jealousy, a pure and simple hatred for those who walk the Earth courses through his veins. The stag lacks empathy or guilt, emotions washing over his composed face, that unmoving mask of arrogance. Who taunts the dealer of condemnation, after all?
historics - Wrapped in Death's shadow, some confuse the two--the messenger and the master. But the End is not his decision, despite the bliss of each rasping breath, each once lively heart becoming stoic in the chest of another. No, but there is no shame in taking pride in such a work, right? An escort of sorts, Azrael walks among the dead, ushering them towards eternity, the cool, bleak gates open outward.
ic - Well, well, well. A home perhaps? Home had always had such a negative connotation to those of the clouds. Who had a home? The mortals? Nothing was home for very long when death ticked closer with each second, disease and old age drawing out the inky shadows behind you. For them, home would be found in the finality of death, the gates beckoning each bodiless soul toward their eternal home. Or something of that meaning. None of his kind bothered with the trivial lives of the doomed, their myths of death and life. So a home, a permanent place of residence, seemed... all too mortal for his mind. Who knew, though. Maybe it was worth a try...
Iron flints struck the surface of the ground with an echoing blow, the greenery sucking in each sound as it ricchoceted through the wood. Snorting curiously, Azrael ventured further into the foreign land, neck arched in a show of ignorant power. Let the alphas reign down upon him, there was nothing he hadn't seen. Stiff and hesistant, a tinkling tenor call flowed from his lips, the song of his kind, of heaven and hell, of death and eternity. Let them make of it what they may. Now there knew who had befallen their lands...their "home". Bleak oceanic eyes wandered lazily across the sloping landscape, audits twitching with anticipation, charcoal leggings prancing lightly in place. Was this how things worked? Did he just stand here like a catatonic corspe and wait? These creatures were strange and their ways unknown...
Something moved in his peripheral vision.
aged - Innumerable
persuasion - Prince
allegiance - Rogue
relations - Those among the clouds
reflection - Raven silk wraps around his youth-like frame, spotted around the hips with encroaching bits of virginal ivory. The innocent color has never spread, despite his increasing years, and heavenly lineage-- purity can not grow on the hearts of the damned.
Eyes of the palest azure peak starward, shaded by long curling lashes, his slightly dished face taking on an almost cheribic beauty. But beyond the smooth muscles, graceful movement, and angelic demeanor lies a curse, an eternity of night and servatude-- the sun hangs charred in the eyes of Death.
psyche - Encompassed by death's prying jealousy, a pure and simple hatred for those who walk the Earth courses through his veins. The stag lacks empathy or guilt, emotions washing over his composed face, that unmoving mask of arrogance. Who taunts the dealer of condemnation, after all?
historics - Wrapped in Death's shadow, some confuse the two--the messenger and the master. But the End is not his decision, despite the bliss of each rasping breath, each once lively heart becoming stoic in the chest of another. No, but there is no shame in taking pride in such a work, right? An escort of sorts, Azrael walks among the dead, ushering them towards eternity, the cool, bleak gates open outward.
ic - Well, well, well. A home perhaps? Home had always had such a negative connotation to those of the clouds. Who had a home? The mortals? Nothing was home for very long when death ticked closer with each second, disease and old age drawing out the inky shadows behind you. For them, home would be found in the finality of death, the gates beckoning each bodiless soul toward their eternal home. Or something of that meaning. None of his kind bothered with the trivial lives of the doomed, their myths of death and life. So a home, a permanent place of residence, seemed... all too mortal for his mind. Who knew, though. Maybe it was worth a try...
Iron flints struck the surface of the ground with an echoing blow, the greenery sucking in each sound as it ricchoceted through the wood. Snorting curiously, Azrael ventured further into the foreign land, neck arched in a show of ignorant power. Let the alphas reign down upon him, there was nothing he hadn't seen. Stiff and hesistant, a tinkling tenor call flowed from his lips, the song of his kind, of heaven and hell, of death and eternity. Let them make of it what they may. Now there knew who had befallen their lands...their "home". Bleak oceanic eyes wandered lazily across the sloping landscape, audits twitching with anticipation, charcoal leggings prancing lightly in place. Was this how things worked? Did he just stand here like a catatonic corspe and wait? These creatures were strange and their ways unknown...
Something moved in his peripheral vision.
