Within the recesses of the dark as well as the burning light of the sun and her broodling flames, the path of a solitary figure commences time and time again. Atonement, retribution, heroism or adventure? Motives are unclear as the blackened veil disguises the face of the figure. Rusted gauntlets increasingly becoming corroded, reflect upon the isolation and aura of this tortured warrior. His battles with the undead proved encumbersome and despite his best efforts to aid the people, they falsely accuse him with the brand and thus, cast him out of civilization. Was his good will misinterpreted? Dwelling on these thoughts and dissecting his own mind merely provided more needless torture for the warrior, so inflicting this emotional toil upon himself was questionable.
Raising his fists in the air, the warrior intensifies a cold stare towards the silhouette of the sun as the gauntlets dissipate effervescently, revealing bloodied hands with blackened blisters seemingly painful to even look at. Regardless of the agony, the figure carries on the path he's always taken, weapon in hand and equipment hulking upon his body. The warrior favours his age-old scythe passed down to him from a close friend, and donning a shield granting magic that recuperates muscle fatigue. The clanking plates of the warrior's armour feels solitary within the quiet calm and resonates like a fist against stone. At a glance, it's exhaustion, but closer inspections portray a deceptive strength about this warrior... Almost purposely looking to lure in would-be attackers. Hours fly by travelling, but nothing happens. Re-adjusting his posture eases the weight and the figure appears tall and gallant, thus resuming his travels.
Grass crinkles and crunches under his boots and the dirt grinds underneath the stone plating. It is a tranquil day with the sun illuminating the man on one side and the darkness of the valleys shadowing his other half: like two pieces of opposite souls conflicting and contrasting, seeking dominance over a prized vessel. This contradicts the peacefulness of the setting and images stir. The thoughts whirring through the head sparks impulsive twitches, but quickly come under control. The wind is dead, as always, but provides that same deadened calm that is consistent with the warrior's ventures, assisting with the settling down of his impulsive twitching. It's always so dead... wherever he goes and even what little civilisation the warrior comes across feels lifeless as the people are complacent with merely withering away.
The figure harbours deep resentment for past transgressions against him: betrayal, exile from his home... Violence... Needless violence. He can but only quell his anger and embrace himself as a whole, physical and mental deformities included. Why was he falsely accused of the dark sign? The warrior can only question why and will never find the answer, not home, not anywhere... So he believes. The darkened part of his soul reduced to a decrepit myriad of tendrils ignites a blackened flame within the left eye... Yet, the human side, the moral side of this man... Still unconquered, pure in good spirit and containing the essence of the butterfly broken free... A pure white/yellow glow emanates from the right eye. Justly so, this conflicted soul is an amalgamation of the world's chaos he's been exposed to, but it lays testament to his inner strength regardless of how others see him. It is possible that the furtive pygmy saw many special things about the dark soul, and being able to split and manipulate the fragments of the dark soul is such a trait of this unique soul.
Like most Exiled, the figure is struck without purpose and reeking of desperation... Supposedly. However. he knew of a fabled place, the birthplace of the age of fire and the source of the undead curse. He knew he was not undead... Yet he felt compelled to travel there, hoping that the answers he desires will yield in the land of ancient lords, Lordran. He saw the world for what it was: pestilence, fear, greed and a cesspool for those lusting after power. The gods departed the world and the warrior watched his part of the world crumble and decay into meaningless husks. The warrior felt his purpose was elsewhere and Lordran would offer that opportunity to discover what it is that keeps him alive and feeling wanderlust. The far-reaching call of Lordran tugged at the man and it intensified with each step. Perhaps something or someone was calling to him? All the figure knew, was that he is here to watch the world... His eyes always watching and learning, waiting to judge... And act. For an exile who had nowhere to go, his yearning drove him onwards on his path, only... The course has been redirected. Keeping a steady grip on his momentos, the warrior went forth and as his silhouette moved farther away, the dust he kicked up from his footsteps masked his figure as he dissapeared into the sunlight. His shadow fell further out of sight and in his wake, markings left upon the ground:
"Ekh-Eshah, tala n'iek" ~ The Watcher, forever learning.
Last edited by Seth Winternight on Sat Mar 30, 2013 8:12 pm; edited 1 time in total