Vyrdantil: Born 36th of Fall, 494
The first are his eyes. They are limitless – concentrated pools of dense ochre. Their infinite swirls of goldenrod and amber seem precious, as if they should be tapped into and their color stored for its beauty. They are flat at first, perhaps allowing one to merely skim across their surface. Yet others become ensnared, trapped by their infinite depth and gripped by their intrigue. Those, they envelop like a relentless tsunami of fury. They see, they learn, they know, they destroy. The first are his eyes.
The second are his hands. They are white, and deceptively unassuming considering their ability. Each digit which adorns them is an entity on its own. Each finger is sentient, thoughtful.. manipulative. His fingers are thin and long, bony like the rest of his body. Yet their true gift lies just beneath the surface: millions of miniscule hooks wait to extend and grip any surface which they come into contact with. They are perhaps not strong individually, but together, they become sturdy enough to suspend him on even the smoothest of surfaces. The skin grips the bone, as if afraid, for some reason, to let it go. Thin, meek veins run like creeks to his fingertips, where they become the ebon daggers which are his claws. His nails curve slightly, like the half of a black crescent moon on a stark landscape. They are sharpened like knives and immaculately cleaned – manicured to serve their purpose infallibly. The second are his hands.
The third are his fangs. They hide behind his slender, pale lavender lips; silent agents of whatever bidding he should desire. They protrude from his array of pristine teeth like two stilettos amongst a row of butter-knives. Their gentle curve and needle-sharp point is only a mask for their true potency: the poison which runs through them, excruciating at best, and fatal for anything worse. The third are his fangs.
In all, Vyrdantil stands about 5’8” and weighs 137 pounds… wearing all of his gear. He could easily be described as scrawny or gangly, though his erect posture makes him seem simply taller than he is. His skin is gray – the color of the sky just before dawn. Icy blue veins run up and down his body, protruding from the ashen surface like flawless rivers of sapphire. The milky surface of his skin is marred in some spots by dark stains, fractal-like zones of blackness which threatens to spread and engulf his entire body.
A long, midnight-black cloak flows from the top of his head to his ankles. It masks his frail form, making it just indistinguishable enough to leave his true size to question. Its hood conceals his short jets of dark hair, which mat the top of his head messily. It has no special adornments save for the silver trim which lines the cuffs for his hands. Otherwise, his cloak is smooth and made light satin. Beneath his cloak, he wears grey trousers, a simple shirt, and light leather boots.
Vyrdantil’s black, concealing attire corresponds to his darkly and subtle disposition. He prefers to watch, and listen, and keep his words for when they are valuable or necessary than to waste them mindlessly. Due to this, he is no fan of small-talk, though he believes that formalities and ceremony have a place in every functioning society.
Pre-Creation
There was a scream. Harsh, piercing, through clenched teeth. A pale, delicate woman lay on a sort of hammock, draped between two curved walls made of some sort of glass. Sweat dripped all over her body, coagulated into large beads which seemed heavy enough to be made of glass, not liquid. She bit down on a ragged piece of cloth, which stifled her powerful wail only barely. She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling quickly and noisily with each struggle for air. At her head, a man stood and held one of her hands. He held another cloth, and patted her forehead occasionally, dabbing away excess sweat. During a somewhat quieter interval, he suggested, “It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”
Furiously, she shook her head, and breathed, “I will not.”
The man heaved a sigh, and nodded, running a cold hand across her forehead, wiping some stray hair from her face. Concern marred his features, darkened his eyes and cast a pallor across his pale visage.
Another wail. More panting. Her heavy breathing and screams began to swell in a gradual crescendo. Even the air in the room seemed to condense in anticipation. The glass room grew hazy, slowly tilting side to side as if on an axis. Sweat poured. Screaming.
And then it stopped.
The man held up a tiny child, who cried mutedly, as if its voice was yards away. The mother continued to pant but screamed no more. A single tear ran down her face. “Vyrdantil,” she sighed. Her eyes closed, and she rested her head to the side.
The father gave a solemn nod, pulling his gaze from the woman’s drained body. He raised the child in his hands enough so that he could look at it straight-on. Almost instantly, it stopped crying, and returned his gaze blankly. “Vyrdantil, I suppose…” the man suggested. He gave a nod, and tried again, beginning to understand how the word felt to his lips, “Vyrdantil.” He liked the sound of it.
And so, Vyrdantil was born.
* * *
Vyrdantil sat in a sort of fabric sling inside one of the larger buildings in Kalinor. Youth still had a firm grip on him – he was no more than seven or eight years old. His sling hung from the ceiling, and swooped down, as if someone had tried to make a hammock but had only succeeded in making a chair. He squinted as he stared out upon the cavernous city. Even the scant light was enough to cause him slight discomfort. Ever since he could remember, he had been exceptionally sensitive to lights and sounds, even touches. He had never liked being held, being hugged, even shaking hands. It felt as if every square inch of contact was pressing on him with the weight of an anvil. It gave him headaches, it made him nauseous and dizzy. But it was something that he had grown to live with. He had learned of the places where even the Symenestra (who in general, kept their environments dimly lit) had more light than he could handle. He either chose not to go there, or wore a satin blindfold which his father had crafted him at a young age.The city intrigued him. It seemed so large, yet so small. Vast, yet enclosed. It seemed almost like a paradox. Anything was possible, yet only within the confines of Kalinor’s cavern. An innocent smile played across his lips – rare, to say the least.
“What are you all giddy about?” Vyrdantil’s father teased, pulling him back into the room and reminding him that he wasn’t alone.
Vyrdantil shrugged, and began to look around the room which he had seen at least a thousand times. Any number of vegetables and fruits decorated the glass shelves which circled the room. It was perhaps one of the few areas in Kalinor which smelled even remotely fresh. The rest of the city felt stale, and damp. Vyrdantil’s father collected produce from various remote areas around Kalinor, and occasionally purchased from the few merchants who made it their business to pass through Kalinor. He liquefied whatever he could scavenge, stewed it, and processed it into ornate glass jars which he sold to support himself and his only son. It was a humble career, but it was a livelihood no doubt, and his creations were somewhat sought after among certain circles in the city.
“Nothing?” his father gently pressured, continuing to skin some vegetable that Vyrdantil had never seen before. They both looked up, and made eye contact for an instant before Vyr’ shied away.
Again, the boy shook his head. After a moment, Vyrdantil suggested hesitantly, “I think I want to go home.”
His father dropped his head, again defeated in an unending war to breakthrough to his soft-spoken son. He gave a submissive nod, and sighed, “I’ll be there soon.”
Without another word being spoken, Vyrdantil dropped from his perch, and exited the globular complex. He skimmed across the fabric bridges which connected buildings in Kalinor, always more than a little nervous to fall off, or slip. He often watched others of his age travel from one building to another, and noted how much faster and more graceful they were. He never took it too much to heart, but couldn’t help noticing how much it set him apart from his peers. Symenestra were delicate to begin with, but he seemed to be more fragile than the rest. It seemed to Vyrdantil that he should have some extraordinary skill to compensate for his lacking physical prowess. He should be incredibly smart, witty, or have some exceptional skill that was unrivaled by any other in Kalinor. He should be able to create the most beautiful tapestries, and be envied by Symenestra of all ages. Once, he thought to himself, that he should be able to read others’ minds, as if they were a book. But there was no such luck. He never excelled in school – he was logical, good with numbers, and learned Symenos quickly. But he was never outstanding. Just average.
When he arrived home, Vyrdantil quickly retreated to his desk in a far corner of their crystalline globular house. A pile of books rested on his desk, waiting to be opened an absorbed. He reached immediately for the one which he had been dying to read: The Virtassa. It too had been a gift from his father, one of the most used and most cherished. He read from it unfailingly every single day, and was nearly a quarter of the way to memorizing the entire thing. It was a strange thing. Whenever he read from it, he began to feel some sort of purpose. He felt deeply connected to something outside of himself: as if his life could ultimately lead to something substantial or purposeful. The Virtassa was his direct route to something important. It was the thing that would set him apart, he had no doubt. As he read, he began to drift to sleep. Yet one line seemed to stick in his head, etched in his mind like stone.
Every drop is precious, but not all cries are holy.
And so he drifted to a dream-filled sleep.
Starting Package
- Light clothing, leather boots, and cloak
- Waterskin
- Satchel with 7 jars of father's homemade Symenestra soup, one carved stone cup/bowl, flint and steel
- Ornately weaved blindfold, decorated with Symenestra fabrics
- 100 gold rimmed mizas (?)
- Symenestra home containing bed hammock, desk, single chair, center circular hearth.
Skills:
- Intelligence: 15
- Meditation: 5
- Ritualism: 25
- Theology: 5
- Acrobatics: 10 (Racial Bonus)
Lores:
- Lore of Virtas
- Lore of Local Edible Flora
Languages:
- Symenos - Fluent
- Common - Basic
Ledger:
Currently: 100 gold-rimmed mizas