You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Half-Blood, Half-Soul - Razvan Kardos  (Read 1112 times)

-Kaz

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Half-Blood, Half-Soul - Razvan Kardos
« on: January 09, 2017, 07:25:05 PM »




(click image for portrait)

Name: Razvan Kardos
Age: Thirties
Race: Human
Ethnicity: Half-Gundarakite, Half-Vistani


***

A dark complexion and raven black hair made Razvan's angular facial features difficult to interpret as anything but Vistani, and unable to conceal his origins, it seemed he had no choice but to come to some peace with the dark blood that branded him an outcast. While he might have once been jovial and expressive, only the worn traces of laugh lines remained to speak of such distant memories.

He was weary. Sullen eyes were lazily half-closed; a bestial squint that made his expression and intentions difficult to discern. He carried himself with nonchalance yet beneath the surface one might sense a gnawing, ever-present discomfort. It was a silent hunger that remained caged in the confines of the mournful suit that one would wear for a funeral.

Crude tattoos of vulgar depictions of various women and provocative symbolism adorned his arms in a apparently deliberate attempt at driving others away from him. His jewelry had gone away; all that remained of note were the small, black claws that crowned long fingers.


« Last Edit: June 14, 2019, 02:59:39 AM by -Kaz »

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The Knight's Feet
« Reply #1 on: January 11, 2017, 02:17:02 AM »

Quote from: On The Importance Of Self-Hate
Good things happen to those who wait. The Knight knew this well but his King had created him with deceitful feet that never drove him ahead for long. Every step he took drooped to the left or to the right and regardless of the efforts he made to straighten himself, he always found himself deviating. Eons passed in the midst of conflict and he weathered the changing fortunes of time, winning every battle and overcoming every challenge in the hopes that one day, his King would bless him with a pair of straight feet.

In the world he lived in, Kings reigned; and Queens – who possessed unlimited power – were trusted to take the reins when their husband fell. Bishops were given the cunning to avoid obstacles entirely, toppling them at vulnerable angles. The Rooks were gifted with the steadfast strength to destroy anything that stood before them. As for the Pawns, they were offered the perseverance that allowed them to step forward one foot at a time. Some were swallowed or stonewalled by their betters, but others made it to the end of the line where their diligence and luck elevated them to the King’s side. Each piece had its purpose, its predictable path to walk, except the Knight.

When the Knight grew too impatient, when he could no longer contain his rage, he breached the castle gates to demand answers from his King. The Knight could not be cornered by the Pawns, for he simply leaped over their simplicity. The Rooks sought to tackle him but, in their rigid minds, could not predict his movements. The Bishops, who were crafty, were outsmarted by the Knight who used their absolute nature against them, knowing full well they could not follow him whenever he crossed from light to dark and from dark to light. Finally, he stood before the royal couple. The Queen stayed her hand to humor the buffoon while the King listened.

“To all your other subjects, you gave a path to tread and they walked it well and true. Yet you have cursed me with the feet most askew. I have spent my existence fighting for you and I intend to leave today with a pair brand new!”

The King bellowed a wicked laugh and the Queen cracked a knowing smile. The Knight was pierced by confusion.

“I am pleased that you have been blind to the gift I gave unto you. A curse you call it, yet a curse you outgrew. None of my subjects have been blessed with a thing to eschew. Were you content, you would not have fought as you did; a valorous thing that most never do. And were you sorrowful, you would have forsaken yourself to idleness too. Can’t you see that your hate was the path to virtue?”

The Knight looked down to his crooked feet; he had an answer to chew. An eternity hating them, yet they had always led him where he needed to. Without further ado, the Knight withdrew from the venue and vowed to forever treasure this breakthrough, to revel in the truth known to so few, and to find the next one to pursue.

« Last Edit: January 11, 2017, 03:19:58 AM by K∧z »

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The Bloody Crown
« Reply #2 on: January 17, 2017, 12:04:37 AM »

Quote from: On The Hilarity Of Nature

There was a black sheep who lived among his kin yet they lifted their chin when they looked at him. In the gleam of the moon, they supped on nature’s boon – the routine of evergreen – while he remained unseen. When they communed at noon to bleat with their elite, they marked themselves immune to the cry of his tune. All he earned was their scorn. He was unclean to the bone, never to become one of their own. In time they would reap the seed that they had sown.

He wished to understand why he had been born barred. Could they not shake hands and save him from the quicksand? Could they not forget that he was damned? A single day so he may not have to withstand the absence of existence; the penance of his nuisance; the dissonance of his sentence. Acceptance was a pittance and he would settle for no less than vengeance. They needed to be shown, that in time they would reap the seed that they had sown.

The outsider traveled to a lake with a desire to destroy, to concoct a ploy that would break those who had made him ache. A gaze in the water stilled his mind, for the fur that he saw showed that he had been blind. No sheep he knew had fangs to grind or the craving to rend another’s rind. It was why he did not eat, neither grass nor wheat. It was meat that he needed, and blood so bittersweet. Soon, they would reap the seed that they had sown.

He did not bring the night to cowl him. Just a growl and a scowl to arm him. On the prowl – his head lounged on a cloud as he dreamt of his crown – so proud he could not see the wisdom of the owl. By nightfall, every single sheep was slain. Only the wolf’s howl remained to conquer the plain, and it was in their pain that he formed his domain.

He had embraced his nature, he was finally free! It was the moon who greeted him with such glee.

He sat upon his throne, yet he was still alone. In time he would reap the seed that he had sown.
« Last Edit: February 09, 2019, 01:51:45 PM by -Kaz »

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Queen of Bones
« Reply #3 on: January 21, 2017, 12:09:42 AM »


Quote from: On The Ballet Of Death
Her lips were a source of inspiration. Her smile; cause for celebration. He had had the guile to challenge her and from desire spawned their hellfire. The strings that bound them both together were invisible to each other but they shared a destiny intertwined and devoid of sound mind; a union unconfined by the judgment of Mankind.

Her feet traced rhymes in the sands of time, mounting symphonies between two heartbeats. A cry of agony, the severance of a story – that was how she claimed her territory. The flesh had been made to part the sea and red painted the claw around his heart. The danse macabre was a master’s house for she who had made Death an art.

A serene sheen in a flash of steel; the green of her eyes shone with zeal. This sword in the spleen had never felt so sweet; she had the power to turn his blood into wine – the kind that defines the divine paradigm. The chime of her blade: a violin in the wind, a pantomime more sublime than a poet’s begrimed sins. She was the most graceful wolverine that he had ever seen and he was drunk with the will to make her his queen.
« Last Edit: June 18, 2019, 07:57:08 PM by -Kaz »

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Sacri Fice
« Reply #4 on: December 29, 2017, 09:00:04 PM »


Quote from: On The Making Of A God
What is it that defines a man’s greatness? Is it the causes of his notoriety? Is it the virtue of his actions, or the legacy he fathered? Is it the men he killed, the destinies he’s altered? Is it sufficient to be remembered in historical texts and to overcome the test of time? Could it be that the adoration we express in regal courts may not be so different from the one professed on our bloody knees?

What all great men have in common is their aspiration toward becoming Gods, the arrogance needed to believe in their apotheosis, the proselytization of their own cause and narrative through self-worship and contagion. If perfection is the idea which spawned our awareness of divinity, isn’t our innate desire for self-improvement a natural need to be sanctified? When the soldiers return from a campaign and the children gather to heed their arrival, do the boys not point and say “one day, I too will bear steel like them”? Do they not show adoration, do they not worship that which they desire to become?

Thus desire, ambition, sows the seed of divinity. On the other hand, the monk who renounces all desire out of devotion for a higher power merely humiliates himself before the possibility of his own greatness; how humble and virtuous self-denial indeed is. The gods we love the most are those who were once mortal, for they give us a glimpse of what we could ourselves become. We entertain their worship because we hope that they will elevate us to their side, but the gods did not wait for anyone to uplift them from the muck, they relied on themselves, they earned the admiration of others who pushed them up onto a pedestal in the sky. I do not propose that Man topples the idea of divinity out of spite for what he may be too weak to obtain, for a man is neither a god’s equal nor should he ever accept defeat, but Man does have the potential of elevating himself to the holy laurels upon which the object of his envy rests, all-powerful, all-knowing, and purely divine.

Envy. While it may not be the source of our desires, it is the inner compass with which we can recognize our needs and wants. Do not mistake it for jealousy, as jealousy is the fear of losing something we already possess. When a peasant sees that his neighbor has more than he does, he feels a string pull his heart toward that same thing. Envy – We are told that it is not virtuous to want what someone else has, but why? Does envy not give us the drive to seek solutions? Does it not give us the push needed to accept that we want and the possibility, the hope, that we too can have more? Is that intense, deep burning sensation not a direct guide to the path of divinity?

Desire and envy certainly appear to be self-centered drives to attain something as pure as Godhood, but Desire is the ultimate expression of free will, and the Gods teach us thus when they ask for worship, for temples and monuments to be erected in their names. It is their narcissism, their self-proclaimed greatness which inspires the creativity of the contemplative artist who paints frescoes on the ceiling of this or that church, or empowers the preacher with passion as he recounts the great deeds of his sanctified betters. If the Gods did not believe in themselves, neither would we believe in them.

But why do we have faith in them in the first place? It is not possible to have faith out of a sense of pragmatism, for such a sensation must resonate throughout the deepest, darkest corners of our soul. Faith, a profound sense of trust in the greater forces that surround us, too large for us to fully understand. Thus the question becomes “Why is it that we trust the divine?”

Well, the answer lies in the secret ingredient, the greatest act of heroism for which Man is fabled for, the act which renders him sacred: sacrifice.
« Last Edit: December 29, 2017, 09:08:15 PM by Kazbah »

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A Thousand Eyes
« Reply #5 on: June 14, 2019, 02:52:40 AM »
Quote from: 'A Thousand Eyes'
The waitress looked up to the stage, enraptured.
Wordlessly, the singer shut her eyes and began to hum.
The pianist matched her tune and cadence.
As the hum began to build into a crescendo, piano matching each cord,
her lips parted slowly and her angelic voice gave birth to a ballad of woe.

Mother and child, forever to be united...

He focused on the song which drew him closer to the stage.
Each verse spilled from the singer as if it were ingrained in her very essence,
her body slowly swaying with the melody.

Until time parts them both...
I, not something to be fighted...


A part of him wished to dance; his limbs moved along with the music.
He had spent so long in silence.
Behind the singer, he drew his blades and made himself light against her frame.
She clutched her eyes tight, a single tear spilling down her porcelain cheek.

Time is unforgiving and without yield...
The touch fleeting but lingers like a memory upon her flesh...


He echoed her words in silence, looming above her shoulder,
eyes downcast toward the supple curve of her neck.
His touch would be fleeting; lingering as a memory upon her flesh.

A sinuous sway of her gown, rhythmically moving. So red.

Remembrance of your embrace...
How your lullaby lured me to slumber...


The pianist's cadence elevated, each key striking out a raucous tone.
A man tapped his finger to the rhythm.
A woman sniffled, holding back tears. Red.

The singer's ballad continued, each verse belted out with all of her being -
a moving and engrossing performance that soon began to wind down.
Drawing to a conclusion.
She hummed again.

Each key stroked slow, the beat slowing to a woeful denouement.

His muscles tensed gradually as the song began to die down.
He knew the effect that a closure had on the senses; the exhalation that lowered one's guard.
The release of a shared breath.
They would be slow to react, blind to what would happen.

Her humming soon drew to a close, a sharp breath sucked in as she fluttered open her tear-laden eyes.

Forever shall I wander, thinking of that touch,
a glancing trace...


He acted without thought, between two strokes upon the piano.
His knives lifted abruptly and he cut a smile across her throat to let the blood piss on the gallery.

The red curtains fell.
A thousand eyes were on them.
A thousand screams.
Finally.

I-I am sor-

Sorry.
Sorry for what?
« Last Edit: June 14, 2019, 02:54:24 AM by -Kaz »