Zhe'a Yilma

STILL A WIP, FULL TRANSLATION ON IT'S WAAAY.

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18+|EU|Dark Fantasy|Paragraph/Plot RP|german|

Fallen out of the sky and perished, clusters of dead birds and other forest dwellers are found in the Black Shroud, while wolf & pack close one rift into the Void after another. A noble service indeed, would they not cut swathes of ruin as their trail. Surely the resident clans would have put an end to their doing, were they able to get hold of them – But seldom, if ever, they are sighted even by the most skilled trackers. However, the Keeper’s conditions still seems to be desolate; his will however ever more relentless. The handicapped arm on the left is joined by three deep gashes on the right, tearing apart the patterns on his forearm. All sanity seems lost – it is but mania that drives him.

current mood ♫.

something’s comin’ something’s on it’s way No there ain't no devil gonna be where we go Gonna wash in the water And save all our souls Take all the children where the flood water’s low Ain’t no devil gonna be where we go The moon is rising Dusk is at our door With darkened horizons Won’t be scared no more Blood in the river, blood in the sky None but the holy, won’t leave you behind The moon is rising tomorrow the sun will be born.

☼☾🌔🌓⚪☽

« no mercy for prey » of blood, bones & stars . Caught betwixt worlds different from one another beyond compare, the Keepers moves with impeccable confidence. Among the ranks of the ishgardian noblesse and their exurban extensions he functions as a delegate to the vassal house Evancreux, thanks to the favour of their patriarch. Yet it seems like there are other things than influence and money that tie this alleged friendship together. Once ago born into an archaic cult, deeply veiled by the obscurity of the Black Shroud, shedding the chains and boundaries far removed from civility is of much greater importance. Occult traditions, manifesting in the conjuration of questionable divines and celestials, plaster the road of a much darker path. Death's shadow became a persistent consort. The power over them a constant struggle. name Zhe 'a Yilma alias „(young) wolf‟ race keeper of the moon tribe levandin origin twelveswood metier shamanism|necromancy patron deity elementals menphina age 26 height 5"11 fulm citizenship none marital complicated orientation poly alignment lawful evil ♫. Error creating thumbnail: File missing

Born as a child of the night, the Keeper still maintains the old habit of waking with the set of the sun. He feels at home in the tranquillity only darkness can provide, which reflects the cornerstones of his personality, as he generally displays a highly reserved temper, whom only the fewest of things can elicit a genuine reaction from.



In spite of this lithic façade, he holds an unexpected fondness for the sweeter things in life in which he indulges all too often. The Miqo'te might have simply wallowed in his vices for one too many times and thus has been left with a desolate and blunted affect - which could at least justify his withdrawn demeanour.



Acquisition of said “sweeter things” proves to be easiest when moving in the higher circles of society, which is why he prefers the company of those who, due to their standing, are much more likely to share his appreciation of the pleasures. Despite his childhood being a harsh lesson in humility, not much of it seems to have stuck with him to the present day and one would have an easy time to impute this egocentric with superficiality. Yet in his most inner depths there seethes a vestige of primitive aggression even to this day, which is best not brought forth to the surface.



As a whole he is an ambivalent personality, whose animalistic nature is interwoven with but very little warm-heartedness.

ages of delirium
curse of my oblivion.

♅

Zhe’s appearance boasts with monotony and downright invites to be overlooked; merely his above-average height sets him off of his people.

His hair, almost tone in tone with the pallid anthracite of the skin, cascades in wild and wavy paths down over the entirety of his back, framing a lethargic visage where it meets the cheeks. Narrow lips, paired with clear-cut cheekbones and a prominent nose, would paint the face in broad strokes of aristocracy, was it not for a feral spark, persistently lingering inside the fire of his eyes, always preying, driving away all those fatuous souls who lend their ear to instinct, rather than reason.

For it is this haunting glow of the irides that, above all else, is capable of breaking through the otherwise grey and unmoved veil of his personhood and thus forms the most confessing part of his elseways reserved countenance. An untypically long topcoat of hair on both tail and ears however degrades his wolfish presence to that of a dishevelled mongrel.

As the most ornamental element of his semblance, a white pigmented piece of body art splits the torso into two segments. With strokes of a finger’s breadth yet branching into increasingly thinner lines, an aetheronomic geometry, consisting of many formulae based on different schools of magic, covers the right side of the Keeper’s upper body, telling tales of archaic alchemy and astrology, even if only to the learned eye – Occult phrases and incantations directed towards the celestial bodies, which the more feral children of the Twelveswood still pray to. Merely a single symbol upon his neck defies the established colour scheme and boasts a rich crimson hue instead.

He rarely clads himself in frippery, except for a few primitive talismans which are hardly ever cast off. These special trinkets count three in number - A perforated coin dangles on a simple band of leather, sharing it's place on the keeper’s neck with other necklaces; One of fragile craft, yellowed splinters of bone beaded and knotted to a string, and another, with an elongated flask dangling on its end, in which, every now and a again, a shadow stirs.

breathe life
into this hollowed vessel of rebirth.
♆

Aristocrat

Seldom did one ever hear a keeper speak so couth. Being eloquent indeed, yet only occasionally communicative, he seems to have received exceptionally commendable lessons in etiquette, rendering his mannerism comme il faut even in the eyes of nobles – However, these lessons may also have sharpened the tongue with which he occasionally defies good manners in servitude to his own needs and gains.

Father

One would think that the little girl at the Keeper’s side was more than just one of his tools, as they seem to share some kind of bond in addition to their visual likeness, and nonetheless the child still rarely appears in public – while she suffices for short trips to the wet markets, she stays away from the streets where the other kids play.

Theorist

The Keeper prides himself with a remarkeable collection of academic writings on various fields of aether-usage as well as tomes of traditional non-magical natural sciences. Most of his ideas and opinions on these text may however seem outlandish and strange even to a learned individual, especially his ruminations on astrology and the occult tradition alienate him from the common scholar. Even though he seems to have developed grand aptitude in the fields of magics, he is seldom if ever seen actually practicing his art, leaving open the questing where else all of his potential may be applied.

Wolf

A dreamer, a thinker and oftentimes not more than a beast. Passing the border of rationality and shedding off manner’s chains, the civilised behaviour can turn into a fragile state, that nigh no one can tame, once entered. An undomesticated mind, free to flail between apathy and annihilating blaze. Lowering all feelings to mere instincts might prove some use for surviving in the wilderness -Not so much when coming face to face with the Keeper’s untamed wrath.

Shaman

The occult fashions of former kin have been all but forgotten, yet they very rarely get a chance show on the surface as his cloak of grace keeps them out of daylight. Nonetheless, he keeps with his primitive traditions, not as to honor the past but merely as a necessity. Blood and star; salvation and bone, tightly interwoven.

Spiritbinder

and in the paths of ash
another bond of burden seek.

♄

« 20 years prior, Northern Black Shroud. »

𝔖ough. Red. Sky. Breathe. Pain. And all over again. Sough. Red. The face of his mother, conspicuously protruding the masses, directing their cadence. A chant. They sang. All of them. Breathe. And back down into the depth. He could hear them even over the swishing as the red poured into his ears. Lungs burning as if they were ablaze, every fibre of his body clenched tight and yet there was temptation – to just give up and allow oneself to drift away. To stop searching for the sky. To simply stop fighting against the tensity of the liquid pressuring his airways. Only the distant humming in unison now stimulated his senses, encouraged him to find a way. He had to swim upwards. But where was upwards? ℑt was where the voices sang, obviously. One more time, he broke through the surface, freeing himself from the mucous pond of which he almost had become a part. Gasping, the boy's face met the rescuing ground, fingers dug into the mud, groping for some kind of hold. He struggled, but managed to pull himself out partially, away from the pulpy horror that had held him in it's grasp. Festering blood and entrails clung to him, the remains of dead animals, whose bestial stench alone would have been enough to make one's head pound. At least his foot had found a hold on something inside the decaying pool, on top of slender shoulders that still drifted below in the mire. The other boy had given his life for his own – he had been of a much weaker build and thus did not stand a chance as the keeper resolved to use him as a stepping stone. 𝔗he young woman, who now kneeled in front of him, had given up on pushing his head down into the mucus again and so the child had enough time to bat his smeared eyes until his vision finally became clear again. The many faces that gazed down upon him were mere schemes in this moment, but even in this state he could have named every single one of them. Only few of them looked related and there were no chances to mistake one for the other, for it was not the blood in their veins that bound them. Most of them had started to turn their backs, to leave the scene and let the vivacity of their gathering there to die midst the old and crooked trees. The young woman reached out to him again, but the keeper was aware she would not force him to submerge again. It was over, for now. There was no need to peer at her, he could already feel her charcoal colored eyes resting on his pathetic display. Without thinking he could describe the hue of her iris, that well he knew her. And yet, like all the others, she had not cared. It was always like this. They would never put an end to this gathering of insanity, that he knew too, just as well as the pair of soot black eyes that glanced down upon him in scorn now. She had been the only one who did not chant. She must have been a witch to resist the lure of the chorus. „How disappointing." 𝔇id she speak to him? That, he did not know. Ultimately, he did not care either. Time was too precious for anything other than filling his lungs with air, too sweet the feeling of being master of his own senses again. There was a rattle in his chest, as he just laid there, still panting soundly. The woman did not need further testament of his survival. Instead, she ran her heel upon the back of the boy’s tender hand in an antagonizing fashion. The ground was soft and gave way under the pressure, but it was still enough to force a pained gasp out of the young keeper. He saw nothing but the painting on her ankle from this position of indignity. It seemed elegant, just like the foot resting on his hand. He would not forget this pattern, just as much as he would not forget what happened on this day, at this place. And forget it, he did not.

« 4 years prior, Northern Blackshroud. »

text written by Ghost, thank you ♥ 𝔄 single moon shrouded by dark clouds failed to shine its light upon the arboreous scene, which the pale Keeper now infiltrated. Fragments of archaic architecture surrounded them like anonymous giants, ruined and lain waste to. Only the lithic altar was illuminated by a single brazier – fire to keep scavengers away. And atop the platform lay the husk of a broken man. It had been three days already. The Keeper was growing impatient and ever more restless, knowing that the man’s fate now rested in the hands of someone he did not trust. He wanted to tell himself that he knew what would be best form him, that he could bring him back singlehandedly, but he could not deny the evident: The young wolf had changed. The brooding boy he once knew was gone. Transformed as time transforms everything and everyone, he had become a man – a father even. 𝔉inally, the Keeper stepped into the cone of light that surrounded the altar as the reflection of fire danced in his onyx eyes. He hesitated before reaching out for his chest, convincing himself that he had not inflicted this on him. But what if he did? Years ago, when he had just left him without a word. Maybe -no- surely things would be different now. They could have been so much closer than they were now and he would have always protected him. It was easy to say things like these, now that it was all too late. ℌe was not thinking, yet he felt how his body scaled the altar on its own, rising over the still, grey body. The Keeper’s fingers crawled over the corporeal remains as if they had a mind on their own, finding purchase in his rugged, ashen hair, while the other hand caressed his cold cheek. As the ghost pulled the rest of himself over the wolf and they came face to face he saw, that the broken man’s eyes were opened. 𝔄ll that he wanted to find was forgiveness in his gaze, yet they were empty. A violent rain set in. It landed hard on the yellow orbs that neither flinched nor blinked, leaving his heart numb and empty not unlike the body below. He could not even feel himself weep.

« 3 years prior, border to Gyr Arbania. »

[TRANSLATION MISSING] 𝔄ls das Wasser verschwand, aus Meeren wieder Tümpel wurden und das Licht der fünften Ära schon lange im Schatten der Sechsten versunken war, konnten die Wächter der Nacht, deren Aufmerksamkeit solange wachsam auf den tückischen Boden gerichtet war, sich wieder der Schönheit des Himmels widmen. Eine schreckliche Sehnsucht überkam sie -So lange hatten sie vergessen, was es hieß, die Sterne zu betrachten und ihnen zuzuhören. Entflammt vom Fieber, fanden sie keine Fährte mehr bei der Jagd; kein Speer traf in sein Ziel. Denn zu abgelenkt waren sie vom Fieber der Sehnsucht -Das Betrachten der Himmelskörper genügte ihnen nicht mehr. Sie wollten sie berühren. Deshalb ersannen ihre größten Krieger einen Plan, auch wenn die Qual des Verlangens es ihnen schwer machte auch nur einen klaren Gedanken zu fassen. Die Antwort war jedoch so simpel und lag so klar vor ihnen, dass sie es zuerst übersahen. Sie wollten sie berühren, also mussten sie zu ihnen gelangen. Und so schossen die besten Schützen ihre Pfeile gen Himmel und verankerten sie fest im Sternenzelt. Die Mutigsten unter ihnen erklommen das Reich ihrer Angebeteten, doch stellten sie schnell fest, dass ihnen zwar der Aufstieg gelang, es aber keinen Weg zum Abstieg gab. Dennoch setzten sie ihre Reise fort, bis sie die liebende Wärme der Sterne in eigenen Händen hielten. Sie warfen sie hinab auf die Erde, um ihren Familien zu zeigen, was ihr Mut hervorgebracht hatte. Die Wächter am Boden sammelten die Gaben ihrer Liebsten mit großer Freude und fertigten daraus Laternen, deren wunderschöner Glanz die Nacht über unzählige Felder hinweg erhellte. 𝔇och nicht nur die eigenen Augen, die vor Freude strahlten, enthüllte das Licht. In weiter Ferne, im Schutz der von Fels und Gestein betrachteten verwunderte Augen das Spektakel, welches sich von nun an jede Nacht ereignete. Die Bewohner der Unterwelt hatten schon lange nichts mehr erblickt, das die Last ihrer Gemüter heben konnte; gab es in den kalten Steinkavernen doch generell recht wenig zu sehen. Es erregte ihre erlahmte Neugier so sehr, dass sie den Schutz des erwählten Heims verließen, um dem Ursprung dieser Lichter auf den Grund zu gehen. Als die Wächter und die Bewohner Gelmorras sich gegenseitig erblickten, war die Verwunderung groß, hatte man sich doch unlängst im gegenseitigen Vergessen gefunden. Und die Wächter verstanden die Bewohner Gelmorras nicht, die sich dort im Erdreich versteckten; konnten ihre Motive nicht nachvollziehen, wie etwas mächtig genug sein könnte, sie vom Anblick des Himmels zu trennen. Und dennoch hatten sie Mitleid mit ihnen, denn die ewige Finsternis nagte an dem Volk und zehrte ihr eigenes Licht nach und nach aus. Beschämt von ihrer Gier, verschenkten sie die wertvollen Laternen an die Insassen der Tiefe und gingen hinaus auf die freie Flur, um dort auch die Mutter der Nacht um Vergebung zu bitten, denn... „Das ist eine blöde Geschichte. Wieso haben sie die Laternen verschenkt?" „Nun, unter der Erde gibt es kein Holz mit dem sie sich eine dauerhafte Lichtquelle hätten schaffen können, im Gegensatz zu den Wächtern." 𝔇ie beiden Stimmen hallten unangenehm in dem kahlen Raum wieder, obwohl man gedämpft sprach, sodass das Plätschern des Wassers sie beinahe übertönte. Nichtmal das raue Gelächter, welches von weit vor der Tür bis in das Zimmer getragen wurde, konnte die meditative Atmosphäre zerbrechen. Der Wolf schien sich ob der Unterbrechung seiner Erzählung nicht zu stören und wohnte geduldig dem Bad seines Schützlings bei, der in kauernder Manier in einer schäbigen Wanne saß. Es war nicht ihr zu Hause, sie fühlte sich hier nicht sicher. Die Einrichtung war bereits derart gealtert, dass dunkler Rost von dem Eisen absplitterte und am Arm des Wolfes kleben blieb, der sich auf dem Rand abgestützt hatte und die Wange in unerschütterlicher Entspannung an den Handrücken lehnte. „Es ist dumm, den Schwachen zu helfen, wir gingen immerhin komplett leer aus... Und eine gute Ablenkung war das auch nicht, es tut immer noch weh." 𝔏eidlich tastete das Mädchen nach einigen frischen Einschnitten an seiner Hüfte. Die gereizte Haut entließ eine kleine, rote Wolke ins Wasser und verschickte so zugleich einen stummen Vorwurf an ihren eigenen Wächter, der dem Mädchen nur sachte zur Beschwichtigung über das nasse Haar strich. Einige verknotete Strähnen entwirrte er dabei und zupfte kleine, zerbröselte Kletten hervor. Es war offensichtlich, dass seit ihrem letzten Bad bereits einige Zeit verstrichen war. „Aber die Behandlung ist noch lange nicht abgeschlossen. Geschichte wird sich wiederholen, also musst du tapfer sein." entging der Wolf besonnen, doch bedauerte er diesen Umstand nicht. „Alle Geschichte? Auch die kleinen Dinge, wie eine Laterne aus Sternen?" „Gewiss. Vieles ist nur derart bedeutunglos, dass es unbemerkt an uns vorüberzieht. Eines Tages hat das Schicksal alle Ereignisse niedergeschrieben, die ihm in den Sinn kommen. Also endet die Welt entweder oder der Kreislauf wird sich wiederholen. Aber Hydaelyns Zeit ist noch nicht gekommen." 𝔈rst jetzt hob das Mädchen den Kopf, sah aus dunklen Augen in die des Tieres und versuchte ein Gesicht tiefer Entschlossenheit zu mimen, obwohl ihre Wangen noch immer gerötet und ihre Haut verquollen war von Tränen, die sie bis vor wenigen Minuten noch vergossen hatte. „Gehen wir deshalb nach Thanalan?" „Ja."

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☓ I rarely participate in open RP (especially with this character) since Zhe is a little difficult to handle and more of an ‘a n t a g o n i s t’ than an integrated member of society. I am more than open for witch hunts, plots and RP in a framed environment though . ☓ Server: Phoenix, Balmung [but also Mateus, Omega and Shiva. I don’t mind alt-hopping server for RP]. ☓ Discord RP is possible as well, I’m quite flexible. ☓ TW: mature content, gore,    n e c r o m a n c y, violence - I barely know any boundaries when writing fiction but I try to respect limits of my playpartner. Of course not everything is constantly covered in blood, just be aware please that this character is not meant to bathe in rays of sunshine all day long. ☓ I’m happy about every request, don’t be afraid to contact!

Error creating thumbnail: File missing [ingame contact] Zhe Yilma. Belhar Shaheem. [discord] #6986Kaluga     tumblr. ◊ Design by me ◊ Imagery by          Tallmadge Doyle          Mill+          Rif