Post by Arkhaen Ravenstar on Mar 5, 2018 22:35:29 GMT -5
The ren’dorei known as Arkhaen Ravenstar is a pale being with silvery, incandescent eyes. Broad shouldered with thick arms corded with sinewy muscles, his sometimes red, sometimes ebony hair snakes down his back and front, tapering off into ends that pulsate with void energy.
His lips, drawn out and thin with eyebrows that arch downward casts him as aloof; a perpetual frown on his face. Rarely cracking a smile, his expression is often severe and serious. When he does smile, it is contrastingly warm and sincere. Arkhaen tends to half-smile but people unfamiliar with him would consider it a smirk. His nose is sharp, but a bit small. His chin too, is somewhat non-existent or can be considered as weak; a reason why he sports facial hair. How he wears it is dependent on his mood.
At around 6 ft. tall, his posture portrays strength and ethereal grace; like a great cat birthed and forged in the perpetual dark of the twisting nether. Muscled pectorals and a broad back upon a strong but narrow core contribute to his sturdy and upright stance. As a result, his outfits tend to favour the form fitting variants, especially with the sleeves torn off to display his lean and powerful arms. This choice was also made to exhibit his tattoos. Composed of runic symbols and lines, they are mostly centered on his left pectoral that drifts a little toward the upper part of his arm, where the trapezius meets the left deltoid.
His wrists however are slender and in stark contrast to the rest of him. They end off with long but not quite feminine fingers. Arkhaen also has a fondness for certain type’s bracelets that he wears on his wrists when not on a mission. These are generally simple and unassuming leather bands or cuffs. Similarly, his attire changes with his mood but he is almost always seen in dark leather which lends his pale skin greater prominence. He rarely dons hoods or any type of helmet though may put on a cape from time to time. On his person at all times are dual swords or daggers.
Habitually he often clenches and unclenches his fist as a sign of impatience. He also comes across as somewhat nervous, even anxious due to his constant surveillance of the environment. As a rule, his back is never against an entrance.
Complimenting his imposing and mysterious stature, Arkhaen’s complexion is pallid. His dalliance with the strange cosmic forces that infused him has altered his skin. Even the echoic timbre of his voice exudes the effects of his flirtation with the Void. It’s somewhat baritone, yet simultaneously melodious.
And in the way he comes and goes, that too has been affected.
For instance, a shimmer is seen at first; a curious misshapen blot out of the aether typically dismissed as a trick of the light. But where other rogues have learned to use the shadows to their advantage, Arkhaen utilizes the Void. It is through this shimmer that he appears, as if materializing from thin air. In the briefest of moments, writhing tentacles are seen clinging to his leaving frame, attempting to pull him back into its suffocating embrace. Bits of the void tendrils that lingered on him after his exit would solidify, then fall off as dust to be blown away. A faint scent accompanies this expulsion; one akin to a mixture of lavender and burnt wood. It is both pleasing and momentarily off-putting. But it dissipates quickly, which to surrounding people, would be as if something weird had wafted in on a breeze.
His lips, drawn out and thin with eyebrows that arch downward casts him as aloof; a perpetual frown on his face. Rarely cracking a smile, his expression is often severe and serious. When he does smile, it is contrastingly warm and sincere. Arkhaen tends to half-smile but people unfamiliar with him would consider it a smirk. His nose is sharp, but a bit small. His chin too, is somewhat non-existent or can be considered as weak; a reason why he sports facial hair. How he wears it is dependent on his mood.
At around 6 ft. tall, his posture portrays strength and ethereal grace; like a great cat birthed and forged in the perpetual dark of the twisting nether. Muscled pectorals and a broad back upon a strong but narrow core contribute to his sturdy and upright stance. As a result, his outfits tend to favour the form fitting variants, especially with the sleeves torn off to display his lean and powerful arms. This choice was also made to exhibit his tattoos. Composed of runic symbols and lines, they are mostly centered on his left pectoral that drifts a little toward the upper part of his arm, where the trapezius meets the left deltoid.
His wrists however are slender and in stark contrast to the rest of him. They end off with long but not quite feminine fingers. Arkhaen also has a fondness for certain type’s bracelets that he wears on his wrists when not on a mission. These are generally simple and unassuming leather bands or cuffs. Similarly, his attire changes with his mood but he is almost always seen in dark leather which lends his pale skin greater prominence. He rarely dons hoods or any type of helmet though may put on a cape from time to time. On his person at all times are dual swords or daggers.
Habitually he often clenches and unclenches his fist as a sign of impatience. He also comes across as somewhat nervous, even anxious due to his constant surveillance of the environment. As a rule, his back is never against an entrance.
Complimenting his imposing and mysterious stature, Arkhaen’s complexion is pallid. His dalliance with the strange cosmic forces that infused him has altered his skin. Even the echoic timbre of his voice exudes the effects of his flirtation with the Void. It’s somewhat baritone, yet simultaneously melodious.
And in the way he comes and goes, that too has been affected.
For instance, a shimmer is seen at first; a curious misshapen blot out of the aether typically dismissed as a trick of the light. But where other rogues have learned to use the shadows to their advantage, Arkhaen utilizes the Void. It is through this shimmer that he appears, as if materializing from thin air. In the briefest of moments, writhing tentacles are seen clinging to his leaving frame, attempting to pull him back into its suffocating embrace. Bits of the void tendrils that lingered on him after his exit would solidify, then fall off as dust to be blown away. A faint scent accompanies this expulsion; one akin to a mixture of lavender and burnt wood. It is both pleasing and momentarily off-putting. But it dissipates quickly, which to surrounding people, would be as if something weird had wafted in on a breeze.
)
Founded April 26, 2005