Post by Marrik Delimas on Mar 9, 2018 11:10:43 GMT -5
With a finale tug of his knife tendrils of hair come free in his hand that are tossed to the ground with spite. Even removed from his body they wiggle around for a time before going still. Looking into the mirror Marrik stares with disgust at what he sees. His beautiful tanned skin had become an ashen black, his glorious red hair now a deep blue like staring into a starless night, and even as he watches void tendrils reform in the shortened crop turning it into glowing spikes that nearly bring tears to his silver eyes.
He had to admit however, this new body did have a perk or two. The scars from his two thousand years of battle were all gone, the skin smooth and taught over lithe muscles honed by centuries of training and war. It'd be an absolute joy if only he weren't the color of a Nightborn that'd been left in the sun to long. His tattoos hadn't faded though, the mural of ink covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist looking better than ever actually, though the purple glow was a bit unsettling if rather good looking.
His eyes return to his own visage, a shaggy beard having somehow grown over the past few days. More facial hair than any self respecting Sin'dori should ever have. Nimble fingers find his razor from muscle memory alone, and he applies some cream and begins to shave, soon cutting the face fluff down to a much more presentable mustache and goatee that he then waxes into a beautiful point. He nods to himself in satisfaction, the new facial hair matching perfectly with his sharp but handsome features.
Turning from the mirror he drops the towel from around his waist and begins to dress. Sliding on his black and red leathers that'd grown soft from use, and fit his body perfectly. Pulling on his belt he slips his throwing knives, daggers, poison vials, and other tools of death into their respective sheaths and pouches before taking a last look at himself in the polished glass and leaves the bathroom.
It was second nature to move without a sound to him by now, his feet silent on stone floor as he slips into his bedroom to place the note he'd written on the bedside table. "I'm sorry my love." he mummers to his sleeping wife, cupping her face a last time and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. As he walks out the front door a single tear slides down his cheek. Wiping it away irritably, he grabs his pack and leaves his home, his city, and his people for the final time.
Hours later Trisana awakens, and after reading the letter left by her long life's one love she weeps, praying it isn't true as she searches the home and grounds she'd shared for hundreds of years with her mate for any sign it was some kind of sick joke. Finally she falls back into bed as the weight of his actions crashes down on her. Not only was he gone, but no trace her husband had ever existed had been left, save the scent of his spiced cologne on his pillows, and the letter in his elegant flowing script.
He had to admit however, this new body did have a perk or two. The scars from his two thousand years of battle were all gone, the skin smooth and taught over lithe muscles honed by centuries of training and war. It'd be an absolute joy if only he weren't the color of a Nightborn that'd been left in the sun to long. His tattoos hadn't faded though, the mural of ink covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist looking better than ever actually, though the purple glow was a bit unsettling if rather good looking.
His eyes return to his own visage, a shaggy beard having somehow grown over the past few days. More facial hair than any self respecting Sin'dori should ever have. Nimble fingers find his razor from muscle memory alone, and he applies some cream and begins to shave, soon cutting the face fluff down to a much more presentable mustache and goatee that he then waxes into a beautiful point. He nods to himself in satisfaction, the new facial hair matching perfectly with his sharp but handsome features.
Turning from the mirror he drops the towel from around his waist and begins to dress. Sliding on his black and red leathers that'd grown soft from use, and fit his body perfectly. Pulling on his belt he slips his throwing knives, daggers, poison vials, and other tools of death into their respective sheaths and pouches before taking a last look at himself in the polished glass and leaves the bathroom.
It was second nature to move without a sound to him by now, his feet silent on stone floor as he slips into his bedroom to place the note he'd written on the bedside table. "I'm sorry my love." he mummers to his sleeping wife, cupping her face a last time and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. As he walks out the front door a single tear slides down his cheek. Wiping it away irritably, he grabs his pack and leaves his home, his city, and his people for the final time.
Hours later Trisana awakens, and after reading the letter left by her long life's one love she weeps, praying it isn't true as she searches the home and grounds she'd shared for hundreds of years with her mate for any sign it was some kind of sick joke. Finally she falls back into bed as the weight of his actions crashes down on her. Not only was he gone, but no trace her husband had ever existed had been left, save the scent of his spiced cologne on his pillows, and the letter in his elegant flowing script.
Founded April 26, 2005