Post by Rykoth Ó Braonáin on Dec 1, 2008 7:25:59 GMT -7
Seven Hundred Years.
It was a badge of honor, of pride. For seven hundred years, Rykoth Ó Braonáin roamed the world, partially as a human, and much of it as a vampire. He had been a troubled neophyte, struggling with the concepts of revenge, yet balancing the beast within. He had become a swordsman, a warrior, he had traveled to Japan, to the New World after Columbus... he had seen world wars break out, and he had witnessed the rise of Ravenblack City. He had known love and loss, and known true love with his wife - one he would never leave - Tshaya.
Something felt out of place.
Rykoth felt it, even as he returned to his mansion, his burns still fresh along his shoulders, and partly across his face. Singed flesh... he would see to a necromancer about that in time. The rage he had felt... where did it come from? He was usually cool, calm, and collected. In times when his friends had been slandered, he kept his hand restrained, letting them fight their own battles. Was it this time, had he been pushed over the edge? Did he just have enough? It wasn't that. It was rage. A deep, dark, powerful rage that had built up while he was asleep. Memories had flashed infront of him.
Memories not his own. Or perhaps they were.... something had been eating him up. Leading up to his rest... flashes of images would play out. Memories of the past, of the manor had become blurry. Anger would course through him, and he would see vivid sights. Battle. Warriors with pale skin and blue warpaint. Woad. His knowledge let him to conclude he saw the images of the ancient Celts. But why would he have such memories?
The thought frightened him, but he knew there were two... no... three answers somewhere. The first was to return to sleep. That was out of the question, he knew. The second was to seek out an Oracle. It couldn't just be his wife either... Tshaya was a gypsy, she could do the fortunes of others. He couldn't worry her with his newest trouble. He would see out the old one he had seen before... which brought him to his third option.
The Shroud. He had combined the shrouds of Crimson Despair, White Hope, Blue Sadness, Black Death, and Golden Valor a long time ago. Yet... wearing them, he had felt a different feeling. A burden yes, but a thought of knowledge. A feeling of deeper understanding.
Rykoth stepped into the bedroom he and Tshaya stayed in at the mansion. He smiled as he watched her lithe form turn ever so often in slumber - the slumber that comes after hard work, or more enjoyable yet intimate activities. His eyes didn't leave her for the longest time, before he made his way to the main floor. He peaked open the front doors, and noted the rays of dawn striking through the clouds. This would be the perfect time no doubt.
He descended into the basement of the manor, switching on the lights. He stepped over to the key holder that was placed upon a stand right by the stairwell. Grabbing a long ornate - obviously old black key - he moved forward, and pushed it into a tall iron safe. He turned the key clockwise until a clicking sound could be heard. With a tug, the door to the safe opened, and Rykoth reached in, pulling the shroud into his arms.
Almost immediately, the shroud came to life. It was angry. Vengeful. It had been locked away, with not a master to control it, and now it wanted the Irish Vampire. At first he tried to control it, but the strength overwhelmed him. The shroud wrapped around Rykoth, at first as normal, but then, the cloth tendrils wrapped around his body, until nothing could be seen - and darkness consumed him as the shroud's coccoon took him.
Pyres burned, lighting arrows as they were fired into the sky. Steel rang as bodies hit the dirt, blood caking the battlefield. Warriors - pale, blue woad, scant clothing let alone no armor. They did battle with others. Romans, perhaps? Aye, the Romans, with their spears, shields, swords, horses and armor. Romans, with their civilized ways, infringing upon... the realization struck. Rykoth found himself among them, standing amongst the Celts. Why? Yet despite the wondering, despite the confusion, he found himself hollaring a blood curdling battlecry as he rushed into the fray. He cut Romans down with a hand axe he wielded, cutting, slashing, and ripping at their throats. A primal fury.... a primal rage...
Rykoth's eyes opened as he sat up in the basement. He felt something flowing through him. Adrenaline? It was not rage... but an understanding. He felt something different. Something new. He looked about for the shroud, yet it was nowhere to be found. Where did it go? He ran up the stairwall, and into the main hall, where he looked into a mirror hanging against the wall. He focused, willing his reflection into focus, and he stepped back at the sight before him.
His hair, once and always golden blonde was no more. In it's place was the hair of his heritage in Ireland. Red. Firey red. Rykoth stepped forward, confusion setting in, yet at the same time a curiosity that sunk deep. He was changing... his mind was racing for answers. He knew so little of his father, hating him at such an early age.
Perhaps it was time to embrace his heritage, and learn more of the family he ignored until they were long gone.
It was a badge of honor, of pride. For seven hundred years, Rykoth Ó Braonáin roamed the world, partially as a human, and much of it as a vampire. He had been a troubled neophyte, struggling with the concepts of revenge, yet balancing the beast within. He had become a swordsman, a warrior, he had traveled to Japan, to the New World after Columbus... he had seen world wars break out, and he had witnessed the rise of Ravenblack City. He had known love and loss, and known true love with his wife - one he would never leave - Tshaya.
Something felt out of place.
Rykoth felt it, even as he returned to his mansion, his burns still fresh along his shoulders, and partly across his face. Singed flesh... he would see to a necromancer about that in time. The rage he had felt... where did it come from? He was usually cool, calm, and collected. In times when his friends had been slandered, he kept his hand restrained, letting them fight their own battles. Was it this time, had he been pushed over the edge? Did he just have enough? It wasn't that. It was rage. A deep, dark, powerful rage that had built up while he was asleep. Memories had flashed infront of him.
Memories not his own. Or perhaps they were.... something had been eating him up. Leading up to his rest... flashes of images would play out. Memories of the past, of the manor had become blurry. Anger would course through him, and he would see vivid sights. Battle. Warriors with pale skin and blue warpaint. Woad. His knowledge let him to conclude he saw the images of the ancient Celts. But why would he have such memories?
The thought frightened him, but he knew there were two... no... three answers somewhere. The first was to return to sleep. That was out of the question, he knew. The second was to seek out an Oracle. It couldn't just be his wife either... Tshaya was a gypsy, she could do the fortunes of others. He couldn't worry her with his newest trouble. He would see out the old one he had seen before... which brought him to his third option.
The Shroud. He had combined the shrouds of Crimson Despair, White Hope, Blue Sadness, Black Death, and Golden Valor a long time ago. Yet... wearing them, he had felt a different feeling. A burden yes, but a thought of knowledge. A feeling of deeper understanding.
Rykoth stepped into the bedroom he and Tshaya stayed in at the mansion. He smiled as he watched her lithe form turn ever so often in slumber - the slumber that comes after hard work, or more enjoyable yet intimate activities. His eyes didn't leave her for the longest time, before he made his way to the main floor. He peaked open the front doors, and noted the rays of dawn striking through the clouds. This would be the perfect time no doubt.
He descended into the basement of the manor, switching on the lights. He stepped over to the key holder that was placed upon a stand right by the stairwell. Grabbing a long ornate - obviously old black key - he moved forward, and pushed it into a tall iron safe. He turned the key clockwise until a clicking sound could be heard. With a tug, the door to the safe opened, and Rykoth reached in, pulling the shroud into his arms.
Almost immediately, the shroud came to life. It was angry. Vengeful. It had been locked away, with not a master to control it, and now it wanted the Irish Vampire. At first he tried to control it, but the strength overwhelmed him. The shroud wrapped around Rykoth, at first as normal, but then, the cloth tendrils wrapped around his body, until nothing could be seen - and darkness consumed him as the shroud's coccoon took him.
Pyres burned, lighting arrows as they were fired into the sky. Steel rang as bodies hit the dirt, blood caking the battlefield. Warriors - pale, blue woad, scant clothing let alone no armor. They did battle with others. Romans, perhaps? Aye, the Romans, with their spears, shields, swords, horses and armor. Romans, with their civilized ways, infringing upon... the realization struck. Rykoth found himself among them, standing amongst the Celts. Why? Yet despite the wondering, despite the confusion, he found himself hollaring a blood curdling battlecry as he rushed into the fray. He cut Romans down with a hand axe he wielded, cutting, slashing, and ripping at their throats. A primal fury.... a primal rage...
Rykoth's eyes opened as he sat up in the basement. He felt something flowing through him. Adrenaline? It was not rage... but an understanding. He felt something different. Something new. He looked about for the shroud, yet it was nowhere to be found. Where did it go? He ran up the stairwall, and into the main hall, where he looked into a mirror hanging against the wall. He focused, willing his reflection into focus, and he stepped back at the sight before him.
His hair, once and always golden blonde was no more. In it's place was the hair of his heritage in Ireland. Red. Firey red. Rykoth stepped forward, confusion setting in, yet at the same time a curiosity that sunk deep. He was changing... his mind was racing for answers. He knew so little of his father, hating him at such an early age.
Perhaps it was time to embrace his heritage, and learn more of the family he ignored until they were long gone.
