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Uriel
- Thread starter BoredBrit
- Start date
Auriel_
Lover
totally down, just hmu when ya wanna rp
he'd bool at training grounds
- Pronouns
- She/Her
The_Reaper_Angel
Legend
Sydri has no mention and I saved his life XD
BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
we miss him more and more every day.
BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
He found himself sat at the bank of a clear pond. Its surface was still and perfectly reflected the thicket of white trees of the grove and the odd stony sky that hung above him. For a long time, all he did was sit and stare at the water. It seemed to bring images to him, offering him the sweet promise of what lay within. He saw a great behemoth of stone, pulsating with light. A many winged seraphim beckoned him. But he just sat and stared on.
There was no day or night within the grove, so to say how just how much time passed is impossible, but it did pass. The man sat and stared for what felt like an eternity. A life lived flashed before his eyes like those brief moments when one is waking from a dream. A voice called across the water, singing a lullaby- soft and sweet. Its tenderness caused his heart to ache for its embrace and he found himself on his knees, attempting to rise to meet the voice who sang for him and as it sang, a mist crept across the water's surface.
This mist, this cloud of red and blue, soon covered the pond and obscured the pictures that he saw upon its reflection. Instead, he found himself staring across a mire of reddened fog. The singing faded, but did not leave him. It still pulled and tugged at his heart, begging him to follow, to enter the mists. He took to his feet and stepped forward. A great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, a heavy burden that he had not even known he carried. Freedom coursed through his veins as his feet entered the pool- but that is where he stopped.
He did not know why he stopped. If you were to ask him now, he would have no memory of ever stopping. He'd have no memory of this place entirely. But that does not change the fact that, there in the water, he had stopped amid the mist and the siren song. The peaceful bliss that he had felt did not sit right. It was painted across his face. He was not ready for the call of oblivion, he still yearned for life.
Slowly, the fog of blue and red peeled back and the grove was left in silence. He waded his way out of the water and onto the pond's grassy bank once again. He sat himself down, tears rolling down his face. It had returned- the weight and the burden. But the tears he shed were not of sorrow, they were of joy. He was burdened with life and he meant to live.
There was no day or night within the grove, so to say how just how much time passed is impossible, but it did pass. The man sat and stared for what felt like an eternity. A life lived flashed before his eyes like those brief moments when one is waking from a dream. A voice called across the water, singing a lullaby- soft and sweet. Its tenderness caused his heart to ache for its embrace and he found himself on his knees, attempting to rise to meet the voice who sang for him and as it sang, a mist crept across the water's surface.
This mist, this cloud of red and blue, soon covered the pond and obscured the pictures that he saw upon its reflection. Instead, he found himself staring across a mire of reddened fog. The singing faded, but did not leave him. It still pulled and tugged at his heart, begging him to follow, to enter the mists. He took to his feet and stepped forward. A great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, a heavy burden that he had not even known he carried. Freedom coursed through his veins as his feet entered the pool- but that is where he stopped.
He did not know why he stopped. If you were to ask him now, he would have no memory of ever stopping. He'd have no memory of this place entirely. But that does not change the fact that, there in the water, he had stopped amid the mist and the siren song. The peaceful bliss that he had felt did not sit right. It was painted across his face. He was not ready for the call of oblivion, he still yearned for life.
Slowly, the fog of blue and red peeled back and the grove was left in silence. He waded his way out of the water and onto the pond's grassy bank once again. He sat himself down, tears rolling down his face. It had returned- the weight and the burden. But the tears he shed were not of sorrow, they were of joy. He was burdened with life and he meant to live.
Last edited:
BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
The what
BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
A bit of writing to explain Uriel’s absence. Yes, it’s self indulgent. Sue me.
-=][=-
The foul smell that lay upon the ocean air wrinkled his nose and left a scowl upon his face as he stared out across the shore. He knew what was coming for him and he waited quietly. With a glance to his sides he spotted the others, his brothers in arms. Each of them bore fish hooks and ploughman’s scythes. A few, a very small few, bore shields of wooden planks ringed in iron. His scowl deepened. He knew this was necessary, he was glad they would fight even against such odds with such little training but he couldn’t help but wish he had had more time. He shook his head, there was no time for such doubts and wishes. All that he could think of was the swing of his sword and the death it would bring.
The line braces together. Nervous grumbling passed along the gathered militia. Their enemy had come. A mass of shambling, stumbling forms had emerged from the sea fog. Their death rattles, their lifeless groans, carried across the wind. The men grew fearful and doubt set in. How could they win?
He took one step forward. In his armour, polished and gleaming, he was a vision. To these fisherfolk, he was hope. He called out to each of them and battered the hilt of his blade against the rim of his mighty steel shield. He roared with such ferocity, he bellowed against the horde.
“Hold the line.” He commanded. “Hold it with your lives, or your homes will burn and your families will fall!”
As he spoke, a corona of perfect blue light began to shine around his head. His skin seemed to hold a reddened gleam. Their doubts sank away. As the enemy drew near, they knew no fear.
Soon, it came. That horrifying, beautiful, bliss of battle. The warrior’s moment. As the horde of death slammed against the line of the living, it rippled through them. They yelled out as they cut and stabbed and tore, hooked and ripped. He stood with them. His blade danced before him, cleaving through the dead as they ran into his shield. His white hair ran red with blood. The sand became soaked in gore. Yet, the men did not falter. They pushed and they pulled and toiled against the corpse mass until few to none remained. They broke formation, delivering the final death to the stragglers with grim determination.
They had won this battle, this singular conflict in a war they knew could not end. They fought against a god and they were only mortal. Yet, still they fought in this unending endeavour. Even when their brothers and sisters fell in the shield wall, they took up the formation again and watched the shore for the next wave and the one after that. They stood on that beach and they were vigilant and strong.
When dawn broke, the chaos finally ended. The fell creatures of undeath fled or burned in the light of Synnove and Uriel found the ghost of a smile upon his lips. Despite the exhaustion, the losses and the gore that caked him, he was glad for the respite- he knew his men needed it.
He looked around at the haggard few that had braved the night and survived. He was impressed. Moving forward, he took time to greet each one with a hand on their shoulder and a few murmured words of encouragement. When he saw injuries, his hands flashed briefly and pain faded. One by one, the fishermen headed home to rest and to heal. For when dusk came, they would do it all again.
Uriel had been given an old hut on the village outskirts, it was barely standing when he arrived and fared no better now. But he did not mind. It was a place for him to rest and to recuperate. It was nice to have solitude, as brief as it may be. He removed his armour, piece by piece, and slowly stretched out his arms and legs with a hiss. They ached something rotten. He wondered to himself how many times he had done this, now. He wondered when he would go back- if he would go back at all. These thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock upon the shack’s door.
With another sigh, he stood. The door was opened to reveal one of the village folk. She hugged a rather large bucket of water. Her eyes glanced to the ground. She found it hard to look upon him sometimes, his features were sharper than she’d ever seen and no matter what time of day it was or whether he was caked in dirt or gore, he always seemed to have an odd gleam or glow to his skin. It always seemed to make her heart skip a beat with a flutter. She felt a need to act whenever she saw him- as though she could do anything. Still, she waited for his blessing and shuffled on inside the hut. This was how it had been since the first night he had came. She would fetch water and help him clean his armour. In return, he would tell her of the night’s events. As he sat upon a cot of threadbare blankets, she found herself wondering how he could fight this way each night and never seemed to tire or resent it.
He noticed her grow quiet and thoughtful but did not speak of it. She often let her thoughts drift and he was far used to it by now. He began to clean his hair as he waited and watched her from the corner of his eye. She was young, he noticed, not much younger than he was. He was sure that others would consider her attractive. For even he found an allure to her fair skin and reddened hair. He shook his head in the silence and his lips grew to a small smirk. That was an odd line of thought. New, for him.
When she finally spoke again he gave his answers dutifully and they were thorough and spared no detail. He knew why she was here and wondered why she had still not asked. She would do so in her own time, he was sure. He knew she wanted to build up her courage. So, they whittled away those wee hours past dawn, talking over the nights events. Then it came. The question that had been lingering, unasked, since they met.
-=][=-
The foul smell that lay upon the ocean air wrinkled his nose and left a scowl upon his face as he stared out across the shore. He knew what was coming for him and he waited quietly. With a glance to his sides he spotted the others, his brothers in arms. Each of them bore fish hooks and ploughman’s scythes. A few, a very small few, bore shields of wooden planks ringed in iron. His scowl deepened. He knew this was necessary, he was glad they would fight even against such odds with such little training but he couldn’t help but wish he had had more time. He shook his head, there was no time for such doubts and wishes. All that he could think of was the swing of his sword and the death it would bring.
The line braces together. Nervous grumbling passed along the gathered militia. Their enemy had come. A mass of shambling, stumbling forms had emerged from the sea fog. Their death rattles, their lifeless groans, carried across the wind. The men grew fearful and doubt set in. How could they win?
He took one step forward. In his armour, polished and gleaming, he was a vision. To these fisherfolk, he was hope. He called out to each of them and battered the hilt of his blade against the rim of his mighty steel shield. He roared with such ferocity, he bellowed against the horde.
“Hold the line.” He commanded. “Hold it with your lives, or your homes will burn and your families will fall!”
As he spoke, a corona of perfect blue light began to shine around his head. His skin seemed to hold a reddened gleam. Their doubts sank away. As the enemy drew near, they knew no fear.
Soon, it came. That horrifying, beautiful, bliss of battle. The warrior’s moment. As the horde of death slammed against the line of the living, it rippled through them. They yelled out as they cut and stabbed and tore, hooked and ripped. He stood with them. His blade danced before him, cleaving through the dead as they ran into his shield. His white hair ran red with blood. The sand became soaked in gore. Yet, the men did not falter. They pushed and they pulled and toiled against the corpse mass until few to none remained. They broke formation, delivering the final death to the stragglers with grim determination.
They had won this battle, this singular conflict in a war they knew could not end. They fought against a god and they were only mortal. Yet, still they fought in this unending endeavour. Even when their brothers and sisters fell in the shield wall, they took up the formation again and watched the shore for the next wave and the one after that. They stood on that beach and they were vigilant and strong.
When dawn broke, the chaos finally ended. The fell creatures of undeath fled or burned in the light of Synnove and Uriel found the ghost of a smile upon his lips. Despite the exhaustion, the losses and the gore that caked him, he was glad for the respite- he knew his men needed it.
He looked around at the haggard few that had braved the night and survived. He was impressed. Moving forward, he took time to greet each one with a hand on their shoulder and a few murmured words of encouragement. When he saw injuries, his hands flashed briefly and pain faded. One by one, the fishermen headed home to rest and to heal. For when dusk came, they would do it all again.
Uriel had been given an old hut on the village outskirts, it was barely standing when he arrived and fared no better now. But he did not mind. It was a place for him to rest and to recuperate. It was nice to have solitude, as brief as it may be. He removed his armour, piece by piece, and slowly stretched out his arms and legs with a hiss. They ached something rotten. He wondered to himself how many times he had done this, now. He wondered when he would go back- if he would go back at all. These thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock upon the shack’s door.
With another sigh, he stood. The door was opened to reveal one of the village folk. She hugged a rather large bucket of water. Her eyes glanced to the ground. She found it hard to look upon him sometimes, his features were sharper than she’d ever seen and no matter what time of day it was or whether he was caked in dirt or gore, he always seemed to have an odd gleam or glow to his skin. It always seemed to make her heart skip a beat with a flutter. She felt a need to act whenever she saw him- as though she could do anything. Still, she waited for his blessing and shuffled on inside the hut. This was how it had been since the first night he had came. She would fetch water and help him clean his armour. In return, he would tell her of the night’s events. As he sat upon a cot of threadbare blankets, she found herself wondering how he could fight this way each night and never seemed to tire or resent it.
He noticed her grow quiet and thoughtful but did not speak of it. She often let her thoughts drift and he was far used to it by now. He began to clean his hair as he waited and watched her from the corner of his eye. She was young, he noticed, not much younger than he was. He was sure that others would consider her attractive. For even he found an allure to her fair skin and reddened hair. He shook his head in the silence and his lips grew to a small smirk. That was an odd line of thought. New, for him.
When she finally spoke again he gave his answers dutifully and they were thorough and spared no detail. He knew why she was here and wondered why she had still not asked. She would do so in her own time, he was sure. He knew she wanted to build up her courage. So, they whittled away those wee hours past dawn, talking over the nights events. Then it came. The question that had been lingering, unasked, since they met.
Last edited:
