(open | trades) » Walden's Writing Commissions

He exhibits traits of stoic malice and vast ideals, festering beneath the countenance of a pale man, whose ivory complexion is pulled handsomely across sharply scornful features. He rises to a short inch over six feet tall, possessing a lithe yet broad upper silhouette which is only further accented by the coat of his private military. Ebony hair is pulled back into a single plume, and wisping bangs frame sullen cheeks and draft quietly over a pair of frightfully pale eyes. Cold lips barely twitch, the man's face unreachable by any pitch of emotion. Behest to his occupation, Yuri's upper lip bears a slim scar, coupled with another shallow laceration to his left cheek.

Passiveness cloaks Yuri within a dredge of black; a void, more so, that surrenders him to complacency when confronted with the truth of creation and the concept of divinity. His stoic reservation is unsettling in contrast to his appearance, but his expressionless front is a heavily sedated province on top of an already lax idealism. He fights when provoked, defends where needed, feeds where required, and speaks when proper. His reactions are mechanic, the basics of mortal function, but within is a mind warped and corded with a festering hunger and driven desire, a man - if one could call him such - that bides his time and will with an impressive tool of patience. His prolonging silence is often unnerving, though Yuri's few words are spoken with a low and heavily-accented voice; one immensely suited for singing, as is rarely proven by his hobbyist humming and opera.

Beware the man's obsession, for the vampire's attachment is hard to shake.

Here be the festering remnants of Heinrich Ereksen; conniving, brooding, and ambitious, as is so often the case with last-born. Bearing the grim fortune of clairvoyance, Heinrich's greed and insatiable lust for arcane knowledge fuelled his steep descent into dark magic. A dire attempt at divination ultimately destroyed his mortal body, and pulled his soul taught, moulding over with seething pain and shadow. The cruelty and sadism that once constructed his corporeal body had become dense and swollen, expanding tenfold in tandem with his new, suppurate form. Though he often maintains the distorted glamour of his former self, his true guise manifests as that of a stag or antlered being, modelled after the very creature Heinrich had chosen to sacrifice for power. Centuries of self-loathing have transgressed into a hatred of all life, and the Black Stag reflects such by offering glimpses of a dark future to those unfortunate enough to pass him by. He shows that which he knows the recipient will truly regret seeing, and their descent into madness provides but only brief respite from his ceaseless detestation.

A tall man stands upon a refined posture and walks with a respectable gait, though his subtle and graceful movements grant him a gentle, modest demeanour. A complexion of warm ivory is pulled over soft, yet defined features, though shadowing ever-slightly around a pair of deeply set, hazel eyes. A head of dark-blonde hair is usually kept neat, though his jawline may sometimes bear the shadow of impending facial hair.

Julian is always well-dressed, though his tastes are peculiar for modern times and one might question his choice of tailed coats and neck-ties. He walks perfectly comfortably, though he is sometimes accompanied by an ornate walking cane. Of course, this is no icon of a limping man, but rather the catalyst of a remarkable sorcerer.

If one were to look upon Julian's bare torso, the surface of the first of his many secrets would be made known: a series of root-like scars, growing and spreading from the left side of his chest and sprawling across his abdomen and part of the way up to his shoulders, eventually fading into healthy flesh. A peculiar sight, indeed, though not quite hideous.

-

Julian Ashworth is a man who no one truly remembers, but who everyone has always remembered. He is a figure of peculiar origins, of whom no one is old enough to know the story of his sudden appearance, nor the date of his arrival at that strange, lonesome house. What is known is that he is a kindly, charitable gentleman, whose face perfectly matches the gentle warmth that blesses passersby. Though always properly dressed (in a manner that is perhaps a little out of this time), he could be called an almost-hermit, for he seldom strays from the quiet of his home, and isolates himself a little more than one might deem healthy.

Within the walls of his seemingly home, Julian's true identity unfurls. He is what one might call a magician, or mage, or warlock, or trickster. He is a man of many mysteries and secrets, and recites enthralling incantations and chants so that they might unravel as miracles to the naked eye. Spells of healing, transformation, and teleportation are each perfectly common within Julian's small world, and by trade he presents himself as an artificer of sorts; a craftsman of intricate, magical objects.

Though the man keeps mostly to himself, he is a terribly kind and polite individual, of whom holds his small camaraderie with the greatest care. Long-acquainted with the world of fairies and magic, his age and skills are vast and rarely matched. He eagerly teaches magic to those who wish to understand it.

"I told you this was a bad deal, man!"

"Shut up and move!"

The heat from the furnace below their feat was nauseating, and sweat lacquered the foreheads of both men as they careered down corridors of steel. Bustling sounds of the city above overlapped with the rumbling of the machinery surrounding them below, swelling into an ear-bleeding chorus of cogs and machinations. However, even amidst the cacophony of machinery, there was little ignoring of the heavy footsteps which bellowed in the vents, nor the guttural snarls which followed them.

The smaller of the two men tumbled over his own feet as the grated catwalk dipped slightly beneath him, choking as the air was knocked out of his lungs by corner railing. Adrenaline saw that he recovered quickly, reaching for the crowbar nestled in the strap of his backpack as to try and force away the lock which held the furnace door shut.

"We should have fucking listened to him, and you know it!" Saliva spat like venom from chapped lips, foaming as he pushed his small weight fruitlessly against the bar. "He knew what was fucking down here!"

"I said shut up!"

The larger man shoved his partner away from the door, replacing him with his own weight and strength. The bar came free with little resistance against his bulk, and the door swung open with a painful creak, accompanied by the flashing of red lights and screaming alarm.

A gurgling howl cried out somewhere behind them.

In a bid of flight, the runt squeezed his way between the other and the doorway, his breath hitching as he fled towards a tiny array of lights at the end of the walkway.

"The elevator -- it's here, c'mon man!"

Sudden gunshots almost startled him from his feet again, and a quick glance over the shoulder saw that his partner was close to being completely obscured thick fog. Though the brute's silhouette covered most of the passage, a second shadow had since appeared.

A sharp, canine-like yelp followed the final gunshot, and the second figure staggered backwards as the man pushed away to resume his sprint. The other had thrown himself into the elevator, and held his trembling fingertips against the panel of buttons as he awaited his partner with terrified impatience.

"Hold on!" The low voice did nought to suppress his quaking, and his eyesight flickered back towards their pursuer, his lip quivering as it regained its vile pace towards them.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered, his voice small as he shook his head, pushing the button and allowing the doors to close. "I'm sorry!"

"No, no -- wait!"

His partner fumbled towards the closing elevator, his eyes alight with desperation. The shadow caught up to him before he could even attempt to jam the doors, straddling his back and slamming him gruesomely against the shutters. A small scrap of his hood had torn away, posting itself into the elevator as it rumbled to life.

The remaining man stood flush against the wall, curling his skinny fingertips against the control panel as it lagged to move. Nightmarish sounds emanated from only a few feet away, muffled only by the closure of the metal doors between them.

"Come on, come on!"

The elevator jolted heavily as the motors kicked into life, reducing the man to knees. His crowbar clattered to the floor and its rusted edge lacerated the flesh of his arm, flicking a thin mist of blood across the corrugated surface. He hissed sharply through his teeth, clutching his forearm tightly. The pain was bad, but the dread in his eyes told of a different fear.

"Oh no..."

His stomach sank with the rising of the elevator, and he held his breath as to listen to what lay outside. The crunching and grinding of teeth had fallen silent, rendered still by the scent of new blood.

At first, there was no sound, other than the churning of chains and cogs as he ascended from the bowels of Paradiso. But then it came; a low growl, distant at first, that grew so violently in its intensity that he barely noticed as his carriage began to shake and crumple. The man screamed a voice of true fear, beholding the light above as it burst into sparks and the ceiling as it was torn away by claws unimaginable.

"No, no!"

His wailing only fuelled the beast's primal hunger.