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Disclaimer : I wrote this piece during a time when Tempest is trying to defy a fate that was set in stone long before his exile from Minrathous. It is a scene of self-mutilation and a vague grasp at his older memories.
Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in again.
The process repeats to calm his nerves but it never seems to work. The bundle of nerves continued to send a shock to the pronged foriegn objects that stuck out from his back. How very ironic that they were to break his skin now and arch so high and proud. How very much he hated them for existing. He hated them for making a mockery to every choice he had ever made--as if nothing in his life mattered.
For these large white gossamer wings to even exist would mean that in some way--somehow--his father and the cultists that once stood around him were correct. It meant that one day, very soon, Tempest would be destined to create a paradise of his own and in that paradise he would be destined to bring forth every soul that helped to guide him into this majestic being. It meant that his life and freedom, no matter how hard he struggled to declare it otherwise, was nonexistent. He was a slave to the premeditated machinations of others, who were not even truly seeking the greater good in anything but rather attempting to obtain an eternal bliss through selfish means.
He could still hear the laughter in their voices. Just a boy then and not hardly reached the double digits. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he showed promise through his magic -- at the time. He heard the chanting and the taunting over and over again in his mind. He felt his flesh burn from the ritual brandings. The hot iron stuck to his skin and sizzled its surface raw like bacon fat. It burned so much that the pain struck him nauseous and dizzy. Hot tears scorched his cheeks when he cried and his body bathed in the hissing steam of his own burning skin. The burns on his back were much larger and they spared no little to the imagination of what was to break free, when the time of maturity came...or maybe it was the time of self-awareness. The scabbed wings would remain a curse for him to carry. It was done to forever mark him ugly but desirable. Holy and still tainted.
Crying out through the darkness, he called for his father. He shouted and called for him until his voice broke from the screams. His stubby fingernails clawed at the emptiness and poor lighting; trying to reach him. Trying to grab his cloak and beg for anything--any piece of salvation that could be of any sort except for this. Anything; anything but this fire! Though the man who stood before him was his father; he too, wore a mask just like the rest of the cultists around him. His father stood so very tall and frightening to him while Tempest struggled in facing his fear of him and yet still pleading for his mercy. He remained just a boy--alone, stripped and chained to a table used for blood sacrifices, rituals and the like. They had not even been done by far, for after the Demon of Greed was forced into him, through this exercise, the cultists believed they could “control” the creature within him. Years of even more strange tortures had been what followed after that.
Such was the kind of lunacy that the wings insisted was necessary for him to exist as he does now. It was what ‘created’ him to be who and what he became. For that, Tempest wanted the wings erased. He never liked the implication of his future being decided for him or to have it predicted. Those ideas took the control out of his life; which was -- and always would be -- his own.
So, Tempest stood with a desired goal and a problem. He wanted the wings removed. He detested them so much that he was desperate to rip them out from the scarred flesh of his back. However, this was also a dilemma; for he could not see a way to do it. Tempest only had one hand to grip the wings with. His left hand was cut off through battle, and the stubb of his wrist was shapen into a hook. How does one do it by themselves when they were unable to even grab the unwanted appendages? He’d have an easier time asking someone else to yank them out--which still leaned more on the preposterous spectrum of Tempest’s situation. Yet, regardless of which that he’d choose (be it himself or asking for help), Tempest would still have to break the bones of those massive holy wings at their base against his back.
Previously, he stood at the edge of a cliff and arched his right wing at a high angle. Taking the plummet and twisting his body into the air, the only thing that Tempest could do was hope that he would have landed at the exact angle needed to break the bone where he had wanted. The pain shot like fire through his nerve endings and stirred even deeper against his sensitive back. The flashes of red blood and a seering white blindness managed to immediately empty all other thoughts from his mind--except for the pain. The howl that Tempest gave in that moment still seemed to echo in his ears even in this current moment; which in truth was now rendered to silence and heavy breathing. He wasn’t even sure if he managed to accomplish the task or not. For now, all he felt was pain.
Breathing in. Breathing out. Breathing in again.
He cursed between clenched teeth and in a language that still remained foriegn to his own tongue. The wings behind him were displayed outward and twisted behind him. The blood he was coated in all was his own and in response, his dark miasma reacted to initiate bloodmagic. His body remained laying among the jagged rocks in such a manner that it was a wonder how muscle and limbs managed to escape the fate of getting impaled.
He was a sickening creature; an innocence that was tainted before his eyes could truly open to the rest of the world. So, he was ruled by vengeance. Tempest didn’t want the ability to create his own paradise. He would rather live in his own Hell. He would rather drag down every monstrous cultist to his reality of damnation. He would scorn their selfish wishes by simply existing as an imp who refuses to learn of his people’s traditions, their languages, and writings. They could all sink to his sense of stagnation, and Tempest would writhe like a mauled beast in heat, just to see their futures tortured for an eternity.
His eyes opened as the pain centered in a blazing throb at the center of his back. Broken foriegn bones and bruised to bloody flesh almost seemed to cry out, “Why” in anguish and abusive trauma. However, Tempest refused to become some prophecy-made-reality and he refused to fade from existence for simply not fulfilling the wishes of demon worshipers. What was done to him was unforgivable and Tempest was preparing himself -- even destroying himself -- to fight in any way that he could. For now, all that he could do was stare up at the storm clouds that were rolling by. For now, he could only shift his focus to each grey anomaly and gather his strength to try again.
I’m rather popular so I go by many names. But you may call me Tempest since its the most common one. 2. What is your real name? *Grins* If I told you, I’d have to kill you. 3. Do you know why you were called that? My real name? Aye. My mother had an ancient blood-tie linked to some fat adulterous nobleman who she tried to revitalize a form of honor through cursing me with name. Which is pretty ironic with all things considering now. 4. Are you single or taken? Single and ready to mingle, mate. 5. Have any abilities or powers? Oh, absolutely! And I have even more in the bedroom. 6. Stop being a Mary Sue. Hah! I can assure you I am all 100% masculinity in its rawest form. 7. What’s your eye color? Blue. 8. How about your hair color? Black. 9. Have you any family members? Aye, and I intend to kill every single one of them… or at least those that are cultists. 10. Oh? What about pets? I never heard of any animal swearing themselves to a False God or using bloodmagic in some devious ritual; so I guess they would mostly be safe from me. 11. That’s cool I guess, now tell me about something you don’t like. What I don’t like? Not much… Cultists… Pedophiles…. Um… Hypocrites. Pompous Nobles… So… People! Aye. I don't like people in general of the Higher Class. 12. Do you have any hobbies/activities you like doing? Drinking, one night stands, stage entertaining, threesomes, foursomes, fivesomes, exceedingly high number of somes, dancing, physical raw indulgences, immersive passionate activity, fighting, ---have I mentioned f***ing yet? I really enjoy the occasional f***ing. 13. Ever hurt anyone before? Of course, and sometimes they even enjoy it... 14. Ever… killed anyone before? *laughs* Oh, aye. I have killed a lot of people and I plan to kill a lot more! 15. What kind of animal are you? I suppose a snake? Maybe? I don't know. I haven’t really given it much thought. But I do have two snakes tattooed on my hip so, I may as well own up to the ink. 16. Name your worst habits. What worst habits? I have none! I am a perfect individual. 17. Do you look up to anyone at all? *Scoffs* No. I told you, ‘I’ am a perfect individual. Why would I look up to anyone other than myself? 18. Gay, straight, or bisexual?
I’m straight. I’m so straight my c*ck doesn't even lean.
19. Do you go to school? Not anymore, but I did for a time. I went to Asriel Academy and eventually I dropped out. 20. Do you ever want to marry and have kids one day? What are you, my mother?
21. Do you have any fanboys/fangirls? I’m sure I have plenty screaming my name and throwing their panties when I walk by. It can be a problem being this awesome. 22. What are you most scared of? I don't believe I have any fears. Just challenges. 23. What do you usually wear? It mostly depends on the current occasion or activity. I’m not vain, but I would rather blend in to the appropriate ensemble. 24. Do you love someone? Myself. 25. What's their name? Me. Myself. I just told you… *looks around suspiciously* What trickery is this? 26. When was the last time you wet yourself? If you mean from bodyshots, then the answer would be last week. But that is the point! A bodyshot is poured liquor onto the body for another person to lick or suck off from the exposed skin… I party a lot...or as often as I can. 27. What class are you? (High class, middle class, low class) I was born High Class but Exiled into No Class and for that, my mother’s an Ass Class. 28. How many friends do you have? While I am popular, I only trust maybe one or two people… 29. What are your thoughts on pie?
I love pie! Apple pie, pumpkin pie, fur pie-- I think I’ve had more fur pie than all other pie combined. Of course, I’m not one to really judge any pie as a favorite--they’re all equally delicious. 30. Favorite drink? Aged Tevine Brandy stirred with a wyvern eyeball and small dose of its hallucinogenic poison. I can never find that unless I actually travel into Tevinter. Orlais has something close to that, since they occasionally indulge in wyvern hunts, but the taste just isn’t much like it is at home. 31. What’s your favorite place? It's really a tie between the bedroom or on a stage. I do like to show off. 32. Are you interested in someone? Aye. Always. 33. What’s your bra cup size and/or how big is your willy? Care to find out? *reaches for his buckle and starts to unfasten his breeches* Oh, by the way, you’re going to need a long ruler... 34. Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean? Wait. What happened to measuring my d*ck? Was that not really an interest? 35. What’s your type? Um… Any? *goes back to refastening his breeches and secures his buckle back on*
As long as it's a pair of bouncy tits, a tight snatch and has no problem telling me I’m a God. Just about any would work. 36. Any fetishes? *laughs* Let’s see… Bondage, pain, humiliation, flogging, silk knots, leather, jewelry, filth talk, mud wrestling, waterboarding, choking, spit-roasts, tentacles, added toys, groupies, food, magic, alcohol--Oh, I could go on for days… 37. Seme or uke? Top or Bottom? Dominant or Submissive? I am more dominant by far than I am submissive...and that’s mainly because my stamina and expectations are both exceedingly high. Plus, my upbringing was...rather unique, to say the least. 38. Camping or indoors? Either way, it doesn't really matter to me. I could get it up anywhere. Indoors, outdoors, on a saddle, upside down, around town… so long as sex is involved. 39. Are you wanting the interview to end? Does a varghest have three testicles? 40. Now it’s over! *Chugs down another ale.* Splendid!
In the dark alley of the Obsidian Iles, there were two large groups standing at opposite ends of one another. It was a typical slaver’s trade off, but the only thing was it was an “illegal” transaction. As such, when involved with slaves, one would not think such a thing would exist but it did. Permits were involved, and those permits lead to taxes and those taxes helped the island of pirates and smugglers to thrive. By no means was the island planning for any hostile kingdom take over. It didn’t need to, and it would not be profitable in the long run; but the ones who stood in the island’s ruling positions did wish to keep themselves and their resources defended from others who would steal or destroy what they claimed was there’s. The land was no different than any other in that respect, and the two groups who were in the alley at the moment were worse than thieves. They were traitorous thieves.
The two each had their own personal army and it seemed they remained at an impasse of some sort. All they while that the two leaders were arguing about the price, the guards remained sharp to look around the area. There were maybe only a handful of them at best, and even fewer that knew anything at all about canceling magic, let alone detecting any. Those were the ex-templars who cast their service aside due to lyrium addictions, broken vows, or just plain disagreement with the Chantry’s system. Without a steady supply of their precious blue liquid, the hasbeens were not at their best game, so to speak.
The bickering stopped when the sound of solid boots hit the earth; echoing and vibrating the sound to bounce from wall to the next before dispersing into nothing. The two small armies looked to the direction of the solid thum. The saw tall and heavy black boots that were still wet from fresh seafoam, pants that were only partially soaked from the knees downward, a long slender sword strapped at the individual’s hip, and a heavy coat that hid underneath a white ruffled shirt. It was a man, wearing different forms of jewelry: pendants with secret blades in them, daggers with runes infused at their hilts, and rings of some unknown protection on his thumbs and middle fingers. The man looked like a dastardly scoundrel in his attire; someone just born for stirring up trouble or showing off. He didn’t much muscle on him for a “pirate” of sorts, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in mystery. His hair was short and black. His stubble facial hair looked close to a slightly overgrown five o’clock shadow, and his features from his high cheekbones and slendered nose had shown enough in some extra areas that he was in fact of Tevinter origin.
In any case, he was also an intruder. Neither of the two armies had discussed of bringing such a man, nor to have one to make such an entrance that brought their own arguments to a halt. The two leaders stiffened in their stance and turned their sword and mace towards him instead; quick to rather take their chances with trusting one another against a third party.
“This here’s a private conversation.” The stronger man with the long sword barked at the intruder.
“Relax, mates. I’m just here to make sure the transaction goes smoothly. Guard duty and all that business, you know.” Tempest announced with his hands up in the air.
The bloodmage walked past one of the ex-templars holding a tray of lyrium dust and raked his finger along the tray. Even despite the man in heavy armor started to scowl at his backside, Tempest walked onward as he sucked the dust right off from his finger and looked steadily at the female elven slave, standing between the men. He gave a small noise of approval then -- though questionable to what it was meant for, exactly -- and looked back towards the two leaders in their paused dispute.
“Looks to me you’ve got all the necessities for one helluva party here. Sure you won’t mind just splitting the difference and call it even?” Tempest asked them. The silence grew more while more of the men began to unsheath their weapons as well. Tempest shifted his eyes from one man to the next; still pressing his finger against his teeth. “...Is that a no?...Alright.”
He bit down hard against his finger by then, shedding blood and scraping flesh from muscle. The aura of a bloodmage coated over his form. It was enough to startle some of the ex-templars there; at least enough that they couldn’t remember the right focus to use in order to cancel out that magic’s influence.
The alleyway became a frenzy of fighting. Tempest extended his arm out towards the elven slave and a large rose suddenly lifted from underneath her feet. She screamed as she was being carried up and the petals circling around her; trapping her in a shield of agricultural protection -- even though it was still a tad flimsy, it should have been enough to get her out of the way.
Meanwhile, shouts of “Bloodmage” and swearing to the Maker filled the alleyway as the soldiers poured down against him, Tempest unsheathed his blade and fought with both magic and sword. He fought with ease against the basic warrior soldiers; the ones who had no magic skills at all. He tricked most of them, using his blade’s attacks to grasp their attention while his hand holding the actual sword was more focused with summoning roots to push up from the ground. These roots either instantly impaled his attackers or ensnared around their feet to trip them, and then slinging them against the walls of the alleyway.
The ones who knew little magic, Tempest in contrast actually attempted to apply his swordsmanship towards; which had improved over the years from being in war against other slavers and Magisters in general. He was easily able to slice at the neck, block an attack to find an opening and kick his enemy away, only to turn around and using a slightly weaker bloodmagic spell to rejuvenate himself from whatever damage he may have inflicted. He was carving his way through the bloodshed, turning mortals into fountains of crimson that soaked the sand at their feet. The bodies piled up fast and Tempest laughed from each murder, finding it growing even easier than the last with each challenger who rushed towards him. By the time he came to one last man, he found him on his knees. His current enemy was shaking and mumbling numerous prayers to Andraste which only seemed to tickle Tempest a little more.
“Come on. Stand up.” He said with glowing eyes and turned his hand with power to cause the root to coil and stab, sewing a path up the man’s leg. “It can’t hurt that bad. Ignore the pain. Use it! Abuse its limitations!”
The man only hollered more from the fresh pain he was given and the fear of the red aura reflecting off from the bloodmage. Until he could not stand the pain anymore, he reached for his dropped sword and turned the blade upon himself. The double edge tore into his fingers as his tight grip slipped from blood and sweat, but only a little as he shoved its tip as hard as he could into his own chest.
Tempest looked at him with surprise and amusement, reaching down to the hilt of the man’s sword and finally granted him the mercy he wanted. Though once his final breath had gone away, so had the look of a demon beginning to dwindle away. His thoughts collected as he looked around the area, seeing the bloodshed of so much death and it practically bored him and quickly. Tempest lifted his hand across the land and made an ariel sweep so that the land would rise and swallow the bodies quickly underground; essentially cleaning up his mess.
“...Its just too easy now…” He mumbled.
He thought about Lasher, the redheaded stalker who chased him and fought with such a stubborn equal need for bloodshed. The fact that he made himself a templar just to find Tempest a second time only made more joyfully ironic. Though those days were long gone, and as far as Tempest knew of the man, he was probably dead or dragged back to Tevinter for a possible arranged marriage of some kind. His future wife would suffer in discovering what kind of devious cannibalistic lyrium addict that Lasher truly was. He was a lost cause, but a fun toy till Tempest grew tired of playing.
Tempest rubbed the blood onto his jacket as the glow from his eyes began to subside. The free-flow of his blood finally began to slow, naturally so the tell-tale of him being a bloodmage had finally vanished as well. He walked back towards the large red flower and used his magic to shrink it back down into the earth. The petals opened up, revealing inside the elven slave sitting on the soft collection of yellow pollen at the center of the blossom.
“And what a pretty fairy you make. I hope you’re not allergic to pollen.” He welcomed her and extended his hand rather than tugging at the leash just yet.
The elf looked around the area frightened and with caution. She didn’t see either army in the alleyway, but there was a lot of blood and the smell of fresh violence had still lingered in the air. Her eyes settled back to the only person that was standing there, seeming to have welcomed her with no visible malice. It was a relief, and possibly of one expressed too soon. She slowly smiled and exhaled as she stumbled forward from the large flower that had been restrained in. Her arms flew open in a gracious hug; believing that he had freed her.
“Thank you!” She exclaimed with almost tears in her eyes. “Thank you so much…”
Tempest returned the hug and breathed in the scent of soap and rushed endorphins. Upon the given reaction, his hands slid down her back and he pressed her slightly closer to himself.
“Oh, don’t thank me just yet.” He said, sliding one hand to rest at her ass and squeezed it teasingly.
The elf gasped and she scooted slightly back to look at him, but she couldn’t push herself too far away (without resorting to violence) because Tempest still had her positioned to stand against him. He teased her again with only this time a mild verbal reprimand and waited for her to have calmed down before pressing his forehead to hers.
“Maybe before long it’ll be me thanking you, aye?” He asked and waited to see a small smile give away from his captor.
That had been all the confirmation he needed, and Tempest acted upon it. He kissed her, shown her what hunger stirred just from breathing in what light arousal had been there (whether spiked form stress or gratitude), and slapped her ass once to make her jump in his arms. Pulling back and dragging his teeth across her bottom lip finally, he turned and reached for her leash to gather in his hands.
“Not here. I’ve got a bath seating four thats waiting on me.” He told her and guided her with him down the alleyway.
While the soldiers below remained at war against the elves, the commotion was loud enough to have reached the tallest tower. The room inside had been almost quiet in comparison; like the calm before a storm. It was always how Tempest dealt with those he intended to destroy--his way of letting them acknowledge that their time has come. In the dim lighting, one such a man was tied and hanging upside down from his ankles. The bindings were vines and roots that had grown into the window; preventing him from casting any spells with his hands.
He glared at the bloodmage across from him. It was almost unrealistic to how he could have possibly been out-maneuvered! He had an army to protect him, he had money, a prestiged reputation, a fortified castle and armor to have kept himself safe. Yet, the man before him had nothing to his name; only of what it seemed like, the silk and satin clothing that hung loosely to his form, and a sacrificial jagged blade to his name. Somehow, his pupil surpassed him; outsmarted him! Now, he was at his mercy; though that had to be an inevitable ending for himself. He would not have been a good teacher, otherwise.
"I suppose this is where you're going to kill me." He finally tested the bloodmage. He was feeling his head throb from hanging upside down for so long anyway that anything was beginning to have become a welcomed experience just to take his mind off the ache.
The bloodmage shrugged some and lifted his blade. He cut the leather buckles that held the man's light mage-armor in place; slicing at the threads until it fell onto the floor in heaps of useless fabric and metal. "No, Oscar. This is where I torture you... for all the sh*t you've ever done."
The older man laughed. His eyes squinted from the fine lines in his face briefly until he suddenly snapped in a furious shout. "You pathetic maggot! I did not create you for things so petty as revenge, Blue Rose! You've wasted your gifts--!"
"Flattery won't get you anywhere, Your Grace." Tempest sliced him across the chest.
Oscar scowled as the blade tore into his flesh. The vines turned him around and before he could take in another breath, he felt another cut slash across him. A third, and then a fourth, over and over until he couldn't keep from shouting in pain anymore. The blood was warm and the pain was searing hot, cascading down his back in thick waves before pouring to the floor.
"You're not mad at me!" Oscar thrashed useless against the bindings. "You're mad at your mother!"
"Oh, I'd say I'm equally mad at you." Tempest quipped behind him and sliced his side; striking a new pain to be released. "Why destroy the Nomads? What was the point? You slaughtered a collection of Andrastian Monks for no reason!"
"I did no such thing!--You killed them." Oscar hollered back and arched away from the pain he was given. When he presumed that Tempest would have slowed down, his bleeding back relaxed. "You... You ran to them... earned their trust... and placed your demons right in their lap. You lead them to their deaths because you refused to come home."
The suggestion itself was ludicrous! Tempest didn't understand it at all; how the man could blatantly throw the blame on others so easily. He knew most Magisters were a bit oblivious to the pain of others, but he couldn't imagine it was this far. He was stumped from the answer that was given.
"You're saying... That it's my fault?" Tempest looked at him in a sneer of disbelief. "I was not even there when it happened--!"
"Exactly. You were gone. Off somewhere else to play. You didn't protect what you tried to keep." Oscar laughed and then started to cough weakly from his laughter. "---And the funny thing is... The funny thing, is that all your efforts are towards a goal you could already achieve; if you'd just grovel for Miriam's forgiveness."
He suddenly felt the back of his hair being pulled in a tight ball behind his head. The vines gave away in their leverage and before the old man knew it, he was being dragged towards the vanity mirror. His lower torso was smashed against the wooden drawers there and that was when he saw Tempest's anger to its strongest ferocity.
The bloodmage had a miasma that coated over his skin like a thin black fog veiled over his form. His eyes were glowing a dark crimson that reflected just a hint of purple underneath--which signified that Tempest's blue hues were still coherent to what was occurring. His hair even levitated slightly; as if the magic he struggled to maintain was threatening to unleash from every fiber of his being. The bloodmage wasn't just mad, he was royally pissed off--a matured anger that Oscar had never seen in the lad before--and Oscar trembled.
"I never--" Tempest stretched and smashed Oscar's head against the mirror in front of them- -breaking the glass. "--EVER grovel... You sniveling insects managed to create a GOD, and now you expect him to fear you?"
The broken glass pierced into Oscar's face. He coughed and spat blood from his mouth. The throbbing in his head increased and all he could do was breathe and stall for his life.
"We expect you serve as Gods do." Oscar wheezed and tilted his head slightly against what leverage that Tempest's grasp would allow. "If you're going to kill me; do it. Deliver me, Blue Rose."
Tempest's upper lip curled from the pet name. How he hated that name; a title that had no true origin in natural botany. Oscar was calling him synthetic; a false human, and it was a mockery to Tempest's own existence.
"Oh, you're going to wish that killing you was all I did, mate." He told him as his vines released from being wrapped around him.
Then he smashed the Magister's face into the dresser next. Oscar tried to brace himself for the impact but he was a split second too late. His blood smeared against the wood and his nails clawed his jagged stubs as Tempest dragged him across the surface. He threw him across the room then, landing his shredded spine against the brick wall. Another whinning escaped the old man and raised his hands to release a spray of hot fire against Tempest.
Tempest turned in a dodge and raised his hands in retaliation--summoning his vines to spring forth to his attention once more. Like thrown spears from hidden traps, the vines and roots jolted upwards and impaled Oscar's limbs, dragging Oscar down flat to his back. He hollered in rage and frustration--a dying old man's bitterness with the inability to cling to his youth as he once had done. He could feel the fire from his own expense spread over the vanity dresser and burn the wood and clothes and a heap nearby.
The flames licked at Tempest's backside. The scars from underneath his clothing was burning from the heat like a memory of the injury that remained fresh. As he moved forward to the the fire slowly grew and spread. It left him with the demonic impression of the Devil, himself. A soul of pure vengeance, hatred and greed.
His raised hand turned, and in response the vines penetrated into Oscar's skin. The Magister began to shout and thrash while vines coiled around his head, producing thorns and piercing his flesh. The vines and roots continue to move within his body, twisting, tearing and forcing their way through muscle and sinew. The skin shown visible ridges from where the vines moved farther up along the man's waist and then into his ribcage. Organs were being squeezed and pierced until Oscar was drowning in his own blood.
A wicked smile spread across the bloodmage's face as he tilted his head and watched the violent spasms that his victim thrashed underneath his power. Oscar managed in a frantic fit to at least roll to his side and hug himself in the fetal position; hollering, gagging and vomiting blood in his agony. It wasn't enough for Tempest though; not for everything the Magister had done to him when Tempest was a child--it never would have been enough.
Though, when it seemed like Oscar casted Tempest a glance and muttered a gurgling rasp, Tempest believed that he was about to beg for his life. Deciding that would too have been an amusing anecdote, he flicked his wrist and the summoned the vines to cease in their twisting from within the Magister's flesh.
"Do you have something you wish to say? An apology, perhaps?" Tempest taunted in a voice that seemed to command a source of begging to speak.
"You walk the path of the Dead, Blue Rose. A path I do not wish to know." Oscar coughed and spat up more blood as he curled along the floor. He stared at the puddle that already was pooling around him. "The road is paved with the corpses of your loved ones under your feet; ...and it matters not if you... can even recognize their flesh."
Tempest frowned in disappointment. He glanced down then and started to reach back for the forgotten blade in his other hand. He marched closer; dragging the end of the blade against the floor as he walked.
"Perhaps their souls will matter." Oscar laughed in spite of himself and then turned along the floor as he looked up at Tempest. He started to smile then, and pointed at him. "Their spirits will haunt you forever. I will haunt you... for an eternity."
Tempest grimaced and raised the jagged blade above his head. With great force, he brought the blade crashing down into the man's chest. He raised the blade again and stabbed him a second, time, and then a third. Soon the stabbing and hollering just seemed to blend together with one another; as though the ends only pulled forth a new beginning. Tempest couldn't control his shouting or his laughter at that point--losing his mind.
It just wasn't enough! It was never enough! The man needed to bleed more; shout in agony more! More! More!! His flesh needed to be torn against the walls, splattered in beautiful patterns of death across the portraits, and roasting in clumps within the fire- -like the pig that he was.
Tempest didn't stop when he was covered in the other man's blood or when his dying screams pierced Tempest's eardrums. He couldn't. It was as if Vince--the demon--had taken full control and delight in the murder--and Tempest didn't mind one bit. He laughed out loud, and in his head; filling everything with the madness that consummed him. The bloodmage's arms were tired. The Magister's body was leaking red blood like a soaked dishtowel trying to mop up too much red wine. Tempest finally slumped in his victory, still chuckling and mocking at the dead smile that was reflecting back at him.
"Haunt me then." He spat at the dead body and with shaken hands, gripped the sword to plunge it into the man's neck for good measure.
Finally... A small voice was pulling towards him; as if it was being spoken from underwater. Tempest flinched from the sudden physical touch, and was abruptly pulled to one side. He looked, and for a moment, only saw enemies around him. But a split moment proved himself wrong. The person standing next to him was a frightened young elven woman. Of course, Tempest recognized her as Fawn, the city elf that helped him during the uprising in Orlais.
Her large brown eyes looked as if they were on the brink of tears seeing him in this state. She reached up and touched his cheeks; trying to wipe away the blood.
Tempest could only look at her and tried to still her hands. He couldn't have her worry over him when her cause was still in a great need of her. He was human. He would have only been in the way, making her look bad and dragging her down. Tempest knew this--and he didn't want to be in the way.
"They're going to call for reinforcements. You need to get your men out of here." Tempest told her quickly.
"I'm not leaving you--" Fawn started to say but the sound of foot steps came to the doorway, and she and Tempest looked towards the entrance.
"Fawn!" A city elf called and looked to Tempest in a quick accusing gaze.
After all, he was human in a war of elves against humans, and he was covered in blood. There wasn't a needed explanation for him. Before Tempest or Fawn could react the war-ridden elf readied his bow and unleashed an arrow. The arrow lodged into Tempest's neck. He stumbled in a gurgling gasp, reaching for the arrow, but it was lodged in too deep.
Fawn screamed and reached to hold Tempest up. However, the elf with the bow unleashed another arrow and this one lodged into Tempest's left thigh. Fawn screamed more; ordering for the other elf to stop. But Tempest couldn't hear the words. He couldn't even see because he was suddenly dizzy from the pain. All he could feel was the fire around him and the arrows lodged into his flesh. He crumbled, dragging himself down along Fawn's body until he hit the floor.
Then everything went dark...
He was cold. Everything was cold. The fire was gone. There was an annoying buzzing sound ringing in his ears, and something tickling his skin. Tempest didn't know how long he had been laying there, but it was finally long enough to recognize that the annoying buzzing sound was the sound of flies. The tickling sensation had been the tiny fuzzy legs of those pesky insects.
He remembered this stench too. Rotting flesh. Everything pulled memories back to when he was involved with the Slave Wars as a General, herding dalish elves into cages and fending off other slavers who would have stolen what his army acquired. Such a place turned into a frozen hell that focused on survival and evolved into satanic cannibalism. Tempest's stomach churned from the memories, but he didn't have the strength to hurl anything from his stomach. And that was assuming if there had been anything even in his stomach!
His head throbbed from the demon's voice shouting at him. His eyes opened and Tempest focused on an ugly sight of Oscar's grotesquely pale and bloated expression of twisted horror staring back him. Tempest couldn't even scream from the fright. He was so shocked and so weak that when he rolled, he fell and gravity pulled him down. He didn't know where he was rolling to until he landed onto solid ground, staring at the dirt and gravel.
That was Oscar. Tempest killed him. He was dead. Oscar was dead and Tempest lived.
"Son of a bitch..." A voice grumbled and the sound of the cart stopped.
Tempest slowly lifted his head, but not too much because of the sudden soreness from moving his. neck. He looked up to see a cart filled with dead bodies--both elven and human--being pulled by one donkey and an ass of a man with a bulbous snout. The man seemed equally shocked as Tempest.
"Maker's Balls! A necromancer!" The man exclaimed.
"No..." Tempest rasped, feeling his voice scratch like sandpaper. "Just a soldier."
The bloodmage cautiously reached up towards his soreness and traced something foreign, long and protruding, and he realized slowly that he was shot. He had an arrow in the side of his neck, that dipped low towards his collarbone--not an easily healed wound. More than likely it was infected. He looked down and saw he also had an arrow in his right hip, and an arrow in his left thigh. The memory of that elf with the bow must have shot him three times instead of two! Tempest wasn't really all that clear as to how he was still alive! Maybe it was the padding if his clothing, or the pressure against those said injuries, or maybe the cold climate around here slowing down the flow of blood. Maybe even magic. Tempest honestly didn't know. Whatever the reason, he was alive and he looked like the dead.
"Animated corpse then? Wait. Corpses don't talk." The man fumbled and started to mutter in fear while Tempest slowly moved on wobbly legs to stand up. "Oh, please! Maker--please--don't hurt me!"
"I'm not going to hurt you." Tempest reassured him as calmly as could, for someone still in a lot of pain.
The bloodmage reached for the feathered tip of the arrow in his neck and grunted in a quick shout as he tried to break off the feathered end. He failed and fell towards the cart. The driver in turn, wailed in fright and rushed to his driver's seat. Tempest had to climb over the piles of bodies to reach the man; gasping onto his shirt and pulling him down.
"Calm down! Calm down... I'm not going to hurt you, I said." Tempest repeated and winced as the pain from such abrupt movements was catching up to him. "I need you to take me to Skyhold."
"Okay... Okay, Okay. Just don't hut me." The man begged.
It was the last thing Tempest had even thought of doing. He didn't know where he was, and the man did nothing to him. He just wanted to reach a place that was familiar; to see people he recognized and knew who would have welcomed him.
Though, when he did eventually reach Skyhold, Leliana had been the first to rush from the castle and stared at him in shock. Naturally, Tempest couldn't get the arrows out, so of course she would have been frightened. How so much, Tempest hated that expression on her face right then.
Mixed emotions stretched across Leliana's face as she ran to him; almost as if she would have embraced him. However, she stopped short of a foot away and slapped Tempest hard across the face.
"Where the hell have you been?" Leliana demanded him and fisted her hands at her sides.
"Out for a stroll--" Tempest started to say until he was slapped hard across the opposite cheek next. He winced and opened one eye to look at her fuming anger still.
"No one goes 'out for a stroll' and comes back with arrows in them!" Leliana mocked him a little and folded her arms bitterly.
"The Herald does." Tempest glanced towards the castle briefly and soon winced away before another strike could connect to his face.
This time Leliana's hand struck his shoulder instead--which wasn't as bad, but still, Tempest winced and tried to plead for peace all the same.
"Lass," he pleaded, "I don't mean to complain, but I do have arrows in me, as you've kindly pointed out. Please, stop hitting me?"
"Come on. We're getting you a healer so I can pulverized you more." Leliana grumbled and yanked on Tempest's ear as she turned and walked around the courtyard towards the medical area of the place. All the while, Tempest wincing and pouting pathetically behind her.
She was tied down by silk sashes. The cloth wrapped around her ankles and wrists to the four corners of each bedpost. Her body was positioned comfortably in the center of the mattress and resting on her hands and knees.
To be fair, the man wanted her comfortable. He was not this demented, he'd tell himself, and arguments to the fact would ignite in his mind. Replayed images of other occurrences would haunt him --each with a rekindled delight, simply to prove how far deep that he lied to himself. The man tended to argue with himself a lot--or rather with his other 'self' a lot. Either way, it didn't matter because of the here-and-now. Here, he Now was, and he wasn't the one truly making the demands. In this case, he answered to them.
Her brown hair fell from the crown of her head and around in thick wavey curls down each side of her face. Her eyes were a tad squinted and bright green--a natural Starkhaven or Ferelden trait that the man had noticed to occur. He had known many women, and while he wasn't truly picky in looks, he had to admit that he enjoyed the way those bright emeralds were sizing him up. The look of anticipation--the glitter--the lust, he could have reveled in it if he wasn't too cautious to have the woman wait too long for him.
"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, then?" She questioned while nibbling on her bottom lip. The slight nervousness that seemed to creep in her accented voice; turning it a bit raspy.
This made it difficult to determine her origin. The man would almost bet his lucky sovereign that she was a tad bit Ferelden.
"I don't believe I gave you permission to speak, lass." He responded almost nonchalant and with an amused tilt of his head.
He was slender and rugged-looking; the kind of man who seemed to only gain muscle from being on the run and a dark five'oclock shadow that he allowed to grow a little longer in some places and had trimmed others. He wasn't manicured by any means, but he certainly was easier on the eyes than most of the crew he accompanied at times. At least, he thought so.
He watched her smile broaden and her chin lift almost in a challenge to his taunt- -despite the fact that she had been tied down in such an exquisite manner just for him. Anticipation. It was weighing heavily in the air between them both and the man was clearly stalling this bittersweet torture. Because, he intended to have some fun in this game too somewhere...
"Speaking out of turn makes you a bad girl," he told her and took the lit candle from the nightstand before approaching her left shoulder; climbing onto the side of the bed, "and bad girls need to be punished."
"That's what I--" A sharp gasp erupted from her throat as something extremely warm and thick slid down her spine. The man seemed to have taken an even brighter delight at watching her back arch from pouring hot red wax over her light peached skin. "--T-Tempest!"
"Aye?" He questioned in a hidden chuckle and turned the candle over the small of the woman's back next.
He dripped more candle wax there, earning another pleasured writhe from her, a sigh and a shiver. She was responsive, and Tempest certainly enjoyed that--practically fed from it. His blue eyes tempted his own desires by staring at traces of where the wax touched between her skin, the lace of her undergarments and dripping over her shoulders towards the the swell of her breasts once she arched forward and away from him.
"You know this could all end if you just say the word." He reminded her and leaned towards her ear.
"Mm. Don't you dare." She teased back in delight before turning to kiss him. His chuckle was soon muted between the exchange.
A voice itched in the back of Tempest's mind like a tick. He didn't want to rush this experience, or to have been too rough. Though before he could even control himself, his left hand already moved of its own accord. He struck her matching buttock from as far down as his could reach. The sound of his cupped hand surprised even himself. However, the guessed action seemed to have been a correct one, for she squealed in a giggled fit of delight after her small reflexes jumped against him.
"Harder." She told him as she tore her mouth from his.
Tempest smiled and tilted his candle away briefly while his other hand answered to her wish. Again, the woman coo'ed, and bounced slightly for him.
"Harder!" She demanded and ached for him.
Told you. She likes it. Wants it.
Tempest flinched visibly from the annoying twitch and he clenched his hand into a fist to resist the solid control from being lost again. Vince was not going to ruin this for him--to control his actions--he would not allow it. He could not!
"We're not trying to wake the whole house, lass." He attempted to remind her of their situation with a subtle approach.
"I thought you were a man." She scoffed in a harsh tease and looked back at him in a dare.
That struck a fire in him; pulling at the demon to claw to the surface. Vince wanted to so much now, to have answered this challenge instead. It nearly felt as if he was dying for being held back for so long so far. Gradually, Tempest slipped away into the darker shadows of the room. The candlelight that remained in possession bounced off the broadened toned tan and branded symbol that remained scorched into his left hip. One spider-like scar popped out and around the side of that same waist as he turned to place the candle down on the nightstand. He didn't say anything then, as he took a silk scarf and used it as a blindfold to place over her eyes. She didn't seem hesitant or nervous; at least until the moment that she couldn't see, and when Tempest placed a strawberry to her lips, she inched away.
"Lass," Tempest's smile grew at the sudden shyness and he nibbled at her ear to hear her breath quicken, "You'll have to trust me."
She opened mouth then, and gave a small sigh of relief when finding out that it was only fruit. Once her jaw began to move; however, Tempest's voice quickly warned her.
"Ah-ah. This is not to eat just yet. No teeth." He rasped and his hands sparked with electricity.
It was a slow and nearly harmless pulse that singled the skin. Tempest wanted to test her pain's level of endurance, since she challenged him so strongly. Though at the same time, he didn't want her afraid of him or of what he could do. The tingle coursed from his fingertips and into her body, causing the woman to writhe and moan a muffled tone from behind the berry. His hands continued to travel just inches away from actually touching her. Tempest watched and continue to take in the sight of her delight until his hands traveled lower below her waist. He saw a glimmer of pink liquid soon stain against the otherwise peached complexion of the woman's jawline and chin. It would have happened eventually. The fruit was supple, soft and succulent, but Tempest wanted to seem as if he was at least trying to play fair.
"Uh-oh..." He teased and ran his tongue in a slow lick along the trail of the juice before quickly moving away from the bed. "Looks like someone failed."
He didn't return to her side then; Tempest wouldn't even touch her. Instead, what came was a harsh strike of a horse's ridding crop against the untouched flesh of her seemingly virgin skin. A loud moan was muffled shut from behind the strawberry again, and she arched her back like a cat in heat.
More. The voice in Tempest's head demanded; calling for another strike. Tempest obeyed and watched with pleased amusement to the actions that he pull out of the wanton before him. The voice pushed onward in his mind and grew even louder. More! She likes it. You like it. You like making others bleed. Make her bleed!
He had to admit, that even without the voice in his head--Tempest did enjoy the exchange of pleasure and pain. He wouldn't have been trained to one day become a Magister, otherwise. That sting to senses was a reminder to the soul that the body was alive and there was nothing more important to love in life than life itself. It should have been celebrated and of which to be reminded.
He was striking her faster, now. Not necessarily harder- -much to the voice's awareness and dismay- -but certainly faster. The voice seemed to retaliate with flickering images of flashbacks in Tempest's mind. The images of other slaves and sadism he performed in the past quickly clouded over his sight in order to entrance him, and in response, the bludge to his pants was pressured tightly. A dark chuckle escaped him, and for the brief moment he forgot even his true purpose to have been there.
However, this was a moment that was soon short-lived. The door to the room opened and in the doorway stood a man that was clearly twice Tempest's size in muscle mass. The exiled imperial froze from the bedside and looked up at the burly man; equally slack-jawed in a brief moment of shock. The riding crop in his hand fell limp and Tempest slowly took a step back.
"It's... not what you might think." Tempest tested in a peace offering, while the demon within him was struggling to maintain a hold.
No. He didn't want to kill the man, or much less cause the woman any true painful harm--though to the demon's defense, she still seemed to enjoy it...
"What do you think, I think?" The man snarled and quickly reached for his sword and lunged towards Tempest.
"I think you think that I think I'm dead--" Tempest ducked the first swing; unable to really pay much attention to the woman's sudden screaming now. He looked as the blade wedged deep into on of the bed posts. "My, that's pointy!"
The warrior hollered angrily, jerking his blade free to swing at Tempest again, but the mage twirled away across the dresser. He tried again to speak in a peaceful manner. "There's no need to be bent out of shape, mate. It was just a harmless flogging!"
"Harmless flogging--I'll flog you!" The man chased after him in a blinded rage.
He swung ceaselessly but could never seem to reach Tempest in time. He always struck a wall, or a piece of furniture--tearing down his own house. The dash eventually left the room, and Tempest made it into the hallway. He leaped down the stairs and made a circle around the parlor table just as the warrior rushed down like a battering ram that spun out of control.
"You black-heathenous bastard!" The warrior shuttered and after two rounds around the parlor table--trying to reach the 'slimy fish,' he jumped on top of the table.
Tempest's eyes widened, glancing up at the giant briefly and with a nervous smile, he reached for the tablecloth to give it a strong tug. He did this in the hopes that the man would slip and fall.
"Now, now. Both my parents married before that-" Tempest explained, but ended his word in a grunt from pulling on the cloth with all of his physical strength, "--happened."
The warrior looked down at the trail to where the cloth was under his feet, but nothing budged. He was too heavy--and more-rather too grounded--to have the tablecloth slip from underneath him. Looking back at Tempest then, he snarl grew in even more anger.
He's going to kill you. He's going to kill you--let me kill him. Let me kill him! Kill him!
"D-Damn it, shut up!" Tempest shouted at himself, curling his fingers from underneath the table as he pushed with a leaning leverage in order to flip the table over instead.
This happened just before the warrior came within contact of striking him, and the man rolled to the ground with the table crashing over him. He hollered in his anger and briefly seemed even immobile. This left Tempest almost at a standstill briefly. He felt nearly as if his heart stopped! Tempest had to get out. He had to leave before he actually did die, or killed the man and unleash the abomination plaguing him. Neither outcome seemed appealing.
Come to think of it... How did he get into this mess...? Oh, that's right... Tits.
The man's groan quickly reminded Tempest of his current place and time, so he darted towards the nearest window. Doing a barrel-roll leap, the mage jumped through the window and covered his head with his forearms. He rolled down, down the siding of the second story of the building. Trying to twist his body downward and stretch pit his legs.
A sudden thud, following the sound and feel of cushioned leather hugging his seated form alerted Tempest upon the impact. His eyes popped open and he lowered his arms to look around, and saw that he landed promptly in the saddle carriage of the driver's side passenger. Across from him was his friend Arlen- -a muscled blonde arcane mage--who was just as surprised to see him.
"Fancy me dropping in, ay mate?" Tempest grinned with clear guilt in his expression. "I hope you changed the roster's numbers for the guild by now."
"I... did, but--" Arlen slowly started to answer.
"Good. Lets go." Tempest announced and pointed overhead the horses that were pulling the carriage.
"What we're you doing?" Arlen asked and raised an eyebrow at him, taking in for the first time in that moment that Tempest was in fact naked from the waist up. He couldn't help the light blush that automatically dusted his cheeks then. "And... where's your shirt?"
"You son of whore! You son of a whore!" The warrior repeated after sticking his head out of the window, still shouting at Tempest's spontaneous departure. "I'm gonna kill you, you son of a whore!"
Tempest glanced skittishly from over his shoulder and reached for the reigns to take in his hands instead. "What?--I was busy! We don't have time to play Twenty Questions--Let's GO!"
He cracked the reigns, starting the horses up to a sudden full gallop right afterwards, and the momentum knocked Arlen out of his seat and stumbling into the window of the carriage behind him. The horses whined and sputtered as they were being pushed to race against the rising dawn and out of the village. All the while, Arlen could hear the demented cackle of Tempest's laughter--which seemed to spring up anytime the bloodmage had a rise in his adrenaline levels. One thing was certain, dull moments never lasted around Tempest.
Weapons: Throwing silver knives laced with a sticky flammable liquid when sparked from his rings (thus creating flaming flying daggers); long valaryan steel daggers ejected and fixed into cuffs at both wrists and laced with paralysis poison and can eject further and retract by chained leashes; Retractable blades cuffed and attached to his ankles; occasionally a long blade of obsidian ore; smoke bombs that activate after exposure; acupuncture needles; satchels of poisons, antidotes and rationed treats
Armor: Completely Black Customized Armor suited to fit his expertise needs but bearing the mark of his second name as Nightingale Sparrow (This is not to take on or keep any titles; but to continue his mission for Castle Black under a top secret code)-- Hood and mask of dark leather and silk (hood to help him concentrate to see and mask to filter in clean air from possible smoke attacks); silk cape;. Elemental Resistant suit (meaning safe to a moderate degree of ice, fire, water, and lightening); Each piece is hardened leather-- steal plated with scaled pieces to protect against slashing lacerations--and insulated with bear fur to warn against the bitter cold. There are hidden pockets of coughing-tear gas guarded on the outside of the armor and directed near the vital organs for a quick retaliation to any piercing attack; two golden flint rings on each middle fingers that when sparked, can create flames to coat his flying daggers.
Personality: Wise, logical, believes in equal balance without "good" or "bad" in anything, Patient though born from a once hot-blooded temperament; Sanity-slipping; tends to come off as a bit odd, cold-natured if angry, and suicidal if sad--though not necessarily easily depressed or quick to anger
Strengths: History, Alchemy, Close-Quartered-Combat, Battle Strategies, Old Languages, Philosophy, Depth Perception, Thermal Vision, Warging--"Skinchanging", Fortune Telling, High Tolerance against flames, Moderate Tolerance against the cold/ice, High Tolerance to poisons due to constant exposure; High endurance, flexibility, and speed due to rogue-nature of fighting; Vivid memory and highly accurate vissions
Weaknesses: Strong Lightening; Strong cold/ice; Extremely Strong Green Fire (Wildfire made conventionally); Sleep; immobile during warging--"skinchanging"; Blind essentially; Cannot read unless in carvings or braille; Cooking; Can be effected from sporadic visions that imobile him and sends him speaking in tongues
Likes: Calmness; Peace; Avoidance of the Crown; Freedom; Happiness; Structure; History; Philosophy; Quantum Physics; Alchemy; Learning; Fast Snacks; Beef Jerky; Sweets; Creamed Milk; Berries
Dislikes: Chaos; Vengeance; Gripping Hatred; Slavery; Randomness; Math; Reading; Sour or overly Spicey foods; Tea or any Stimulate that affects the Brain and Heart
Fears: Living alone; Dying without accomplishing something memoriable; Whitewalkers
Personality Song: "Beautiful Crime" by Tamer
From Palegeaus to Psy
The cause of Robert Baratheon's Rebellion was because Rhaegar Stormborn Targaryen, an already married man to Elia Martell of Dorne, kidnapped Lyanna Stark (Robert's betrothed) and tried to keep her for himself. Whether or not Rhaegar and Lyanna were eventually in love, or that Rhaegar only raped her to lay claim was uncertain and scandalous to say the least--which fueled the feud all the more. Lyanna Stark became pregnant during her time of being kidnapped and the labor eventually took her life right when her brother, Ned Stark, came to save her. She had lost too much blood, the child taken from her womb, and the fever from all of it took her completely.
Born during the end of "The Usurper" Robert Baratheon's Rebellion, Palegeaus was the surviving boy from his mother's strenuous labor. He was taken under careful and watchful eye of Lord Varys and his Little Birds to the Free Cities at first. Then there had caught wind of trueblooded Targaryen children being hidden within the same area (Viserys and Daenerys), and so to avoid confusion from Lord Varys's attempts at preserving Targaryen blood and of what dedicated Targaryen Houses wished, he had the small babe transferred to Yingrever that lain Southwest of Riverspring. This was done to ensure a legitimate excuse to check on the boy from time to time as he grew older; because Riverspring was yet another kingdom in close service to the Iron Throne.
House Yingrever adopted the boy under their name publicly and raised him as their own. He was a rebellious youth and quick to anger when growing up--a true violent child with an extremely short temperament. As much as the family tried to love him, they could not protect him from the harsh villagers of the land who mocked of his pale skin and his unknown parents. Of course he lashed out at this; making him all the more angrier as he grew.
The only way to calm him from his furious tantrums was through discipline in training. His first teacher was the young Maester's son, Dracon Yingrever. He had Palegeaus beat by ten years and so he knew a great deal more of teaching to keep the boy satisfied. This lulled into complacency while the Maester of the House, Drake Yingrever, taught Palegeaus the history of each House throughout the Realm. Drake was blind, and believed himself to be too old, so he refused to teach the boy to fight; but he had no qualms with sharpening the boy's young mind.
Then one day around the age of eight the boy decided to ask about his true family. His adopted parents didn't wish to say anything. They were afraid that it may cause more danger than closure. Drake however decided to answer him after many questions. Soon, Palegeaus learned more of the Targaryen family from Drake then anyone else in the land.
Soon after then, a lone traveler entered the village seeking shelter. He asked Palegeaus's adopted family if he could stay the night and they welcomed him into their home. Though; for all their kindness, the stranger revealed himself to be a lasting member of House Blackfyre, a Targaryen House that was believed to have long been eradicated for attempting to overthrow the Stormborn House years ago. It was plain and simple. He was sent there to kill Palegeaus because of his bloodline ties to Stormborn--the next Targaryen Heir to the Iron Throne. He was a bastard decendant; true, though reasonable still to have him killed just because he was alive.
A long battle ensued and the stranger succeeds in destroying the entire home; by burning it to the ground. The stranger almost succeeded in killing Palegeaus as well by throwing a throwing a bottle of wildfire into his eyes. The glass broke and the contents spilled setting his face. In the quick movement, smoke from the fire was becoming too thick to see anyway. The stranger then charged to Palegeaus; but the boy managed to fumble in grabbing a large kitchen knife within the last minute and simply held it up as his predator ran right into it.
The people of Yingraver's farmlands watched as their nobleman's House burned to the ground. They thought for certain that the entire family was burned alive, but the boy didn't. He was not touched by any of the flames, but instead rose from the ashes covered in soot and standing naked and disoriented. Maester Drake took the boy under his wing and tried to nurse him back to full health. This didn't take long except for his eyes; which were damaged beyond repair. Palegeaus was blind. He could not see as well as other people; for him it was only flashes of light and then darkness. Constant darkness.
He felt himself slipping into madness. Grasping to his dreams of memories, to things that he had once seen and now unable to. That was when his powers begin to awaken. Palegeaus began to haven visions of flying to the highest trees, and running fast through the snow. These visions were so vivid that he could feel the coldness in the air; or taste the blood in his mouth from a fresh kill.
Maester Drake knew he had to do something, and though blind himself, he decided to train Palegeaus, himself. For the next five years, the boy endured harsh training from the blind Maester.
Palegeaus's senses heightened. His sight slightly began to return to the point where he could see thermal vision. Palegeaus could see the heat in the body of a person like a flame or a glowing ember. He couldn't make out any pixilated or fuzzy features. Everyone was just a roaring flame with eyes to him from that moment forth. It left him feeling all the more alienated from the rest of the world--distancing himself even further subconsciously.
But Palegeaus could familiarize himself with others far differently now, as well. He could smell the scent of their cologne or the perspiration from a hard sweat. His hearing increased dramatically as well. If he concentrated he could hear a pin drop two houses away. Palegeaus could even hear the heartbeat of another person on the faintest whisper of a spy. So, he became stronger; he also became calmer, learning that leaning on his hatred and his short temper would most likely lead him to a faster death then a longer life.
Then another attack came; those this time it had seemed unknown exactly who had sent them. All that was known for certain was that they were trying to get rid of the bastard bloodline. It was nothing personal; they were simply attempting to eliminate any competition between Palegeaus and the full-blooded Targaryen children who remained safely hidden within the Free Cities. This attack led to another house fire, and again the fire had burned down everything.
Everything except for the boy.
Superstitious and spooked enough, the people of Yingrever did not know what to make of the incident happened happening yet again! Another house fire down to the ground and everyone within, except for Palegeaus, dies. It had not made any sense to them. In their mind's eye, it appeared that Palegeaus was an ungrateful bastard killing off any family who took him into their home. Such accusations were always the cruel fate to bastard sons of low to zero birth rights; and no one in the village thought to even think there had been anything more to it. Why would they; when they were already angry? The villagers demanded justice and sent Palegeaus to The Wall.
Palegeaus was reluctant to go, of course, and was dragged and caged away for the trip in thick iron chains. To Commander Mormont, Palegeaus was young, educational, and still more than a handful against five men in combat. Palegeaus showed his muscle and took his oaths soon after that. In addition to doing so; to make the dedication appear even more real to himself, Palegeaus renamed himself as "Psy" because from that moment, he believed "Palegeaus" was dead. Retrospectively; he often still finds himself muttering clips of phrases about himself to help himself remember of who he was and where he truly came from then.
"Palegeaus Stormborn First in my name; eating my neck to keep me tame."
Although, such muttering was mostly overlooked or teased by others. This was because, when he spoke, he did so in a rather odd fashion if not very insightful.
Psy managed to make it as a Night's Watch Ranger while keeping his blindness a secret. His skill was never really brought into questioning because he was able to laugh at himself if he ever stumbled, and his fighting skill in close-quarter-combat was exceptional due to the fact thar he could see a person's body heat in addition to his enheightened senses of sound and smell. It was at this time, Psy had met Mors Westford and his dog who were already nicknamed as The Butcher. Because the teenager was somewhat young, and he was in his tracking unit under the Ranger Classification, Mors Westford saw after him as if he was the son Mors never had! An unspeakable bond had formed there which seemed as close as any unrelated family member could have been towards another.
After many discussions; Psy had shared with Mors his similar "skinchanging" abilities. Mors took it upon himself since then to make Psy his protege, and taught him everything he knew about skinchanging. This was done because Psy had wished to expand in his abilities and Mors was not impartial to refuse him.
From there Psy remained as his pupil for the next six years. In the remainder of the two years that were leftso far and his life spans, Mors had to leave for recruitment and some other special assigned mission. It was never fully brought to Psy's attention other that it was something on a need-to-know basis. So Psy moved onward to excel in his tracking skills. Commander Mormont had soon recognize this; and sent Psy out for special recruitment later onward in the year. If he could occasionally find any to join The Watch, but more than likely, Psy was sent to hunt and kill those who deserted. From this, he earned the nickname The Dread Night because he tracked his prey down and came as quiet as Death itself--without warning, swift, and merciful of each killing.
By the time he reached the age of twenty; he returned to Castle Black with a few heads of those that deserted from a month's passing. Commander Mormont overlooked them saddened disdain as he always did. He and Psy spoke on those who deserted from time to time and eventually Psy opened up to him about who that he truly was. He showed him the necklace that House Yingrever had left for him. The two inspected it; realizing that the necklace opened up into a map. The map revealed to them of an uncharted island and words it promised were of less than common materials. As such were things Psy wondered if it could deal with destroying the Whitewalkers once and for all. He had seen visions of this, but never spoke.of such things because he knew he would be mocked or shunned.
However; Psy did beg his Commander to allow him the freedom to discover if the islands were real--to see if the source of those materials were real. But Commander Mormont refused quickly and reminded him that his service remained always and completely with the Night's Watch and it's currently more urgent civil disputes. They were needing men and the Wildlings were giving them trouble--such things Psy never was concerned over in the least! Though this was only because he was haunted more-so by his visions; seeing and experiencing-in part-each of their deaths. Psy gritted his teeth to this and frowned at the answer.
Psy debated to go for himself; --true, this did mark him for desertion but at the same time he did not see the logic in remaining to fight a creature that he could not hear breathing; nor see any reflection of body heat. He would die and probably quickly to such a creature--and worse--his life truly would have meant nothing! Upon that night later, he had a vision of his Commander's death. That was all of the extra confirmation Psy needed to go on his own. He slipped away from The Wall shortly after the Commander had left for Craster's Keep; knowing that the man would not survive, but there was nothing he could say or do to talk the Commander out of going. Instead; Psy fed on the opportunity of Commander Mormont's absence; lying through his teeth of his specific orders to anyone who might question him. If ever called out on the lie, he could always claim for them to be his lasting orders until the new Commander had sent a raven to his pressance--which Psy had began to fail in sending letters back due to his visions increasing of Castle Black.
No one seemed concerned for him, and he had still yet to predict that he was either forgotten in the lost pages of their war against the Wildlings or perhaps if ever noticed and reported would soon be marked for desertion (which he honestly did) and then the Hunter would become the Hunted. His only solace was the thought that if he would have to be extremely successful in his current mission. However; if not, then he would have to lean on one other excuse... If he were to find a fellow deserter; he may could rejoin Castle Black with the regular pretense as before since it was his job to find deserters and bring back the or heads. One man came to mind; one man he new everyone would agree was a deserter. Unfortunate that lies upon lies, and careful planning for his good intentions, would lead him to possibly seek out to later kill his predecessor (if he were ever to see him again); Mors Westford; The Butcher.