Talyndre Ama'thas

Dusk rolled over into nightfall, and a lone hunter strode through the ashen forest, head bowed and back straight, his hand curled against the smooth, hard shoulder of a sturdy, young gelding. The dark horse made not a sound, save for the steady huffs of breath gradually growing visible in the cool, evening air, and the steady grind of each of their footfalls in the dead leaves through which they walked. The hunter, likewise, moved in a seeming silence that was really only skin-deep.

Brittle bones left behind. That’s what they were. At one time, he knew, they were bright and golden, flecked with red, like those that had thrived out in the gilded acres of Eversong for as far back as he could remember. But everything dies, one way or...

And so she stayed. His borrowed room was dark by the time his pulse slowed and her feather-soft breaths evened out against his skin. There was no denying the warmth of her, curled up inside of his beneath the half-hearted cover of the quilt on which they lay.

The weight of her head on his arm felt like trust he had no business having, and yet there it was all the same. Had he meant for this to happen when he’d suggested they bring their late night meal upstairs? It wasn’t often he did anything without forethought, without a plan. Survival instincts honed over decades had never failed him before.

He sometimes thought that’s all he was. A series of instincts incarnate- to eat, to sleep, to live, to kill. To seek connection where...

Talyn liked drawing faces. If one were to flip through his sketchbook, among the few pieces involving wildlife and a handful of more abstract shapes, the faces of those around him were what they’d see most of all. 

He especially liked that unguarded expression people tended to wear when they felt nobody was looking; a blacksmith hard at work, or a mother watching her children at play- couples lost in the moment with one another during a stroll through the gardens, or arguing with a heat that only lovers can wield. Free from the everyday illusions people wore in place of their real feelings, it was the kind of thing charcoal and paper were made for. Just as it was the kind of thing he couldn’t really grasp beyond the marks on his...

The man’s breath panted hot against Talyn’s ear, filling his nostrils with the scent of whiskey and pain. They were a pretty common cocktail, served up on the regular in that particular corner of the Row, where he’d often spent his nights in search of a little coin.

In the beginning, he’d thought it easiest to exist where he didn’t really exist, to blend into the faded edges of their bright and beautiful City. He was a born scout who’d found his footing with the Farstriders as soon as he could enlist- only to eventually lose it (but that was another story). He hadn’t yet mastered the art of hiding in plain sight, when he’d first taken to the streets.

So it had been a strangely natural progression, going from...

((****WARNING: Violence, torture, blood and gore. Sensitive themes as well!****))

Originally posted by trappixi

The slow patter of rain sounded hard against the brittle remains of the awnings, riding on every gust of wind.

Drip-drip, drip-drip.

Sheltered just barely within the skeletal remains of the ramshackle cottage, a lone silhouette moved in a slow, steady pace, loose-limbed and glinting metal each time he stepped through the lone light-source.

It wasn’t a typical place for him, though it had its own appeal. Situated far from Silvermoon, it lay off the few beaten paths that remained where the weathermancers’ magic no longer reached, in the charred heart of the Blackened Wood; a damp, dark space that only just supported the...