The Portal
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NOITCERRU
There had been a shift. The birdman had sensed it in the winds. The north, the south, the east and west - all told of transitions, movement in the otherwise dead and decaying land. There was a new pulse, fluttering, inconsistent. It could be the desperate flails of a dimension about to die, to rip itself apart in its death throes. But he, he who glided on its currents, soared the slipstream and rode the up draughts - he knew better. No. He could see all from above. Moisture dotted his broad expanse of plumage like so many colourless beads, slipping down the rivulets of feathers and down to the earth below. Mid Drench was the worst time of year for the male, and the stallion's breath was ragged from fighting the rains. He had flown over every inch of his sick land and was here - here, in the rainforest, that the changes were most evident. Things were changing, mutating, growing in a way they hadn't before. Strange shadows lurked underneath him, the shapes of strangers. The birdman's lips curled. Invaders. Advancers. Raiders. Pillagers. A thousand names for what amounted to the same thing - shifting tides, above and below the water. There was no logic to it, but there never was in the Rift. But all Noitcerru knew was that this frantic new pulse, like the fresh beating heart of a newborn struggling for the first breaths of life, was at the same time merciless and relentless. The land was angry at these visitors, and so was....no. Water slipped down the birdman's grin. These strangers were the godkillers. But they were just another variation of the crawlers beneath him. So many. Like ants. What would a few more do - and what was to differentiate them from the others, all the little things down below - tied to the earth, the dirt, the roots? No. The Rift might be changing, but to the Overseer, the Watcher, there was very little change at all. Apart from curiosity - a burning desire to know. He cannot merely beat his wings from above. Inquisitiveness nips at his plumes, itching, reminding, that it only takes a moment to spiral downwards towards what was intriguing him so... And then no longer. The stallion descended into a dive, slipping through a patch of branch-free sky. his great wings creating a gust through the smoke and mist. He didn't descend into landing distance - what would be the point? - and he hovered well above the ground, his wily brown eyes crisscrossing the land beneath his withered legs, the vale of shadows laid out before him. The rain gently pattered on the moss, the downpour and the deluge kept at bay, temporarily, by the trees above. He could barely fit beneath the canopy. To fly too close to the earth, to that element to which he had no claim, would already be inviting trouble in the troubled and swarming Rift. But now? Now things were different, and Noitcerru would get no closer to that which lay Below. "Talk." run boy run this world is not made for you |
Magic:
Offensive Magic - Detonation of a sonic boom from his wings that, at a low level, can disorientate another; at its worst, and most advanced, it can knock out a horse (obviously at higher RF levels). Causes nosebleeds and disorientation in Noitcerru himself.
Mutations:
Body is covered in feathers which change according to the season (grow more dense in Freeze, moults a bit in Scorch). Raised red feather crest running down his face in the manner of a blaze/stripe marking.
Requests:
No major appearance changes please - wings and withered legs are vital to his character premise. Otherwise happy for his magic or appearance details to be changed.
