07-28-2017, 07:38 PM (This post was last modified: 07-31-2017, 05:20 PM by Noitcerru.)
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.
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.
The winds blow; harsh gusts drug up and pushed out of the monstrous storm brewing in the darkened skies….as if attempting to rip this Rift’s winged child from the skies. Tearing, ripping; heat lighting slashed through the skies.
They chase him in his dive, wanting more and more.
But the creature never lands…evading the shadow’s hungry jaws.
Magic:
Offensive: Ability to detonate sonic boom from wings. When used, causes nosebleeds and disorientation in Noitcerru.
Defensive: Can summon wind-shields from feathered crest/blaze.
Mutations:
Feathered body.
Feathered red crest and blaze.
Withered legs.
07-31-2017, 05:23 PM (This post was last modified: 07-31-2017, 05:24 PM by Noitcerru.)
NOITCERRU
There was a tension in the air, groaning and creaking under the weight of something unknown and terrible - the forest holding in a breath, stretching itself thin. Noitcerru knew that scent in the air of rain and wind, knew the eddy of dark pressing clouds overhead and what they foretold. But what he did not know was the winds, picking up the leaves down below and letting them swirl in wild spirals. Branches swayed in the air. These were not the winds he knew, the winds he saw as old friends - allowing him to glide across the Rift, those that amateurs would call servants but were really master of all who entered their sphere. No. These were new, and unnatural, and did not behave as they should; the current was changing, the very forces of the Rift working against him. Lightning ripped the sky open, razors flashing against the rain.
But there were other blades down below - shadows, rushing out from the deep.
Danger! The winds buffeted him to and fro yet the birdman's wings thrashed against it one heavy beat at a time, drawing great draughts of cold air as he lifted himself out of harm's way. The Rift creature was close - so close, unseen jaws and teeth and ivory fangs. Could he feel breath tickling his wings? Adrenalin ran like fire through his veins, his ears pinned back towards his head. Higher - higher - higher! The rain was slick on his feathers as he sped from the creature, from the denizen of the deep.
When he had broken into the open air Noitcerru wheeled around sharply, looking back to the heart of the portal and the shadows that lingered there. He can see nothing now even as his eyes scanned the dark places, the hidden places, the tops of the trees. Nothing. Yet there was, unmistakably, something. Slowly he lowered himself by a few degrees - enough to see what was happening below but not close enough to be grabbed by whatever that was. His weak legs hung uselessly below him, swaying limp as a doll's. Great breaths came to his heaving chest. The Rift was never so active. What was that? What had caused so much unrest? That had been close, closer than most encounters he'd had with his sick and suffering homeland. To speak was to waste words in the deluge that none would hear but himself - but he wondered, and words caught and snagged between his bared teeth.
The Portal
