A Tale of Sorrow
Many would say the Shadowlands are a beautiful sight, though the turmoils of such place are many. And while he doesn't disagree, Yohen sees the world in a way few others do. The anima, flowing in the sky, in the creatures, from the ground itself, made for colours and shapes impossible to the eyes of those who don't bear spectral sight.
He sighs, a burden heavy in his shoulders even though his conscience was decided, as he delves deep in a small, hidden cave amongst the stony cliffs of Bastion. There is no other presence here, though the stone vibrates to his senses, and as he kneels on the ground, hanging his head low, his mind is filled with visions.
Visions of old conflict, of his childhood, the family that he lost and the anger that he felt. He inhales, his relaxed expression becoming tense as a voice that is not his own fills his mind: - "Ravage" - It echoes, each syllable a wound to his will, cuts being made in a fabric already in rags. - "Destroy" - It continues, a shape forming in his mind's eye, fiery and noxious. It hated him, wished to consume him, to avenge itself from being bound.
Yohen, then, exhales. Wings spring and stretch from his back, scaled skin shifts painfully and protrusions of bone brake out from under his flesh. The dark cave now glows with green flame, the stony walls unfamiliar to the fel presence.
And, though reflected in his exterior, the inside of the former Illidari's mind turmoils around the hateful form of the bound demon. But this time, unlike all the times before it, the intent of the demon hunter wasn't that of conflict. And the bound creature could sense that. Intertwined with the elven soul against its will, the demon must've seen an opportunity, for as Yohen approached it the beast's tentacles lashed against his form.
An exchange ensued, and while the demon hunter's will was still iron-like, he walked out of the cave slightly less than he was before. The cave, now again dark, was the only witness to the route he now agreed to take. But high is the price for strenght.
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As winter first begins to bite
And stones crack in the frosty night,
When pools are black and trees are bare,
A burden becomes too much to share.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The heart's fire is ashen-cold;
No song is sung, no hammer falls:
Yet wretched fate forever calls.
No more the lights shall appear,
In dark and windless, now clear;
No path to take, my restless son,
An endless fight for now to come.
-------------------//-------------------
As winter first begins to bite
And stones crack in the frosty night,
When pools are black and trees are bare,
A burden becomes too much to share.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The heart's fire is ashen-cold;
No song is sung, no hammer falls:
Yet wretched fate forever calls.
No more the lights shall appear,
In dark and windless, now clear;
No path to take, my restless son,
An endless fight for now to come.
-------------------//-------------------
