Tacitus
The Oldest
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2002
- Messages
- 2,173
- Reaction score
- 0
- Location
- A place where there is no dark
- Website
- www.animeleague.net
Tor had no use for sleep these days. Unlike others sleep didn't bring such cliche things as faded memories and nightmares, but a true pain. Whenever he slept his hand ached and bled well into the next morning. It was a simple choice. Forfeit sleep to forfeit the pain. The streams of mana and the strength of his very soul could sustain him for weeks at a time without so much as a single night's sleep, even under the most exhausting of circumstances.
He had paid little heed to the matters at hand, dealing more with the matter upon his hand. He seemed rather...fixated upon the missing digits that had been replaced by a construct of mithral. One would suppose anyone would be, especially when not even a cleric of considerable power could not rectify it. As he usually did he took his hand into his own hand, rebuilding with his knowledge and strength. Even then, it still bled and still ached under the confines of the mounting plate.
He was standing high above, perfectly balanced upon the roof of the Inn as he awaited the others. Given his talents his handicap would slow him down in the channeling of mana, such was inevitable. He would remain seperate from the ground. A mysterious stranger to lend aid when possible. To reinforce such a perception his appearance seemed to shift and alter to a mere shadow. He was little more than a man accented in green with sharp features, skin, coat, and hat all of the deepest black. He wouldn't be blending in anywhere, but he wouldn't be recognized worth a damn, either. Even his aura seemed to be hidden away, the man he had been cast off as if sent to some far away land.
He had paid little heed to the matters at hand, dealing more with the matter upon his hand. He seemed rather...fixated upon the missing digits that had been replaced by a construct of mithral. One would suppose anyone would be, especially when not even a cleric of considerable power could not rectify it. As he usually did he took his hand into his own hand, rebuilding with his knowledge and strength. Even then, it still bled and still ached under the confines of the mounting plate.
He was standing high above, perfectly balanced upon the roof of the Inn as he awaited the others. Given his talents his handicap would slow him down in the channeling of mana, such was inevitable. He would remain seperate from the ground. A mysterious stranger to lend aid when possible. To reinforce such a perception his appearance seemed to shift and alter to a mere shadow. He was little more than a man accented in green with sharp features, skin, coat, and hat all of the deepest black. He wouldn't be blending in anywhere, but he wouldn't be recognized worth a damn, either. Even his aura seemed to be hidden away, the man he had been cast off as if sent to some far away land.