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10 [Year 495 Summer]








Mangalarga Marchador


17 hh







Last Visit:



Signos: 40 (Donate)
Total Posts: 4 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

drune of sohorn

The cleanest thing about him is the one thing your eyes fall on first: white cloth wrapped tightly around his throat. Where its ends meet you do not know. A glacial eye catches you staring, and narrows.

A sun-kissed coat angles itself towards you, and it is then you notice the empty socket where another eye should be. Jagged white upon brown stares you down and you know the look being given to you is a challenging one.

Molten brown, tangled and unkempt, hangs limply against a large neck. The tresses appear unclean and you think they might be oily to the touch. From the stare still being leveled at you, it's clear you will never know.

(Despite your staring, no words are ever spat at you.)

Lightly dusted nostrils flare, and the strange image before you begins to turn away. The sound of stone chiming against metal catches your ear. Looking down, you finally notice another piece that only adds to the unsolved puzzle: a metal prosthetic. One that replaces the right leg of the other.

An equally dark brown tail flicks itself towards you, but the stranger does not look back over their shoulder. They simply continue walking away.

blessed be the one

Attentive | Confident | Disciplined | Realistic | Educated | Steadfast
Secretive | Abrasive | Stubborn | Irritable

Born a boy of the court, he was once docile; the perfect child with glacial eyes that looked upon his superiors with respect and revere. Quiet child, attentive child. All were aware that Drune was different.

Drune included.

He grew older and was still tamed; he was a blazing fire they had somehow managed to keep contained. Drune tried to keep it contained, too. He did not want to be what they said he was and he continues to deny it to this day. But he knows — they all know what he is.

When the day came, that fateful day he screamed his last word, the quiet boy was silenced forevermore and the fire escaped the crafted barrier that had held it captive for all its life.

That compliant boy was no more, and in place was a man that watched the archons with simmering contempt. Silent he might now be but tame he no longer is.

Attentive and sharp-eyed, Drune cannot rely on words to get him by. Words are useless — not only in regards to him trying to use them but also when it comes to using them on him. Speak your questions, say your piece, and leave him be.

The only reason he allows people to stay around him, indulges them, is because he cannot tell them to go.

Independent or rude - take your pick - but Drune does not care what one believes. He will do what he wants because that is what he chooses to do. None shall control him ever again. And while many choose to scoff at him for not speaking, say he is a moron and stupid for not picking up that pen you place before him and writing, Drune knows the truth.

No one else with, though.

Secretive, but only because it is so very easy to be when fickle words cannot pass his lips. No one will ever know his name, no one will ever know his story, and no one will ever read about the images that flash through his head.

If one persists though, they might gain a rare and pleased smile that is so subtle one might believe it to be a tick. For, despite his dislike for many and his desire to be left alone more often than not, Drune can admire those who are unwilling to give up. Stubborn many call them (as they call him), and unpleasant Drune will think many of them to be, but those special few whose stubbornness he can admire will be an exception.

whose lips spill the truth of gods

Slight Mentions and Depictions of Torture

Blood drips and stains. He doesn't know the time, or day, only knows that they stay for what seems like hours but is really only forty minutes (he knows this because he counts, doesn't matter if he forgets the exact seconds when the pain becomes too much).

He also knows that meals come once, right before they appear. He figured out why they gave meals before and not after long ago. A game within a game. His stomach churns each time his breath stutters.

Try as he might, more often than not his meal can be found on the floor, intermixed with blood and bile.


They want him to speak, to spill secrets from his lips and reveal to them everything and more. He doesn't.

And so, the ropes grow tighter, he struggles and gasps. They never stay around long for these, but they leave him gasping and crying on the stone floor, bile in his hair.

Still, he does not speak.


Many claim that his words hold sight of the future. He has always denied this, even if there have been too many situations where things aligned just right to be nothing more than a mere coincidence.

He is no oracle, visions do not cloud his thoughts, and the hands of gods do not brush his brow.

He is a simple boy, Drune of Sohorn. He is nothing.


His throat is already sore, his pained screams are nothing more than breathless sobs. He bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. Darkness pulls at the edges of his vision, and he welcomes it. He is not quick enough to fall into the dark embrace, though.

The frayed rope grows tighter, and the sharp metal shines in the dim torchlight of the secluded crypt.

His cries are nothing but dying squeaks, and the dark finally clouds his vision.


They tear him from the claws of the beast, their faces familiar and warm.

He was a simple boy, now a man. He is Drune of Sohorn. He is nothing. They all know him as a voiceless oracle.

He is no such thing.


Assimilation is difficult. They force writing utensils into his hands, ask that he try. They know he is proficient in the language, so why do you not wish to speak, Drune?

He never answers.


He gags on food for years, must eat something softer in hope of it not going into his trachea. The bindings around his throat make his stomach churn. His esophagus grows tight. He must grow used to the sensation.

Sometimes, he tries to speak. Of course, nothing ever comes out.

Active & Parvus Magic


Blessed be the Oracle of Sohorn, voiceless and chosen by the gods themselves. From his lips fell molten gold words bestowed upon him by the hands of their gods. From across the land, all came to hear his velvet speech once they knew him to be their Oracle, and even after his voice was taken they continued to do so, hoping that their Oracle would choose to write upon parchment what he saw of their future.

Drune hates it. He is no Oracle.

There is no direction. He does not agree to receive the flashing images inside his mind; they pass so quickly he can hardly make out much. They happen so often and are random, sometimes triggered by another or triggered by nothing. Once upon a time, he used to have to piece them together; figure them out, and make a picture that always ended up somehow true despite him wishing otherwise. Now he doesn't. There is also the possibility for there to be visions stronger than others, ones that leave him heaving on the floor, weak limbed and soaked in sweat from the weight of all he has just seen.

Sometimes, though rarely, Drune can keep the visions away. If this is the case he is overcome with fatigue.

II - Drune is unsure if he wishes to gain such understanding
There is more clarity. Drune can look through the vision for longer than he pleases to. His mind is fortified and the cursed gods of Sohorn cannot infringe upon his thoughts like they once did. He keeps more visions away and (of the off-chance that he chooses to) can call some to be bestowed upon him.

His is still susceptible to crashing waves, ones that leave him weak but do not cause distressing tears to dance down his cheeks.

III - Drune will not work toward gaining such understanding
He calls them to him with but a thought; can look at another and ask for his gods to show him what they wish to see. He has no issue piecing together what he is being shown and is no longer overcome with powerful fits. Sometimes unexpected flashes occur and sometimes Drune finds his gods unwilling to show him what they can see but all is well.

IV - Drune will not work towards gaining such understanding
This is the blessed Oracle of Sohorn, the one who reveals all the gods know.

May death come for him quickly if he ever comes to be this.

Passive Magic




Armor, Outfit, and Accessories


A well cared for item that is pristine and free of any stains. It remains wrapped tightly around his neck, never removed. It covers scars that reveal the reason he is unable to speak. He placed it there himself, more for the comfort of others than himself.

Metal Prosthetic

Forged with him in mind, Drune received the prosthetic after his time being kidnapped. The prosthetic was never meant to touch anything else aside from marble floors, but Drune feels a sense of pleasure at hearing it crack small pebbles.

Agora Items & Awards

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Drune is unable to speak whatsoever due to damage obtained during his time held captive. He cannot speak a single word and aside from snorts, hoarse scoffs, or gasps nothing ever passes his lips. Furthermore, Drune is unable to maintain a healthy weight as a result of this damage. The ability to eat whole foods has been severely harmed and he struggles with it to this day.

Played by:

Neamrel (PM Player)


none    //   



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