azrael
When he asks if Tenebrae had been there, when the island burned, he knows the answer before the warrior speaks. The horror is written in his eyes, blankly staring ahead, pushing down the emotion even as his quiet Yes. confirms. Though Azrael cannot see the memories which flood over his companion, the dreamwalker can sense the swift pang of sorrow, he can taste the sourness which the moment leaves. Just as quickly as he had asked, Azrael wishes to take it away now, grateful for the subject change as Tenebrae’s question offers them a respite from the memories of death.
“The stars are wrong,” he answers easily, “They are beautiful, but merely an illusion. See here?” he pointed at a particularly bright star, shining blue and luminous in the night sky, “This star is made to look like Alcyone of the Pleiades constellation, but her other sisters are missing…” And he could name a dozen more examples, even as he flicks a glance to Tenebrae, wondering if he too could read the stars. As for the rest of the island, Azrael could not say. The dead would be real, he presumed – or perhaps they were merely trapped in this place, lost to the outside world and presumed to be gone forever. Magic was a fickle beast which Azrael did not trust – it could be wielded for good, but too often, he had seen it used for darker whims.
“I am new,” Azrael answers to the second question, “but not far removed from Denocte. My people are the shed-stars, and we came from a place you know as the Arma Mountains, though somewhere far beyond your tallest peaks. We came in a caravan, following the wisdom of the star-speakers, driven to Caligo’s land when our own was destroyed by dragon fire.” It was an oversimplified explanation of the travesty which befell his people. How could he explain the acrid scent of fire against flesh, the cries of the non-believers as they begged Caligo for mercy.
“The People walk among Denocte now, scattered to the four winds. Some are called merchants, others magicians, and some have abandoned Caligo all together.” Splintered, their group would lose its identity within a generation or two, but at least with Azrael’s conviction, his own brood would know their legacy as Caligo’s people, torn from her own cloak of night sky, and brought to this world to walk among others.
He looked Tenebrae over, vision resting once more at the subtle glow of his sickle moons. “You are also touched by Caligo,” he gestures to the mark, “What is this sigil?”
@Tenebrae
