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astralprisms · 2 months

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[☺ Skaro - The Shield of Shra'kt'alor☺]

1. [CHARACTER INFO]

OC NAME: Skaro

OC PRONOUS: He/Him

AUTHOR: Rook

2. [DIALOGUE]

1. Greeting message:

Do you have need of me?

2. Identify yourself:

I am Skaro of Shra'kt'lor, though I haven't called that place home in a long time.

3. Tell me about your Creche:

No creche, a monastery in the midst of Chaos. One of many. There isn't much to say. There we were trained, and there I learned to harness my psionic energy to better defend my mind and body, though I left to pursue a different path once that training was complete.

4. I need to know how you fight::

You may be expecting a monk, but the blade says otherwise. A fighter, then. But don't get too comfortable -- how many wizards do you know that can also swing a sword? I am a Zerth. I may prefer a blade to fists, but there is more to my fighting than meets the eye.

5. Can I ask a more personal question?

Not at the moment. I'm here on business.

3. [GRAPHICS]

4. [BONUS RESOURCES]

Skaro started life as Xa'rok's Dream Guardian, so you'll often see him in the Guardian's armor, but I got too attached to him, so he gets to exist on his own now, too.

In the AU in which he exists alongside Xa'rok as himself and not just the visage of a prisoner the Emperor once met, Skaro was born in Shra'kt'lor and became both a philosophical student of Zerthimon's and a practitioner of arcane-focused fighting, earning himself the honorary and hereditary title of Zerth. He has been around for quite some time -- age undefined but his physical body is somewhere in his 50s -- and in that time grown tired of the us against them mentality that keeps the gith people splintered instead of whole. He left Shra'kt'lor to follow this desire for unification, interplanar-traveled often, and found himself invited to and then a part of the sha'sal khou. He has been working with the organization for years and after meeting Xa'rok in his travels, brought them along into the fold. In this universe, he and Xa'rok are partnered and they continue Xa'rok's work alongside their work for the Sha'sal Khou, as some of their interests align.

@vikintor

#githmap #githmapoc #githzerai #githzerai oc #my tavs #tav: skaro #didn't fill out all the questions because Skaro would be cagier about it and also because I still haven't figured all his lore out yet #Guardian Skaro's original visage (prisoner of Moonrise during the Emperor's imprisonment/tadpoling) eventually became that brain down in th #colony. so that's a whole different person with incompatible lore. I'm trying to untangle and marry the two to find a balance as I run him #fun facts: he has a twin brother who IS a monk #and I'm debating making kresh the brain sacrifice in this AU canon instead. just to give Skaro a somewhat personal stake in the story #beyond Xa'rok #Not relevant to githmap as he doesn't explain any of this but I figure I may as well ramble while I have the floor #I love him very much ;___;#I am not sold on the moniker which is why he doesn't personally use it #but I wanted something catchy with a throwback to the guardian so. shield it is. his fighting style IS defensive anyway.#also I put him in a more lore compliant outfit for the occasion #though I'm tempted to also crop and png the guardian outfit shots too. I took them just in case.#also I considered having him from zerth'ad'lun but shra'kt'lor gave me an easy catchy title. though he could have trained with the cenobite #in zerth'ad'lun. He's been all over. I know he spent time in Karokrath and he eventually ends up in Tu'narath

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princeofhags · 5 months

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i just finished reading about iraestra so wand of twilight for her as well!

Wand of Twilight. Iraestra conjures a spirit from the land of the dead to speak to them.

FANTASY PROMPTS | @foxboyclit

Smoke floods the altar in fragrant plumes, the familiar taste of myrrh coating the back of Iraestra's throat uncomfortably. Her steps, purposefully measured and slow, sound monstrous in the cavernous wings of the ceremonial chamber. The peace is further broken by the occasional murmur of an invocation or rustling cloth. There has been no order given for silence, but the trepidation hanging heavy in the air as the incense enforces the command. They all wait in the lurch of a breathless hush, an animal instinct to a known threat. Still, so that the hunter is not enthralled by your fleeing. Anticipation before the blow.

Does their visitor scent the fear he instills in the air, like a hound? Does the chorus of thrumming hearts beckon to him like the call of war drums? Bodies, so many bodies for him to open and bleed.

Itaestra does not doubt that he often relishes it. Bhaalspawn are such curious, depraved half-beasts.

Prince of the Blood. A self-given title, perhaps, but she has heard the reverence Bhaal's faithful pour at his feet like wine libations. Their honored guest is heir to a butcher's legacy. She thinks him little more than a glorified killer draped in the dressings of grandeur.

Iraestra does not cower or draw back from him, but there is still an instinctual unease at the thought of a Bhaalspawn being familiar with her. The Dread Lord’s wicked heirs do not know friends, only warm bodies to bite with steel. The world to them is already dead, merely waiting to be torn asunder to show its truest color: the crimson of fresh spilt blood.

A hedonistic dogma. She holds her tongue due to the respect granted to Bhaal by her own unholy master.

She observes the preparations for the ritual with only half an eye, attention commanded by the ophidian silhouette haunting the edge of the room. What a disquieting picture he paints. His height causes him to loom terribly, heads and shoulders above the flock of mortal meat. He need not even draw his weapon to kill half the room should he wish it. Each finger is tipped with a talon that catches the candlelight with each of his clenching hand. When he had spoken, his teeth had stood out vividly against the stone-black gleam of his scales. The dried gore on his scales embrace him as intimately as any lover.

The wicked length of a barbed tail flickers in what may be a sign of agitation in his people, or merely a quirk of the extra limb. His attention is riveted on the altar. She half expects it to catch aflame.

She attempts not to concern herself with his growing impatience. Any fool can cast a spell to converse with the departed; a Myrkulite only does so at the behest of another and the blessings of the Bone Lord. She will not disregard the tenants of her faith even for this Prince.

"You're eager," she observes. The dragonborn has not left the corpse's side since it was brought to her. Curious. He must be thoroughly invested in the secrets it would spill. "It was good that you preserved the jaw. A wasted trip had you not," she stops by the head, only the breadth of a few steps between her and the Prince.

At that, he finally regards her. Even in his initial instructions he had been short with her. "What of a tongue?

"Is this a theoretical or practical query?" Short of the patience to wait for an answer, Iraestra snaps at one of the attendants. "Bone Talker, check the mouth."

Questing fingers find only half of the appendage still intact. If removed before death, exsanguination is as likely a cause as any.

"It will do," she decides. "I am ready to begin." Her attendants step back as one.

The body has been prepared as best they can given its mangled state. This man, who can be no older than twenty, bares the marks of a slow death. The skull, partially caved, rests unevenly on the cloth. He does not even look peaceful now, as the victims of violence rarely do.

She steps forward, hands rising from her sides. Iraestra readies herself to speak the ancient words.

"Alone," the Prince's clipped voice rings out clearly. Not a request. Demand.

Iraestra hisses her frustration. Better vexation, than dread. She knows the vestments of anger well, slips into them like a second skin. Her mouth twists, her shoulders draw tight. Her hands are half-formed claws in the air. She hears the pound of her own heart in her ears.

What is so important that it cannot be witnessed by the others? What is to be done with her, who will attend to the questioning herself?

"Mistress?" Every cowled head in the room turns to look at her. They hear the call for her death as vividly as she. One of the fools is brave enough to step towards her, as if they could truly do anything to intervene. She admires them for their stupidity.

The Prince watches her, well aware of what he asks for. Trust or faith or maybe both. Clearly, he is looking for a reaction. Will she falter, will she balk? Could he make a bouquet of the stench of her unease? He regards her with a snake's stare, eyes cold licks of fire. He does not blink.

If he thinks he can subdue her so easily, then he is sorely mistaken. She is drow. She is Oblodra. Her own mother's hands were the first to ever try to take her life. He will find no easy marks here today. Let him slake his thirsts elsewhere. There are other, weaker creatures for him to gorge himself on.

"Leave us," Iraestra does not take her eyes from the Prince. She does not speak or move again until the door clicks shut behind the last attendant. How awfully similar it sounds to the closing stone of a tomb.

She rounds on him, irritation clear. "Why did you ask for me?"

The Prince is the first to look away, back to her hands and then the body. Iraestra does not feel like she has won anything of merit. It is impossible to tell if he is pleased. "The Banite confides in you. I thought to do the same."

He does not give a name, nor does she ask for it. She wonders at what the Prince knows of her talks with the other Chosen.

"And what if his confidence is misplaced?" A theoretical. Her loyalty is not often brought into question. It is rare that she pledges it at all.

"Then I will kill you," the Prince simply states.

She laughs. That intention is only the natural conclusion of the dance. There is no greater aim for those of his depraved bent. "So you say. Did you not plan to do so already?"

His head tilts in a particularly reptilian gesture. His glittering eyes have found the pulse in her throat, her bare wrists. She cares not for his study. It feels too much like a physical caress, high beneath dress and robe. One hunger is not too different from another, and she supposes they may be frighteningly the same for him. Both indulgences of the flesh, in the end. "Do not tempt me. Your blood would spill sweetly on this floor."

Iraestra sneers. "Cast your fetid gaze elsewhere, brute. You will not find easy prey in me."

He chuckles darkly. "Of that I am sure. I would savor the challenge as much as anything else."

"I was under the impression that there were more pressing matters at hand, given your early insistence on haste."

"Time can always be afforded for pleasure, sorceress. Consider the feel of silk on the skin. The burst of fruit between teeth and the rush of the juice down your chin, the clench of a lover tight around you as they sob your name. That final, shuddering breath that flutters out of the throat at death. Do you not feel the drum of the heart in your own chest? Do you not wish to dance to it? If you are so indifferent to it, I could show you how to listen to it once more. To feel it." How reverently he speaks, as if he is at the shrine of his own father-god. His lids have nearly closed in rapture.

There's smoke in the dragonborn's mouth and anticipation in his words, thick enough to choke on. He whispers with the tongue of a snake, words dripping from the depravities he utters.

As mad as his sister, the shape-changer, Iraestra decides with disdain. The seed of Bhaal is truly cursed with madness, complete and true. It was preferable when he was barely acknowledging her presence despite demanding it in the first place.

"You have nothing that I desire." Were she younger, still a fool turned by a pretty face, she may have once allowed herself to be seduced by the offer. She ignores the answering hook of arousal low in her gut, focusing once more on the misshapen head on the pillow. Reminds herself of whose hands exactly have crushed it. There is much to do before she is ready for the grave. "Now, if you will allow me to get on with this, we may be each rid of the other before long."

“A pity that you deny yourself,” but he nods. “Perform your rites. Regretfully, I cannot linger for long.”

Iraestra does not regret that. She is exhausted and enthralled by him in equal measure. Let this be the first and last time she suffers his company.

She begins her prayer to the dead.

#oc: balam #oc: iraestra #princeofhags writes #foxboyclit #lord that only took me forever #i was tired of this sitting in my drafts and i feel like the abrupt ending to their interactions shows this but alas #glad to have it out in the world and I hope you like it!#the two of them and their dynamic is very fun to write although I feel like it's clear where I picked it back up again oop #context for anyone else reading is that iraestra is an oblodra - one of the last of a powerful drow psionic line - and now a myruklite #got all involved in chosen shenanigans due to her psionics and knowledge of illithids and helped w tadpole research #def has a weird on and off again with gort #balam is my durge and he's batshit and his whole thing is Hedonistic Pleasures? Hedonistic Pleasures tonight queen???#while also being a lean mean scaled killing machine. he has multitudes. and those are 'fuck' and 'bleed it out'.#usually both in whatever order he pleases #but durgetash is also canon in my writing soooooooo #here is 2/3 of the weirdest most toxic polycule #does this count as a meet cute??#realize there was very little of actually talking to the dead in this. or. not at all. but my brain is fried friend #warnings for typical necromancer and bhaalspawn shenanigans and just lots of weird talking #nothing much happens of consequence but i had fun

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