Divult
| Divult | |
|---|---|
| Status | |
| Race | Human |
| Gender | Male |
| Guild | Necromancer |
| Instance | Platinum |
Appearance
Divult is a rather plain looking middle-aged Human with stormy gray eyes framed by simple steel-rimmed glasses. His gray streaked black hair is short and wavy and his fair skin has the pale pallor of someone that spends much time indoors. His clothing, unkempt hair and stubble covered face shows a man whom puts little stock in outward appearances. However it is his steady, unwavering gaze that often alerts others to just how serious he sees the world around him.
Goals
Like most Philosopher's of the Knife, Divult seeks a world were the 11 races can live free of the gods gilded cage and the shackles of nature. To open the door to a promise land of eternal life without suffering. Unlike many Philosophers however, he takes a rather strange approach in his study of the Great Work. Divult believes that if you are to usher society into a new age of glory, let it be over the corpses of those whom try to drag society down. Why use the good people of the world when there are so many less than noble sacrifices? Protect what deserves to be saved, and let the rest fall before the knife.
Affiliations and Activities
Divult was secretly associated with a group known only as 'The Order.' His duties for the group are not publicly known, however he specialized in observing known and flagrant Necromancers and reporting their activities and whereabouts to the group.
While secretly a practitioner of the forbidden arts himself, Divult believed that those he hunted lacked the dedication and strength to succeed at the Great Work, and saw their presence as an obstacle and ultimately a threat to the very work itself. This path eventually led him to working to defeat the Devourer, in which his efforts helped summon a demon to slay Lyras for good. Sadly, the events of that victorious night exposed him as a tainted soul when an aspect of Hodierna attempted to attack him.
Stories
Moving Forward
He sat perched upon a simple wooden chair, leaning over an aged, nondescript writing desk. All the furnishing in this quiet little cottage had the same general lack of detail, chosen for their utility over appearance. In a way, he mirrored these object, drab but warm clothing, dark hair spilling loosely over his brow, dull grey eyes intently gazing at worn leather journal as a stained pen nib roughly scratched diagrams onto the pages. He had long been a man whom cared more for the workings of things than the appearance they had. His quill stopped momentarily as he took a moment to fully appreciate the irony in that thought, a wry smile just barely touching his lips.
How long has it been since he had started this? It was really hard to tell, the urgency of his newly found lifestyle made the days a blur. He sat there, pen still upon the parchment as he tried to string the events into coherency. It was hard to take the time to let everything sink in when you had to worry about so many possible means of failure.
A sigh of frustration escaped his lips as an ever growing blot of black pulled him out of reflection. Black hungry tendrils spread across the now ruined page as his stilled quill bled into his journal. It was a horrible reminder that he didn't have time to relax and dwell on the past, what was done has been done. Regret would not make his enemies pity him, apologies would not make them forgive him and giving up would not complete the Work. He believed that only through diligence, discipline and his personal strict interpretation of the Work would he see victory. All there was left was to move forward.
With a solemn nod, he tore out the ruined page and began again. Quill and ink forming the lines commonly associated with the Analogous Patterns. It was almost humorous, someone so embroiled in the Forbidden would be working on such simple study and documentation, but those of his ilk often sought such common occupations as guises. Though it was comfortable and similar to his life before, he knew it was simply a thin and fragile veil that hid from the world his new study, and would abandon it without thought should it be pierced.
Still, he hoped that was some time off. He could still be of service, both to the world and to his own goals. He wanted to save those that deserved saving and punish those whom did not, be they the dregs of society, perverse monsters that did not heed the wise words of warning from the Triumphant. Though he would admit that he did not think the others had the strength to see the Work to completion. They were too busy rushing towards the goal, too blind with curiosity, power or fear to map out the path. It was because of this that they had to be kept in check.
He, on the other hand, had thought long and hard on his task. His goal was simple, save the races of the world from the grasp of death and to lead the worthy to the never ending dawn, an eternal paradise. Though the means were dubbed hideous and foul by the masses, he knew the goal was noble. He accepted this and was willing to sully his soul, to wade through the taint of forbidden arts to achieve it. He knew what had to be done. The Innocent are to be saved, they must be protected until paradise is reached. Those that put the innocent under the knife in pursuit of the Work had already failed, as far as he was concerned.
Closing the journal, he sighed softly as he placed it into a vacant shelf on a rough bookcase. Slowly he removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, trying not to see the writhing tendrils at the edge of his vision. There was so much work left to do, so many dangers left to be dealt with...
Sheep, Shepherds and Wolves
His gaze hardened as he swung his hand out in a practiced motion. Tendrils of ocher mist sprung from his form and wove themselves into crackling daggers which sliced erratic lines through the air before tearing into their target. With a sickening sizzle of unnaturally preserved flesh, the horror fell to pieces before him, still for the final time.
Slowly exhaling he surveyed the surrounding area yet again, how many hours had he been at this? The fatigue tugged at his thoughts and made his limbs heavy, yet he pushed the dull feelings into the corner of his mind. The Devourer's minions were seemingly endless, and no matter how many he put down the feeling of urgency that had plagued him of late would not relent. His fingers tightened around his curved blade unconsciously, the options the living had were dwindling with the slow march of time. He feverishly hoped that a plan would be completed, though he knew that the task was not a simple one. He knew that, even with some of the most experienced minds of the Philosophy working tirelessly, if the problem could be easily solved the realms wouldn't be in this mess.
The night shadows around him shifted and swayed again, dark figures outlined in the pale azure light of Xibar. As they neared his position he could make out the clothing of farmers, workers, and traders all unfortunate enough to find death at the hands of Lyras and her Arisen. His fingers once again came alight with elliptical crimson motes as he wove the his spell, he would not allow his resolve to falter or flag. The Sheep must be protected from the Wolves and the Work must be completed. Cold sweat formed on his brow as he returned to his tireless task.
Mistakes
He took short breathes, trying in vain to ignore the shooting pains each one brought to his wounds. He admitted to himself, as he trudged along in the dank gloom of the under city sewers, that he had been over confident with the Devourer's minions. The single creature that laid into him with such ferocity looked so much like the others in the darkness of the night, and with that advantage drew much of his own lifeblood with horrible ease. He chided himself yet again for the mistake, a reminder that he was in no position to allow such grave errors.
He turned yet another corner in the seemingly maze like sewer, desperately hoping to find what he sought quickly. It was his ears that first picked up signs of his goal, a soft snicker much like a snake sliding across dead leaves that echoed off the filth covered walls. Two figures stepped into what little light that lost its way in this forsaken place, no effort taken to hide the hand and a half length of bared steel in their hands. He eyed both quickly, hoping they did not see the practiced assessment of the corridor and their positions.
He took a wary step back, looking much like a lamb surrounded by wolves. And wolves they were, foolish men that prey on the weak, lost or unlucky of society. Patiently he waited, counting the steps between him and his prey. Six, five, four, three, two...
...
Wearing a mantle of corruption that rendered him unseen, he climbed uninjured from the sewers. Lost to his own thoughts, he made way for the wilds once more. Mistakes are always costly, and he knew that one of these days he would have to pay the price himself.
No Rest for the Wicked
He strode quickly through the sterile hall, boot heels making only the slightest of noise despite his hurried pace. He smiled at the thought that it was not the sound that was muffled, but his minds ability to perceive it. The heavy layers of Corruption magic that blanketed this place was truly amazing and a tribute to while it still existed to this day. Sadly, there was not much time to marvel over the virtues of warping the minds hold on the truths around it, as he found himself standing before a large metal door. A firm strike from his knuckle against the solid barrier and it silently swung open in response, leaving a gap only wide enough for him to slip in.
As if stepping out of a thick miasma, his senses suddenly became aware of his surroundings as he entered. A large room, clearly made into a dining hall opened before him. In one corner, a large wooden table covered in fine food and drink stood surrounded by heavy chairs. Lined against the worked stone walls were benches covered with red cushions. Standing as a solemn guard in the center of the room was a stone pillar, demanding attention as if surrounded by a tangible aura of power. His eyes slid to a bare spot near the table, stone floors naked to the cold air of the room as if something was once there. A brief remembrance of pain suffused his body before fading quickly as he pushed it away to the corners of memory.
Yes, it was good that the circle was so quickly removed. The idea of an unattended ritual of such power left to the idle hands of the less dedicated pupils of the Knife was a worrying thought. However, with the fall of The Devourer it was possible that such a ritual would never have need to be performed again. As he turned towards the nearest set of benches, he couldn't help but feel relieved at the realization.
Relief was fleeting, however. With the Devourer thankfully destroyed, the focus of the world would quickly shift and the only logical target of such a hateful gaze would no doubt be those whom continued The Great Work. He knew the easy pace at which he had progressed would soon be at an end, it was simply not possible to elude the eyes of society forever. Such a huge victory and no time to enjoy it, a wry smile broke his stoic face as an old saying bloomed in his head. With a sigh, he settled himself down on the sturdy bench as he waited for the arrival of another.