A Poet's Dozen of Characters

To sleep? View attachment 7127View attachment 7128
Perchance to dream?
To sing a song of lonely thoughts?
A mind bursting at the seams?
A song of chaos,
And loss.
A song of silent days.
A song for those so weary,
To guide them on their way.
Come to me, Dark muse in white.
Come whisper in my ear.
I have felt your loss so long.
Even when you’re here...

Name: Albash
Titles: The Gatekeeper, The Marquise of Silent Ends, The Gourmand
: indeterminate
Height: 4'4" - 6'6"
Weight: 120 lbs
Species: Aos Sí (pronounced aes she), fae, the people of the hills

Born as the fifth son of a fourth son of a seventh daughter, Albash was never expected to amount to much more then a half forgotten pawn in the intricate and deadly dance that is the winter court, and he was more then pleased with this state of affairs as it meant that his family and their enemies ignored him for the most part, or seemed to at the least which suited him just fine. That changed when he fell in love with the half blood daughter of one of the ducal houses. Knowing that he had no chance of surviving a courtship with her as he was he made a decision that many would argue ruined his life. He joined the Wild Hunt in order to gain a Title.

What followed was grueling year after grueling year as he was thrown into combat against the most horrid abominations the fey realms could produce from mad fae and demigods to elder spirits of nature and the spawn of the dark between stars. The blood of gods stained his hands and power black as a new moon's reflection as he climbed the ranks, squire to knight to lord, claiming and discarding titles like blood-soaked cloaks as he stalked the wilds, kissing blade to lips bereft of breath and removing those who stood in his way.

Cold is back without brother to guard, cold is heart without family to hold, cold as the steel slick with winter blood and stolen names. Gone was the nameless son of a nameless son of forgotten daughter. Gone was Albash, son of none, heir to nothing but death brought by one who did not even know his name. Now stood Albash, The Marquise of Silent Ends, name ripped from a thousand last breaths stolen without sound or remorse.

Only with his return to the grim court at the frozen heart of winter Faerie did Albash find that his love had absconded in his absence.

Larala, heir to the house of Mist, she was lady of winter dawn, her very existence a balm, proof that not every day of winter is deadly, nor every wind bitter. Her smile melted rime, her eyes were the pale gold of midwinter sunrise, her skin white as snow, hair the silver of purest frost, her blood bluer then winter skies.

And she had eloped. Not even with another member of the nobility, not even some summer bastard or bitch. She ran off with some wild Sí lowborn wretch for love, leaving Albash a broken man.
He had sacrificed everything so that he could kneel at her father’s feet and beg for a chance to earn her hand in marriage and it had been for nothing. He had broken himself against the untouchable peeks of power and in the fires of battle he had reforged himself with determination that had broken beings lesser races might call gods.
He had clawed a Title that made other Sí fear his shadows’ passage from the lives of legends ended before they were told.
And it was in his lowest point he learned that the hunt were being rallied to find the wayward lady and her love. To kill the latter and drag the former back to the courts to do her duty and in that moment he remembered his first oath.

He had seen her in an unguarded moment, a private moment as a child innocent in the ways of their world offered her a flower plucked fresh from snow dusted field. He had seen Larala smile with such joy and beauty that it would make the summer queen’s jealous. And he had sworn he would do all in her power to bring her such joy that she would smile like that every day of her life.

And he knew that if he allowed the hunt to succeed that he would have failed in that oldest of promises.

He had to find her first, and when he would he would guard her and her love so that they might keep their lives free of the blood soaked hell he had consigned himself too.

More then a decade he has been on her trail, staying five moves ahead of the Wild Hunt every step of the way.

Even if he never sees her again he will do all he can to keep the Hunt from achieving that goal.

As a true-blooded member of the Aos Sí nobility Albash is able to access a wide variety of magic, mostly centered around illusions and spells thematically attuned to the seasons of winter and autumn as well as the dark as well as the ability to teleport short distances at will, take on the forms of the beasts of the dark, and step through the veil between worlds to enter and exit the fae wilds.

He is trained in the art of death from near and far, blade and branch and bow move like a scythe through air, leaving only screams and the whistle of a winter breeze to mark their passage as sinew and bone part to paint the world scarlet with an chill artist's delight.

While the hunt is strong, and a lord of the hunt stronger still, the bane of the Aos Sí still scorches them, body and soul. To touch iron is to burn, like ice burns, a frozen pain that numbs and slows, white flame licking at the flesh like the long dead skin of the birch. Iron is death, steel is son, and the industry of man a horror to all from the meekest of sprites to the grandest of the high queens.

The Mask of the White Hare. Crafted from the skull of the first creature he ever hunted the Mask turns his supernatural speed and reflexes to something truly breathtaking. He moves like an arrow, runs like the wind, dances like nobody’s watching because nobody can!

The Cloak of the Eternal Blizzard. A cloak that is constantly fluttering in a chill wind. Where he goes and the wind smells like snow. The cloak allows him to move silent as a winter night and deflects wounds that would be fatal. With an effort of will and power a blizzard from the heart of winter can be conjured around him and remains centered around him or a point of his choice, dropping the temperature drastically as hurricane force winds whip sleet and snow and hail through the air, screaming like a thousand frozen souls.

The Symphony of Blades. A thousand and one daggers and shortswords Albash can produce as if from nowhere and discard again unseen, each one curved and filed and bent to slide through ribs, over gorgets, under gauntlets, and ignore armor as if it was not there, slipping through crack and crevice.

Absence. Stolen from the Prince of Empty Nights, this sword is a wound in reality, a void in the shape of a blade that violates most laws. How do you block nothing, how do you cut nothing, how do you move nothing.
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