as written by Emperor Jester
A crumbling city, echoing with cries for mercy and help, desperation, a stench of corruption, a world existing solely for his people, his kindred folk and their ilk, a dead necropolis that for some reason teems with life and wonder and curiosity abound. This was Nox's home, and always would be, no matter how hard certain unfavorables tried to take it all away. They'd done so once already, reducing the impoverished noble to live in his families last remaining safe house. Cramped, desolate, tucked away into the phantom quarter, with the only sane company being his fleeting thoughts of revenge and bittersweet memories. Though lately, the displaced Lord began to wonder about that as well. He felt the world constantly slipping by, and found himself sleeping for days or weeks at a time, this most recent stent of slumber being the longest.
Some might call it depression but Nox didn't think this was the case. He couldn't except the fact that he may or may not have become afflicted with the Disease of Nobility. He wasn't that bored, nor was his list of goals so empty...
The fact of the matter was, simply put, he had no idea were to start. He needed allies, answers, and retribution, in that order, for the sake of his own pride first, and his families betrayal second. Looking about his rented room, a change of pace from the safe house, Nox decided it was time to finally get to work. Half a century of idleness was long enough.
After brushing his hair, bathing with borrowed fragrances of the aristocracy such as lilac and honey, and donning the finest attire he brought along his sojourn, Nox settled on a white leather trench coat and a simple two piece suit of the same hue underneath, with high, sharply cut boots to match. The contrast between his raven black hair, icy luminous eyes, choice of cloth, and his own intimidating height helped him cut a swath through the semi-busy streets. He would not go unnoticed...
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