Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Gryss ab'Arawn]

---

The room pulsed a soft blueish green glow as the silence embedded its halls. Nothing ever seemed to stir here, here where when unoccupied it was as quiet as any ancient tomb. The bones would lay still and scattered amongst the floor tiles, never disturbed even when occupants were within their final resting place.

The only shadows that could make up the room where from the obsidian pillars lined 3 on each side of the main walkway to the crystal thrones. Darkness faded to a hazy pale light, only showing whatever eyes awaited this ominous chamber, this throne of Umbra.

But there mattered little to Gryss now, as he paced his way off of the bridge and towards the Sepulcher which usually held his peers. He had finally been stirred from his slumber, something he never expected to happen in all his existence as one of the many puppets to the Matriarch. Clinching his fist to his chest, all he could see was a faint image of a emblem fastened with lace danging off his neck. A dagger, more a relic than a weapon, miniature and hanging just above his collar, fixed within the hilt a black stone that bore no reflection to its onlookers. Just black, only black.

And magic, it had to be magic.

Opening his eyes once more, he pushed himself harder towards the front gates of the Sepulcher before him, needing to speak with whomever he may if but only to finish this mysteriously self-appointed task within his mind. Outward flung the doors, scattering whatever dust could hide beneath its crevices as a gloom light shed into the floor below his form. Silence was all he could find though, and empty thrones once more, but what could he expect?

Turning now, Gryss looked back out to the quick coming dusk and could only hope but wonder who could help him with his task. The moon was already rising, and he had to find a way to bring his dream to life, his vision to life, if but only his vision.

And so again, he was off.