The warm orange glow of a fire tints his face with a golden hue while he sits and turns the pages of a well-worn book.

He looks up at you, icy-blue piercing right through you as his eyes scan you, his lips firmly set in a line, not uttering a word.

You stand, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, he closes the book, turns his gaze toward you, and slowly inhales and exhales, as if clearing his mind.


It is not my nature to speak of myself at length, but I suppose that is why you are here.

I am Vlaew.

Vlaew Cahilia,

once master of Cahilia Manor and now guest in this home.

Yes, once...I was the master of a grand estate - how I ended up here is quite a long story. One that I prefer be left untold.

Perhaps one day I'll make it back there...

His voice trails off, and his gaze seems to focus on something unseen in a far corner of the room.

I don't speak much about myself. Perhaps you'd do better by speaking to one of the other residents of the house.

He abruptly turns his attention back to the book, opening it once again and delicately turning the tattered pages.


DESCENT

Withered brown oak leaves disintegrate with a crunch under
each footstep as he plods up the path,
each step an almost detached movement as he proceeds.
A strange smile curls his lips as he stops at the stone
front steps that leads to the door. For a moment, his gaze
travels from the entrance of the old chateau, moving
upward past the handcarved lentil and the leaded glass
windows on either side, past the battered old cypress that
now leans haphazardly against the weathered grey stone,
to the ebony slate tiles of the roof, cracked and chipped
from age. He continues forward, fingering the brass key
in his hand, climbing the three steps to the front door.

He inserts the key into the lock, turning it with a
soft click, and pushes the door open.
A groan from the stiffened hinges echoes against the walls
of the marbled foyer, the door shutting behind him
with a slam as he enters. The pounding of his footsteps
reverberates throughout the great hall as he passes through
to the velvet-walled library, his nose assaulted with the
heavy fragrance of old leather and dust. Icy azure eyes gaze intently on a volume of poetry,
stained by perhaps a small splash of tea during a moment of leisure by the
brick fireplace now barren of its once warm glow.


He removes it from the shelf and opens it, the brittle pages emitting a soft crackle as he gingerly turns them, one by one, until he has found the verse he seeks.


Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
[robert frost]


A light chuckle escapes his lips as he scans the words and
mumbles them to himself. He lays the book, still open,
on the oak desk in the corner, a tiny cloud of dust rising as he does so.

His eyes glimmer with a mix of pleasure and derangement as he walks back toward the shelf,
reaching for yet another volume. An unseen force
seems to control his movement and thoughts as tome after tome
is sent to the floor, each joining the other until a ragged pile of
leather and parchment litters the worn oriental rug. Soft silver strands of hair hang raggedly over the dark wool of his overcoat;
an annoyed hand reaches up to toss a few strays away from his eyes
and then darts to the deep pocket of his coat, reappearing with a small, silver, filigreed lighter
that sparks and bursts forth with a tiny flame as he opens it and turns the flint wheel.
He watches the flame dance, the light in his eyes turning an eerie yellow as he does so.
The hand opens. The lighter falls, the flame trailing in a strange snake pattern before it lands with a small thud on the dark red leather
of perhaps a volume containing verses of poetry.
Or perhaps it was a mathematical tome. Or maybe history.
No matter. It makes such a lovely crisp crackle as the pages burn.

Giddy laughter mingles with the sound of the crack of flames devouring brittle pages,
the glowing blaze now leaping at the hem of his coat like a yapping lapdog.
Yellow and orange fingers creep up the velvet walls and along the mahogany shelves and crawl across the carpet,
leaving a trail of conflagration in their wake.
Shrieks of a mixture of mirth, trepidation and agony now rise above the roar of flames
that consume everything in their path. Frantic chortling punctuated by
the occasional yelp of anguish competes with the crisp crackle of burning parchment.
Soon all is nothing but a whirlwind of fiery confusion that has deteriorated into twisted despair.



And then...

All is quiet.

And grey wisps of smoke trail upward to an open sky.

Name: Vlaew Cahilia

Age: Unknown.

species: Darigan Usul

Height: 6'3"

Weight: 190

skin/fur color: dark purple Eye color: light blue

Hair color: Grey

unusual markings, etc.: One wing missing. Has yet to speak of how this came to be.



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