Post by glamorousgnome on Sept 27, 2006 19:01:57 GMT -8
ooc: heres my charrie intro
its a bit odd lol.
but i researched names n culture n stuff so yeah.
enjoy.
hope it fits in the storyline if it doesnt let me know
Siavush.
Siavush, you are a master.
Siavush, you shall be a god.
He set down the carpet, let it flutter delicately to the ground, and then he stretched downward, in complete unison with those around him, onto his knees, then on his stomach, his arms over his head as he splayed downward until his nose touched the ground in a curled bow.
There was a swift murmur that arose from the crowd of a hundred or so of these worshippers. A low hum, a soft, monotonous chant.
"Angra Mainyu. Your strength fly unto us."
Siavush, as he raised himself from his bow, his back arching behind him, cast his eyes upon the man beside him, a strong warrior with markings across his naked chest and muscular arms, markings of red ink that had been buried into his skin. He was chanting, had not broken this chant, but Siavush had. He had paused in his speaking momentarily to watch him closely, the way he glanced back, for just a moment and their eyes locked in some daring animosity that jealousy often procures. Was this warrior jealous? Of Siavush?
Siavush smirked as he resumed his chanting, closed his eyes and let his neck bring his head back into align with the others'. He should be jealous.
Siavush, you shall be a god!
"Siavush, son of Akbar."
The sacrifice was about to begin, and Siavush was called upon, as usual, to participate before the others.
He stood to his feet, gave a swift bow from his waist for respect, and approached, slowly, winding through the many carpets of men around him, toward the center of the room and the man who awaited him.
There was a piercing scream and a rather tall woman bound in ropes was thrust toward the center altar where he stood beside this leader.
"Please..." she begged as she was thrust into his arms. Her tears streamed off her face, delicately, one after the other in little streams to her chin, where they dripped off from her trembling, and she pleaded in vain. "Release me..."
There was another woman beside her, veiled this time, and she pleaded the same thing, in her own language.
And there was a man also, rather short, but muscular, and he was shirtless.
These three mortals were to become apart of a ritual they could never comprehend in front of monsters they could never bring themselves to believe in their existence.
Siavush knew the ritual well, and it brought a clever smile to his lips. His choice. His reasoning. The others would follow his strength.
His choice was the first woman, the Roman, and he slipped the ropes off of her arm as he slid his head to the side and surveyed her.
Beautiful, yes, delicate, even better. Oh.
Her flesh would become his feast.
He ripped the clothes from her neck and as she bolted away, he grasped her by the wrist and snapped it.
Falling to her knees, she screamed again in agony.
And Siavush had her in his power. As he took her in his arms, lifted her off his feet and dangled her out in front of him, that droning chant flew up again, and it intensified as he smiled again and drove his teeth into the tender white flesh of her neck.
He was locked against her, breathing with her, lapping up all the blood until she was nothing but a dried, shriveled corpse.
Gorged and strengthened by this feast, he placed his hand on the foot of the statue of the main of their many gods and turned back.
"I go to battle now."
And they nodded at him, all except the warrior that had been so jealous.
He was off.
The lycans awaited.
He would look for a fight, and he would do what he did best again. Kill them until there were no more.
This war had been waged for far too long.
Akbar, his own father, had been one of those long ago victims, yet Akbar had fought so bravely. And Siavush had so strived to be like his father, and now that he was, he would avenge him. He swore it.
And so he swept, a sword in its sheath around the belt of his shirtless, inked body, into the streets of Constantinople. Even as he passed through the streets he could feel its diversity in its humans. The Christians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Muslims, the Turks. So many different ethnicities and religions and languages that he found it so hard to keep up with them all. The city had changed over the years, and although he was still a young immortal, he could still sense it. It would continue to change forever.
And then, of course, there was its diversity in its supernatural. The lycans, the vampires, and even diversity within those two groups. He was a raw example of that.
And all of these elements, human and inhuman, had been merged into new cultures, one of which he was apart of.
Was there any name for his religion? But it was ancient, and even more ancient with the many elements that formed it.
He mused on these matters as he walked stealthily through the streets, prepared more now than ever for a fight.
its a bit odd lol.
but i researched names n culture n stuff so yeah.
enjoy.
hope it fits in the storyline if it doesnt let me know
Siavush.
Siavush, you are a master.
Siavush, you shall be a god.
He set down the carpet, let it flutter delicately to the ground, and then he stretched downward, in complete unison with those around him, onto his knees, then on his stomach, his arms over his head as he splayed downward until his nose touched the ground in a curled bow.
There was a swift murmur that arose from the crowd of a hundred or so of these worshippers. A low hum, a soft, monotonous chant.
"Angra Mainyu. Your strength fly unto us."
Siavush, as he raised himself from his bow, his back arching behind him, cast his eyes upon the man beside him, a strong warrior with markings across his naked chest and muscular arms, markings of red ink that had been buried into his skin. He was chanting, had not broken this chant, but Siavush had. He had paused in his speaking momentarily to watch him closely, the way he glanced back, for just a moment and their eyes locked in some daring animosity that jealousy often procures. Was this warrior jealous? Of Siavush?
Siavush smirked as he resumed his chanting, closed his eyes and let his neck bring his head back into align with the others'. He should be jealous.
Siavush, you shall be a god!
"Siavush, son of Akbar."
The sacrifice was about to begin, and Siavush was called upon, as usual, to participate before the others.
He stood to his feet, gave a swift bow from his waist for respect, and approached, slowly, winding through the many carpets of men around him, toward the center of the room and the man who awaited him.
There was a piercing scream and a rather tall woman bound in ropes was thrust toward the center altar where he stood beside this leader.
"Please..." she begged as she was thrust into his arms. Her tears streamed off her face, delicately, one after the other in little streams to her chin, where they dripped off from her trembling, and she pleaded in vain. "Release me..."
There was another woman beside her, veiled this time, and she pleaded the same thing, in her own language.
And there was a man also, rather short, but muscular, and he was shirtless.
These three mortals were to become apart of a ritual they could never comprehend in front of monsters they could never bring themselves to believe in their existence.
Siavush knew the ritual well, and it brought a clever smile to his lips. His choice. His reasoning. The others would follow his strength.
His choice was the first woman, the Roman, and he slipped the ropes off of her arm as he slid his head to the side and surveyed her.
Beautiful, yes, delicate, even better. Oh.
Her flesh would become his feast.
He ripped the clothes from her neck and as she bolted away, he grasped her by the wrist and snapped it.
Falling to her knees, she screamed again in agony.
And Siavush had her in his power. As he took her in his arms, lifted her off his feet and dangled her out in front of him, that droning chant flew up again, and it intensified as he smiled again and drove his teeth into the tender white flesh of her neck.
He was locked against her, breathing with her, lapping up all the blood until she was nothing but a dried, shriveled corpse.
Gorged and strengthened by this feast, he placed his hand on the foot of the statue of the main of their many gods and turned back.
"I go to battle now."
And they nodded at him, all except the warrior that had been so jealous.
He was off.
The lycans awaited.
He would look for a fight, and he would do what he did best again. Kill them until there were no more.
This war had been waged for far too long.
Akbar, his own father, had been one of those long ago victims, yet Akbar had fought so bravely. And Siavush had so strived to be like his father, and now that he was, he would avenge him. He swore it.
And so he swept, a sword in its sheath around the belt of his shirtless, inked body, into the streets of Constantinople. Even as he passed through the streets he could feel its diversity in its humans. The Christians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Muslims, the Turks. So many different ethnicities and religions and languages that he found it so hard to keep up with them all. The city had changed over the years, and although he was still a young immortal, he could still sense it. It would continue to change forever.
And then, of course, there was its diversity in its supernatural. The lycans, the vampires, and even diversity within those two groups. He was a raw example of that.
And all of these elements, human and inhuman, had been merged into new cultures, one of which he was apart of.
Was there any name for his religion? But it was ancient, and even more ancient with the many elements that formed it.
He mused on these matters as he walked stealthily through the streets, prepared more now than ever for a fight.