[The bone-thin, twisted form with giant tattered moth wings doesn't seem as if it should be able to move at all. In fact, in the chaos of the spreading plague, it seems to largely remain in place, its glowing white eyes blankly staring forward as if unaware of its surroundings. Or perhaps that's what it wants others to think.
In reality, it moves frighteningly fast, with little transition between its motionless state and its top speed, darting and flying with long fingers outstretched towards targets it apparently picks on a whim, rather than everything that comes within its view. Perhaps they remind it of something... or someone... and when it decides on its prey, it refuses to yield until it's fully incapacitated, whether that means restraint or death.
Perhaps the creature isn't as much of a physical threat with its form alone, but its mind is not so addled that it can't trap its victims in an endless illusory labyrinth filled with their worst fears, sometimes as real as the waking world to every sense, including pain. But the Shade isn't invincible, and even with the twisted disease fueling its magic, its form can at times be spotted—and dealt with.
Or perhaps, through the haze of unbearable pain and the urge to spread, destroy, a voice makes its way out:]
end it.
B. Light it up
[When Ferran comes to in the dream once more, he rises to his feet in a jaded daze. The place is familiar now. The situation hasn't changed. Like a disc scratched beyond repair, he's been forced to repeat the experience of whatever this dream is, but with an awareness he didn't have before. Avoid the Cwyld this time. Find a new path, a way to resolve things in a less unpleasant way. Perhaps the disc won't skip again.
The solution is to combat the plague, surely. And so when the outsiders approach with their torches and pitchforks, he thinks the solution lies with them. And maybe it does, but as it turns out, they think he's part of the problem, as his unglamoredappearance makes him clearly one of their enemy, however mixed with human heritage.
Ferran is fluttering considerably out of reach of said torches and pitchforks (iron, of course), in a shouting argument with the wielders of those instruments.]
Do you think I want this to spread?! I'm trying to help you!
[But, of course, Fae can't be trusted.]
C. Retribution
[Ferran manages to avoid another skip and another death, however narrowly. But by this time, he decides that the dream world means little to nothing to him, that it's ultimately meaningless. So why not let go? Why shouldn't he use the dream to let off steam? Why bother with the pretenses?
Not all of the carefree Fae of the settlement had fled by the time the locals had arrived. And like Ferran, they have particular weaknesses. With a thick pair of leather gloves and a stolen pitchfork, he dives through the air and lances the wing of one of those few unfortunate fairies as they attempt to escape the "paradise" they'd built, pinning them to the ground, or a tree, or whatever surface is available to him. The iron burns on contact, drawing a shriek out of them.
Bitter and full of hatred, he snarls:]
Where are you going?
[Even knowing that none of his words will make any difference, it's cathartic. He can speak his mind, play out the sorts of vengeful fantasies that he'd obsessed over before, full of righteous anger. His hands itch under the gloves, but he only grips his weapon tighter.]
You have a responsibility to these people. [There is nothing in his face but contempt as the creature struggles and seems to be debating whether to tear its wing off to get away.] And instead you're abandoning them!
[He is nothing like them. He is nothing like these Fae. He refuses.]
[OOC: More on Ferran can be found over here! If you'd like something else with me, you can check out my catch all for the month, pm me, or contact me at lumieresdedragon!]
Ferran Gallagher | OC | Fae
[The bone-thin, twisted form with giant tattered moth wings doesn't seem as if it should be able to move at all. In fact, in the chaos of the spreading plague, it seems to largely remain in place, its glowing white eyes blankly staring forward as if unaware of its surroundings. Or perhaps that's what it wants others to think.
In reality, it moves frighteningly fast, with little transition between its motionless state and its top speed, darting and flying with long fingers outstretched towards targets it apparently picks on a whim, rather than everything that comes within its view. Perhaps they remind it of something... or someone... and when it decides on its prey, it refuses to yield until it's fully incapacitated, whether that means restraint or death.
Perhaps the creature isn't as much of a physical threat with its form alone, but its mind is not so addled that it can't trap its victims in an endless illusory labyrinth filled with their worst fears, sometimes as real as the waking world to every sense, including pain. But the Shade isn't invincible, and even with the twisted disease fueling its magic, its form can at times be spotted—and dealt with.
Or perhaps, through the haze of unbearable pain and the urge to spread, destroy, a voice makes its way out:]
B. Light it up
[When Ferran comes to in the dream once more, he rises to his feet in a jaded daze. The place is familiar now. The situation hasn't changed. Like a disc scratched beyond repair, he's been forced to repeat the experience of whatever this dream is, but with an awareness he didn't have before. Avoid the Cwyld this time. Find a new path, a way to resolve things in a less unpleasant way. Perhaps the disc won't skip again.
The solution is to combat the plague, surely. And so when the outsiders approach with their torches and pitchforks, he thinks the solution lies with them. And maybe it does, but as it turns out, they think he's part of the problem, as his unglamored appearance makes him clearly one of their enemy, however mixed with human heritage.
Ferran is fluttering considerably out of reach of said torches and pitchforks (iron, of course), in a shouting argument with the wielders of those instruments.]
Do you think I want this to spread?! I'm trying to help you!
[But, of course, Fae can't be trusted.]
C. Retribution
[Ferran manages to avoid another skip and another death, however narrowly. But by this time, he decides that the dream world means little to nothing to him, that it's ultimately meaningless. So why not let go? Why shouldn't he use the dream to let off steam? Why bother with the pretenses?
Not all of the carefree Fae of the settlement had fled by the time the locals had arrived. And like Ferran, they have particular weaknesses. With a thick pair of leather gloves and a stolen pitchfork, he dives through the air and lances the wing of one of those few unfortunate fairies as they attempt to escape the "paradise" they'd built, pinning them to the ground, or a tree, or whatever surface is available to him. The iron burns on contact, drawing a shriek out of them.
Bitter and full of hatred, he snarls:]
Where are you going?
[Even knowing that none of his words will make any difference, it's cathartic. He can speak his mind, play out the sorts of vengeful fantasies that he'd obsessed over before, full of righteous anger. His hands itch under the gloves, but he only grips his weapon tighter.]
You have a responsibility to these people. [There is nothing in his face but contempt as the creature struggles and seems to be debating whether to tear its wing off to get away.] And instead you're abandoning them!
[He is nothing like them. He is nothing like these Fae. He refuses.]
[OOC: More on Ferran can be found over here! If you'd like something else with me, you can check out my catch all for the month, pm me, or contact me at