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<blockquote data-quote="Nazhkandrias" data-source="post: 3562363" data-attributes="member: 50521"><p>In a shady corner of the room, a figure stands reading an old book, wearing voluminous black robes. A glint of jewelry occasionally flickers as light passes over him, and his stark white hair is hard to miss. However, the figure doesn't appear to be too old, judging by his regal bearing. Long, pointed ears indicate that he is an Elf. He seems to be a little taller than the average elf, but his robes obscure his figure. Several members of the room eye him suspiciously, maybe even jealously, until they spot his face. Red eyes shine from his pale features, which is already enough to unnverve a few of the members of the room. Those that pay attention for a moment longer notice that the entire right side of his face is horribly twisted; taut, shriveled skin and drawn-back lips expose several of his teeth. Not a muscle moves on that side of his face, save for his eye, intently scanning the musty old tome. His right hand peeks out from his robes, just as dessicated and dead as his face. There is nobody standing within a few feet of him, but he doesn't seem to mind.</p><p></p><p>He shifts his shoulder slightly, and a slight fluttering is heard. A fine, sleek, black raven rests upon his shoulder. The bird settles as his master strokes his wings gently. The raven glances around the room, an unusual spark of intelligence shining in its eyes. A quick exchange of whispered words cross from elf to bird, to the surprise of the few who are paying attention. However, nobody can make out what is being said.</p><p></p><p>He gently closes the book, and examines the wooden sigil in his left hand. He gently turns it over, taking in every inch of its craftsmanship. <span style="color: White">"A dragon... a fine herald."</span> He gently places the symbol into one of the many pockets on the inside of his robe. As he shifts the robe, a gleam escapes the large flail strapped to his side. Along with the flail, there is a bow tightly strapped to his back, apparently made out of bleached bone. Distrustful looks are sent towards him, as assumptions are made. Inquisitor? Sage? Spy? Who's to say? He notices one or two of the looks, but those sending them turn away as their eyes meet his. Novhilion Wraithblood gives a faint smile, completely desensitized to the mistrust.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: White"><em>"After all, who would trust a Necromancer?"</em></span> he thinks to himself. A faint smile forms on the left side of his face; the right remains as stiff and frozen as before. The raven gives a faint caw.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Nazhkandrias, post: 3562363, member: 50521"] In a shady corner of the room, a figure stands reading an old book, wearing voluminous black robes. A glint of jewelry occasionally flickers as light passes over him, and his stark white hair is hard to miss. However, the figure doesn't appear to be too old, judging by his regal bearing. Long, pointed ears indicate that he is an Elf. He seems to be a little taller than the average elf, but his robes obscure his figure. Several members of the room eye him suspiciously, maybe even jealously, until they spot his face. Red eyes shine from his pale features, which is already enough to unnverve a few of the members of the room. Those that pay attention for a moment longer notice that the entire right side of his face is horribly twisted; taut, shriveled skin and drawn-back lips expose several of his teeth. Not a muscle moves on that side of his face, save for his eye, intently scanning the musty old tome. His right hand peeks out from his robes, just as dessicated and dead as his face. There is nobody standing within a few feet of him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He shifts his shoulder slightly, and a slight fluttering is heard. A fine, sleek, black raven rests upon his shoulder. The bird settles as his master strokes his wings gently. The raven glances around the room, an unusual spark of intelligence shining in its eyes. A quick exchange of whispered words cross from elf to bird, to the surprise of the few who are paying attention. However, nobody can make out what is being said. He gently closes the book, and examines the wooden sigil in his left hand. He gently turns it over, taking in every inch of its craftsmanship. [COLOR=White]"A dragon... a fine herald."[/COLOR] He gently places the symbol into one of the many pockets on the inside of his robe. As he shifts the robe, a gleam escapes the large flail strapped to his side. Along with the flail, there is a bow tightly strapped to his back, apparently made out of bleached bone. Distrustful looks are sent towards him, as assumptions are made. Inquisitor? Sage? Spy? Who's to say? He notices one or two of the looks, but those sending them turn away as their eyes meet his. Novhilion Wraithblood gives a faint smile, completely desensitized to the mistrust. [COLOR=White][I]"After all, who would trust a Necromancer?"[/I][/COLOR] he thinks to himself. A faint smile forms on the left side of his face; the right remains as stiff and frozen as before. The raven gives a faint caw. [/QUOTE]
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