Windy
Pet Name: Windy
Owner: Apache
Theme / Type: Nightmare braenon
Born: June 14, 2011
Gender: Female
MisticPal Name: Pestilence
MisticPal Age: 3855 Days
Battle Portal Stats
Hit Points: 5 / 5
Strength: 2
Defense: 2
Speed: 3
Intellect: 3
Misticpower: 1
Battles Won: 0
Battles Lost: 0
| Attached Weapons | |
Books Read
Books Read: None
Exotic Foods Eaten
Foods Eaten: 7/1254 [ View Foods ]
1. - Arctic Pomme
2. - Charitee Pomme
3. - Dried Up Cactus Drink
4. - Na Pomme
5. - Pearl Pomme
6. - Phelocan Pomme
7. - Pyramid Cake
2. - Charitee Pomme
3. - Dried Up Cactus Drink
4. - Na Pomme
5. - Pearl Pomme
6. - Phelocan Pomme
7. - Pyramid Cake
Ring-a-ring o' roses,
A pocket full of posies
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
Fishes in the water, fishes in the sea.
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"I'd hold your tongue if I were you, mortal. I have never been known to be merciful. It is in your best interest to be as pleasant and... compliant as possible."
ID No. 54F
Windy; "marked by or exposed to strong winds"
invasive || punctual || greedy || deadly
"The Black Death"
Windy tries not to be evil. She really does.
She fails... most of the time.
Windy is an agent of a great, shadowy evil. He cast his name off so long ago, there is not much to be known about him. He deals in secrets and in darkness. But still he has gathered a small following, and of them Windy is but one.
She is, as one might imagine, most adept with her magic in the element of air. She is able to disperse herself completely, from matter to wind, in a matter of a second.
She does his bidding, but she is not bound to him as a minion or a slave. She has her own... dangerous... desires, which she pursues with ravenous gusto. Her partnership with evil is a beneficial one. She has no regrets.
When she must kill she prefers to do so, not with violence or steel or claw, but in a much slower, more painful method. She is a courier of disease, if you will, and if you are lucky you will escape her grasp in good health. But anger her, and you, your family, your children? She will make them all suffer, for generations to come.
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You degenerate,
you slug,
you're your own special kind of slime,
you row and paddle and try to swim,
but you never make it past the riverside.
Women faint when you pass by
children scream and run away
the men they grab the hilts of their swords
but still,
you walk on by.
You wear disease just like a cloak,
hanging wounds about your neck,
on your face you carry boils
on your arm there lies a rash,
in your palm is blood, and your fingernails
are rot,
and your feet
they reek of death.
And though you curdle stomachs,
and turn the eyes of men
us monsters know the truth
of the world,
that it is us, versus them.
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Once, there was a village which grew in a valley, guarded on all four sides by mountains. The weather was always pleasant. On summer days, there was a gentle breeze that dutifully provided relief from the heat. Life there was simple, and easy.
The people of the village were renowned for their skills of sorcery. They were loved by the world, and further made reverent by their near isolation. But in the height of summer the mountain pass would open, and people would travel out to pass on their gifts to the world. Not many traveled in, but despite their secretive nature, their gates were always open to newcomers.
So for all they loved their mystery and secrets, it came to be their downfall. An angry, powerful, and jealous monster of a man, who sat on a thrown made of dead, watched them. A true master of dark sorcery was he, and he hated how these strange mountain folk captured the hearts of all who heard of them. Songs were written of them, books of fantasy weaved as well, and all along with them came exciting wonderment.
Oh, how he hated them. When he was angry, which was nearly always, the sky around his land would swallow the sky's light, draping him and his thrown in solid black. Over time he grew to prefer the darkness, and shrunk from all light.
The people of the village, they were too bright for him. They stung his eyes, and they pained him to even draw thought upon. One day, he could take it no more.
No one ever knew of him. People heard of the black hole that was his woods, but no one dared get close enough to investigate, save a few brave warriors who never returned. He guarded his secrets much closer than even the village folk.
So when he sent the hurricane over the top of the highest mountain, where no weather had before crossed, the people of the village did not know from where or why it had come.
But there was one thing they knew, and it was that it stunk of sorcery. Dark, evil, and nasty. It smelled of death and it destroyed their homes. It destroyed them. They could not shield themselves from its immensity, and many drowned in a great flood. Others died from exposure.
More yet perished from a sickness that they had never known before.
No matter how they died, no people left the village that summer. Or any summer since.
In the village now, a gentle breeze still blows, constant no matter the time of year. But it is not warm nor welcoming; it is very, very cold.
And though it has been many centuries, the wind, it carries the stench of death on its shoulders. In that revolting smell, is a warning.
The stink of it wanders through the old, rotten ruins of a once prosperous people, as if to keep anyone from ever coming back.
~
Windy belongs to Apache.
[To be a Nightmare Braenon]
[Adopted from the pound as a Nocturnal Vix]
Revelry
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