Anthriel Luthias-silver Reflections

[*Lucadia]

Basic Information
Name: Anthriel Luthias
Aliases: Argent Tsukito the Silver Raven, Vashtalla the Than-Thalas Valthonis, Master Fluffy, Atho the Guardian, He of Silver Hair, Santent, Fey, Tree Fairy, Shattered Intent, Fintan. perhaps a few more hes forgotten at the time.
Titles: Black Wizard of the High Tower of Sorcery, Servant of Nuitari, Agent of the Shadow Proclamation: Intergalactic Police, Chronomancer, Dimensional Engineering Theorist, Assistant Manager at the Institute of Temporal Misunderstandings, Outcast, Renegade, Nemesis, Fey Slave and The One that Forgot, Factotum Fintan of the Sign of One
Origin: Silvanost, Krynn
Gender: Male
Race: Silvanesti
Age: 227 (Approx?) "Argent does not exactly know and cant account for all time spent in different lives
Profession: Guardian of Secrets and Magic with Archivist interest in past, present and future primes, planets and universes. Former member of Silvanesti House Gardener, peasant rank. Great deal in knowledge with mechanical devices in operation and functions.
Languages: Thieves Cant. Magi. Silvanesti (Elven). Common. Draconic. Sylvan. Abyssal. Auran
Accent: Soft melancholic , never raises his voice, High Elven "Gaelic "

Physical Information
Height: 5'9
Weight: 130
Body build: Lanky, lithe, taught with thin muscles underneath
Skin type: Pale as bright moonlight, smooth
Hair style: Headband to keep bangs out of eyes, rest put up in a long ponytail
Scars: Duplicate matching scars on inside of palms running full length from thumb to wrist.
Guesses to how they came to be is he either attempted to stop a blade from running him through or done with ritual
Colouring:
Hair: Silver White [throwback in the blood line]
Eyes: Crimson red with silver flecks
Skin: Pale white marble
Mental Information
Alignment: What ever makes sense to him at the time (Underlying Chaotic Neutral)
Philosophy: Nuitari's Law: The world beyond the walls of the towers may bring brother against brother and order against order, but such is the way of the universe.
The means to get to a end result can be acceptable.
Deity/Beliefs: Preservation of magic in all forms, first and foremost before anything else.
Life is potential.
Dreams are to be realized.
Subtle convert of Somnos the Slumber.
Additional Information
Personality:

[u]Blinkered:[/u][i] Argent sets a course of action and is nearly impossible to deter[/i] [u] Egotistical:[/u][i] The elf has a grand view of himself as being center of things and has need realize it.[/i] [u]Flirtatious:[/u] [i] Vashtalla finds it fun to fluster everyone and everything at drop of a hat.[/i] [u] Fatalistic: [/u] [i] Argent has seen a lot things in his life and feels need to explore an end due past complications.[/i] [u] Loyal:[/u] [i]The silver haired elf is like a dog with a bone. He does not let go of those he feels are in his inner circle of trust and will not leave them behind.[/i] [u]Outlandish:[/u] [i] Argent is compulsed to tell the strangest tales and say the weirdest things to assure his audience he is not dull.[/i] [/li]

Flaws:

[u] Curiosity:[/u] Hes a clever elf always looking for something new. It does not matter if safe or dangerous. [u] Personality Disorder:[/u] Luthias has suffered several traumatic breaks, each one producing a separate personality fragment. Duration and control relies on environmental factors. [u] Overconfident:[/u] Argent is infused with a lot ideas that makes him mean well, but is sure of himself will work. He is the best. [u] Paranoid:[/u] He has been burned in the past and feels anyone trying get close to him is out to hurt him. [u] Reckless[/u] Fear has little grips on the elf. What should be common sense to run away is more a reason to run for it instead as if it was the next thrill. [/li]

Gear: Hidden dagger with a broken blood gem pomel. Tool belt and component pouches.
Jewelry: Amulet with rune markings. This is his spell book transmuted
Habbits/hobbies: Cultural and history studies on various primes and races.
General Health: Vessel looks fine. Start to plumet with extended magical use.
Weaknesses: Fatal attraction to danger and pursuit of knowledge. Overwhelmed by the burdens and regrets. Reverie proves to be a constant source of pain. He can't shake the feeling that every time he sees flowers, he thinks of blood blossoming. Delusional thoughts in comparison to the normal sod.

Important Dates
Left Krynn: 353 AC
Entered Ravenloft: 769 BC
Left Ravenloft: ____
Entered Sigil: 130 HA

[*Lucadia]

. . . Pieces behind the shattered mirror . . .

Various mythos to why everything has gone wrong

Some bonds do not last, but no matter how brief the time was, it continues to have impact into the present life.

Some say that a mage invests a portion of their souls into a mystic bond referred to as familiars. There are those that use them as no more then just tools to do their bidding. Some come as true companions and friends. How else would you feel about a creature that knows and feels every desire and whim you have and is pleased to do as you ask without question? The spirits are joined and yet separate entities.
Then again, there are some where the familiar is also a manifest of the internal personal of the mage, and in some cases, their own alter egos. Perhaps that is what its like to talk to your self without bias?

In this tale, a silver hair and fair skinned fey kept the company of a ebon feathered bird. Where the elf
kept silent, the avian sang. When he wanted to be alone, the flutter of wings was a constant reminder he never was. Where the heart was serious and mind of logic, the fowl was mischievous to take his things and hide them and banter about inane things. "Master, Master, without a care, I think your starting to grow human hair!"

He had found the creature, or was it the creature that found him, to teach and challenge his patience. Then, it was no more.

...What is like to reverie in moments of pain . . .

"Breath was pushed out through his lungs. He tried to heave to one side to get sick and gasp for air again. Only to find another prompt boot to his chest holding him fast. Hazlani voice rumbled its foreign tongue at the elf. Only the tone of voice implied it to been a question. Before he could say a word, stunned from the sudden predicament as he laid in a corn field, another swift kick to the ribs landed hard. Human hands reached down roughly, grabbing the satchel from his thing
fingers. Another man at the side, speaking, before grabbing the contents and dumping it upon the ground. One. Two. Three pouches of various spell components of a fledgling magi. His spellbook, then torn apart. This only seemed to make the two more furious, now spewing the barbaric tongue, nonsense to his ears. He cringed back, disgusted as his own show of cowardice. He wanted to be in control.

There was one more thing in the satchel that was left . The one of a tiny creature that made movement. Crimson eyes go wide as he sees the taller man clasps his hands around the cloth satchel, a cruel twisted smile former, enjoying the rising terror now evident from the silver haired elf.

"Ust, Ust! Aos!

A piercing screech from the bird inside, A raven making its last noise as it was promptly swung to the ground llike the ball on a flail until impact.
This tiny creature, bound by servitude to its Master and linked in life force. He felt the last moment. Flitter of the heart, drawing its last breath. Last
empathic thought "I had failed you Master." Then the life extinguished. Elf tilted his head back, eyes rolling back, then faints with the passing."

. . .Death of Patience . . .

[*Lucadia]

. . Lands of the Iron Tyrant. . .

Memory stung to much to try to recall what had happened before. What he been doing for day after day, this present. It made absolutely no sense to him. Had he always been like this? Just felt.. wrong.

Men with a foreign tongue leered over the various groups. Groups of elves and haflings, deformed humans and gnomes, the sturdy dwarven folk and various other races he could not name of yet.

Each day was the same, waking before the crack of a cold dawn in the shadow of the Balinok mountains.
The air was foul but more from the unwashed bodies of all the other slaves, kept in close quarters and caged at night.

During the day they was marched out to the fields to toil on the hard farm grounds, various crops and staples that Hazlan demanded. The fight had been taken out of all the others, for they been here for years or even born into the depraved life style.

In a culture ruled by humans and the Church of the Lawgiver, there was no room for anything else then those repressed .Divine law that anything demi-human has been cursed by Him and those that refused lip service to this god would be placed in eternal slave hell.

One most Henious crimes was to be a mage in this lands, where execution was normal policy. But a pale and red eyed fey made a interesting slave. Perhaps he been good for breeding stock or just out of amusement.

It made his efforts in the field to pull the weeds up and planting painful with twice the effort, when every finger had been broken for his own "good".

[*Lucadia]

. . . When a cat comes calling . . .

Slow hazy thoughts slid into place with passing nights, the most prominent when no moon shone in the sky. Reverie in emptiness of stark streaked raindrops, interrupted by a silent voice no one could hear.

It was always on the edge of his mind, barely remembered , these quips of promises and dreams.

.:Master:.

.:Shalafi.:.

.:I have a secret, if you only follow me.:.

.:Break your shackles, return your sanity:.

.:I can help you out of this calamity. I ask but one favor in return.:.

It is hard to say when the slave realized the disconcerting voice was not some internalization, giving false hope where none was to be found. Or when it started to be a sound a good idea. Did anything mater at this point? Perhaps it was worth trying and dying then nothing at all. Weather there was ever a verbal agreement between broken fey slave and entity is not known. To him, it was his plan all along.

What creeps in the Mists is the Familiar of Dread. Crafty, Malevolent, seeking a new Soul to Shred.

Green eyes aflame, waiting, full of snark. Tendrils of aether for breath, seeking a Magi of Dark

.:Shalafi, I could almost pity your loss of memories, but I relish in living in your shadow, watching your actions bring you closer to redefining yourself:.

[*Lucadia]

. . . Vrolock Country, day one . . .

Cold and pale light of the Barovian sun woke him from the void of Elven reverie. He felt the pain that trickled across his body like the down pour of rain drops. Each pin prick of sensation laid bare dried and cracked wounds, the blood long coagulated in place.

Everything felt stiff, even the effort of breathing was difficult. One crimson eye opened slowly, slow thoughts forming at his first visual. Rise of golden wheat several feet above him, distorting the light and shadows. The opening of this one eye though had disturbed the creature that had long been waiting to see if he would move. A black bird that been perched above, waiting for its meal to die, made a soft "Caw" before the rustle of wings carried it off. Several others nearby followed suit after the first.

He gritted his teeth at the effort he took to raise his head, to give himself an overview. Silver hair matted to his head from the sweat, dirt and blood. The garments he had upon him hardly covered anything. Barely strips of cloth, frayed ends and signs of recent tearing.

He labored to his feet, having to use pure leg strength to rise. He made the mistake of testing his hands upon the dirt at first, only to been greeted with the worse torment he had known in his memory.

That is, if he could recall what had happened for the past hundred and seventeen years.

Escape has left him broken, as flight had been through the misty boarders. How he survived can only be found in crevices of the deepest of sleep. Adrenaline? The ally that did not reveal its self? Now here, a once Silvanesti filled with dignity had no more. A beggar, a commoner, lack of skill, robbed of vitality and forgotten with no name.

[align=center]"Dreams we had never meant to have, we reached to far, now who do we have to blame?"[/align]

[*Lucadia]

. . . Time is all that matters between all distances . . .

[align=center][/align]

[align=center]A journal belonging to Argent Tsukito. It is thick for such, an inch or so. Filled with the finest paper he could find, bound in black leather. Great care had been taken by an expert to scrawl runes across the cover, done in the dyes of white, red and black. A trinity once again represented . The pages proceeding contain the thoughts of the past and present[/align]

~Silvanesti Script~

"This is just the beginning. A record of recollections. In the dire case that I forget who I am once again, then there is hope I will be able retain
what I was. Argent Tsukito. That is who I am now. A name meaning Silver moon man. Words from two different cultures. Do I feel like a Argent Tsukito? How am I to know? What I once known is gone. I should know my own feelings toward..anything and here I am pondering
what to make of it. Argent..I. I feel like a new born babe that been gifted sight. My senses are reeling of the intake of the myriad of new experiences.

I just wonder. Do I have the capacity for love? Hate? Mercy? Compassion? Envy? If I had all these before, then why does it feel like I want to push people until they are overcome in their own emotions to allow me to drink in it with them?"

So far.. I no longer know what is truth in these lands. A stranger in broken lands, something of a nightmere dreamscape only the darkest of mind should know.

Angry? Very. I feel the very Gods that supposed to look after me have forsaken me. I have been told..what? Go my own way, forget them as well. That it just much as their problem to have broken the convenent with mortals. Then there is other theories ..they just cant reach this bleak place.

What is it I need the most? A new foundation, where promises cannot be broken. So many years, lost. . .

[align=center]"Each Day was a Defeat, Every Night a Triumph, Pretending to be Someone Else"[/align]

[*Lucadia]

[align=center][/align]

[Silvanesti Script]

It'ta have found this place in the woods in my wanderings. Stood alone, in the dark. Alone and without thought to the present dangers. There is a soft wing and rustle of wings overhead, like that remind me if one of the griffons had passed overhead. Within a promise of a coming frost soon. Night birds called back and forth to each other, but other then that, silent. Here was a place to grieve a slow and dying death, much akin to ailing old age.

This is how It'ta know It'ta am not home. In the seat of my stomach, It'ta can feel the roiling darkness and unease of this land. Its decay,putrescent and long lingering afoul. It grips a tight fist of fear, cold waves and each one mounting to further despair. The blood and bone that E'li had granted us as spirits , to be his children, that joy no longer courses through me as I stand upon this soil.

Each ones of us elven kin is raised with a chant on our lips. Weather one of the Light elves wants to admit this to our poorer barbaric cousins that something is still shared in the blood with this mystical bond with the land. A chant that goes "As lives the land, so live the elves." _And I have to wonder, is this why all the other kin appear sullen and withdrawn? Or have they fallen?_

A simple thing really, to acknowledge our blood and bone and earth we live and bleed for. Yet this is as profound to every kin, as here
was a prayer that told every elf what his place in the world was.

A small saying that goes as far as holding the Silvanesti structure. It is cold and hard of that of a steel chain, bound tightly. Each link upheld the law, tradition and strictures. Rigid and inflexible, generation after generation until the gods cast us down and shatter it to a thousand pieces.

I am no longer forged with this chain. Left without conformity and purpose. Lost and lonely. Sick as the land.

[align=center]"In the greatest hour of need, King Loracs' faith in the Light gods had failed, dooming fair Silvanost to the Nightmare Kingdom of the world."[/align]

. . . One Present Recording
" This Silver Raven has found things strange, wonderful, and frieghtening all at the same time. Perhaps I am going soft? A rap tap tap just out side Melethkanara, a victim that been returned to dust. Plenty of dust to be had else where as well, a flames engulfed the underbelly of this wretched cage.

One string at a time. One time stream It'ta witnesses , being tugged from so many hands. Cat's Craddle? Gotcha . . "

[*Lucadia]

Melethkanara (Advanced Nascent Ormralest)
Built By: Elves
Used Primarily By: Elves
Modified By: Pilot Anthriel Luthias (Argent and other alias)
Tonnage: 24( Approximate 66,000 cubic feet)
Cost: 378, 600 (If you was to build it new , as is)
Hit Dice: 36d10+80 (440 hp)
Initiative: As the Pilot (5)
Tactical Speed: As per helm, possibly modified by Pilot
Tactical Maneuverability: Perfect (Good w/o living sails). Capable of flying backwards
Armor Class: 21 (–4 size, +15 natural)
Armament: Ram (Crew, 1) 4d8 + 16
Crew: 1/24 (Only one needed to pilot, Maximum of 24 people on board)
Air Capacity: 4096 man-days, replenishes 36 per day
Landing — Land: Yes
Landing — Water: Yes
Hardness: 10
Material: Living Wood reinforced with Glass Steel
Cargo: 6 Tons (Mostly Plant and Soil Material)
Keel Length: 70 feet
Beam Length: 20 feet

Melethkanara is a living and awaken ship, able to move on her own (the reason for low number of minimum crew listed). Approximate age is around two centuries, retaining information of Wild Space and several Crystal Spheres that been visited. As a living ship, Melethkanara is capable of self repair, at 36 hit points per day. Speculation that the Pilot and this ship are bonded like such as a familiar is to a mage, sharing life forces or can even mentally switch positions of physical vessels.

Pilot Argent carries a living wood wand he focuses magic through, that is a part of the ship.

Spelljammer Helm is a Crown of Stars, fashioned to appear as his headband. Helm allows use of the ships abilities up towards a mile away, even if the pilot is not on board.

Helm Abilites: Crown of Stars- (Price, Unknown, but likely pirates and criminals would covet this thing once found out)

Dweomer Boost: The Pilot when sitting in the helm is able to augment the helm by the spell potential that the spellcaster has still available to him.

Chameleon: This helm modification allows a ship and crew to be disguised by an illusion much like the change self spell

Cloaking: Ship with cloaking ability can become completely invisible along with its crew/passengers.

Cruising Speed: The Spelljamming helm is capable of moving the ship up towards 100 million miles per day.

One with the Ship: Pilot is capable of seeing and hearing into all rooms of his ship.

Str 42
Dex 10
Con --
Int 14
Wis 16
Cha 14

[align=center][/align]

[*Lucadia]

[ Deep blue light like that of a star sapphire incandescence above, pulsing slowly from pale to brighter set in a sixty second cycle. Thrum of the room occasionally broken of its solid state, the natural creekings of the living wood as it shifts. As if it was alive, breathing, but only the deepest of exhales cause stress on the hull. Perhaps it was only imagination, or just knowledge of the pilot, psychologically integrated with the sentient ship. Then there was the always constant, steady drip. His version of a water clock, keeping time with life]

Drrrrip!

Systems powering down. Air capacity at twenty days supply. Resting State

One heartbeat thudding in rhythm with every moment

Another one bites the dust. Come on, sing along! I know you want to. Better then crying!

Then another, and another, and another in rapid succession.

Dead, Red Dead. Burning. Hot. Ash. Lava. Screaming Sky.

How can you stand it, knowing that once your time has passed, Its gone. Forever. Like Illia.

No Heroes' avail, wheres your Gods' Now!?

Sigil precipitation likely. Air contamination twenty percent. Liquid filters in place.

We are alive. All Alive! I think we should get Odette more flowers. Flowers made of chocolate!

Winked out of existence. String cut from the great woven thread that is the time line.

Tomorrow be a day to flirt with disaster! We can play chicken, start chasing assassins in the light

Destruction on this scale. We can barely think how to deal with what we saw. Felt.

Missed opportunity. Had it just been us, we could been clever enough to even trick a Queen.

Boring, Boring, Boring! Can we mope after we are food for the worms? How about . .

We are all trying forget the insufferable and untold amount of life lost.

Shadows we are of our former selves

Spiced tea in the Sensate Hall. Bring Quinn and Brindas . .

Pretending our lives are perfect after this disaster. Putting on brave faces and false smiles

I believe we are experiencing a pang of survivors guilt. How do humans deal with this?

If we told Greg to give a dog a bone- No. Stop Right there. Banish that thought.

And carrying on as if nothing had happened.

Prior experiments that been attempted is memory wipes, Self mutilation, over-indulgence -

Here with my internal thoughts, its heart breaking on a scientific level. Consider entire races, species,

In the grande scheme of destiny, Everything has a time to be and a time to die, Including Primes.
Its sacrifice was not in vain. Now we must wait and see. Follow the lead.

Irregular respiratory functions detected on secondary old one. Adjusting atmosphere Pilot.

A shared history, cultures, technology , removed from the grasp of the Multi-verse.

He of broken Silver Wing, left us but bones to pick clean!

I can't believe we had our hands in think of it all and still feel as we had failed them all . .

Now if we could fly to whittle them all away, We promise to make them pay.

Burning hate. Sulfuric rain. Lava bring. Was that a Kelth Scream?

If only Kelth had pointed ears. And didnt smoke fire. .Bring him a steak!

Does that make all the blood, lives lost in this excursion we participated in, worth the price?

We seen Vyse going on without strife. Brought him a gift of tune again. Ruby bright, hum with life

Beings cannot see the forest when standing inside her. Observer or the Forest must move.

Those trapped within cannot become The Makers, The Shakers, the Necessary Creators. From the ashes within, flaming fury to chase Samaster to his end.

[Bell thrums from the bowels of the ship, long. Dull, as if been weathered with age. Signaling the turning of the next days cycle]

Crew status in hibernation. Petals closing for resource conservation

Argent (Voice of Broken Absolution)

Vashtalla (Fragment of Mindless Self Indulgence)

Shalafi (Fragment of the Magi)

Sestari (Fragment of Deception)

Melethkanara (Voice of Wisdom)

Luthias ( Voice of Final Resolution)

Rentai (Fragment of Pain)

[*Lucadia]

The Day Before Yesterday

Time passes for young elves quickly, filled with duties and preparation for taking over their House profession when Coming of Age.

Anthriel Luthias of House Gardener, was no different.

A typical Silvanesti with hair the color of starlight and opaque blue eyes, lanky in his sub-adult youth, adorned in silken green robes highlighted in lilly white. With an internal sigh that often accompanied his thoughts, week after week in his training, He joined the other servitors of the lower Houses.

Training consisted of strict regimen under the watchful guise of higher up peers, that often of another House, those fortunate to been born in Protector, Royal, Magus or even of the middling status classes of Wood Shaper, Metalcraft and Mariner.

This month had been more tedious for the young elf though, in the sense he was not particularly enamoured with the lessons. Instead of sneaking outside the protected walls of Silvanost, when he could get away from his House captors (so he felt, when he was supposedly doing herbal field guides and picking), this consisted sitting inside the Temple of E'li.

While one most important structures to adorn just under the Tower of Stars where their high king resided and not so far from the Garden of Astrin, it was a place best felt for scribes, magi and priests. Old texts of the last ten thousand years, left to young-lings to painstaking transcribe year after year.

Here, where lowly House servants was allowed to be afforded their small amount spells to perform their lifes work, from here out until death. At least that small amount magic did not come with the price of Pain and Death should they be utter failures or under the scrutiny of the High Towers of Sorcery.

And even yet, these cantrips that be part of his life from here on out, this very humbling start in magic excited him in ways that only new lovers found in first passionate kisses. Once you start, hard to stop and just wanted a bit more.

In the grande scheme of E'lis will, his destiny should have been sealed, a future as the Groundskeeper in the Garden of Astrin.

Mortals and their ways though, become sourly disappointed with the lots in life that are cast to them. All the Sanctioned magic he ever be allowed to have, be that of lowest circle and cantrips, forever locked into only affecting one variety of living matter. All the flora and fauna, plants and flowers, made to sit still, pretend to be perfect, allowed no breathing room until death. Irony that the very thing he wanted to escape, he was just much as a fragile flower, seeking to take root, craving to have the growing void of emptiness to be filled.

One pair of eyes had taken notice.
~Story Fragment from the Book of Lingering Memories