Coci Heavenshield
Dawnguard Grand Master
The Force is ripe today.
The perfect valley that houses the Roon Sanctum brimming with it. Flynn is in a contemplative mood today. Not one he generally finds himself in, in fact, he avoids self reflection like the plague. To many questions that need answers, and answers that are not wanted, simply because they show the fragility of the man. Frail like the finest of ceramic, that shows the begins of fatigue, the cracks in the glaze. A shatter point waiting to happen.
Yes, he puts on a show .. cool and aloof. Nobody ever sees the real Flynn, no that would be frightening. He is a hunter, a .. killer.
The soft green grass under foot, tickles and delights him. He only wears his black leather pants and white shirt with buttons open to let the cool moist air caress his skin as he walks. He is chewing on a long piece of dry grass, a distraction for his want of a death stick. Oh a dirty habit yes, and will probably kill him in the long run, but not for some time, in fact, he has years, hundreds of years before they would get him. He is more likely to die from a blaster bolt.
His eyes lift up and gaze upon the leveled waterfalls, the noise a constant hiss and gallons of the life give substance, pours over the edge of the cliffs. The thin mist swirling in the air and soft drifting on the slight breeze to his body. His hair, black as night, now damp with it.
Flynn is here to meet a man. One he has not met yet, but told by others could help him. The hunger of Anzati needs to be satisfied, there is no getting away from it and he does not want to. But he also does not wish to feed on his fellow Templar or member of CIS. He needs to learn to curb it. For he knows that one day ... one day it would happen.
His eyes find the Sanctum, carved for the very rock of the cliffs. Rising high into the day. But they will not meet there, no. It is to the lake he goes now.
@[member="Xos'Nulo"]
The perfect valley that houses the Roon Sanctum brimming with it. Flynn is in a contemplative mood today. Not one he generally finds himself in, in fact, he avoids self reflection like the plague. To many questions that need answers, and answers that are not wanted, simply because they show the fragility of the man. Frail like the finest of ceramic, that shows the begins of fatigue, the cracks in the glaze. A shatter point waiting to happen.
Yes, he puts on a show .. cool and aloof. Nobody ever sees the real Flynn, no that would be frightening. He is a hunter, a .. killer.
The soft green grass under foot, tickles and delights him. He only wears his black leather pants and white shirt with buttons open to let the cool moist air caress his skin as he walks. He is chewing on a long piece of dry grass, a distraction for his want of a death stick. Oh a dirty habit yes, and will probably kill him in the long run, but not for some time, in fact, he has years, hundreds of years before they would get him. He is more likely to die from a blaster bolt.
His eyes lift up and gaze upon the leveled waterfalls, the noise a constant hiss and gallons of the life give substance, pours over the edge of the cliffs. The thin mist swirling in the air and soft drifting on the slight breeze to his body. His hair, black as night, now damp with it.
Flynn is here to meet a man. One he has not met yet, but told by others could help him. The hunger of Anzati needs to be satisfied, there is no getting away from it and he does not want to. But he also does not wish to feed on his fellow Templar or member of CIS. He needs to learn to curb it. For he knows that one day ... one day it would happen.
His eyes find the Sanctum, carved for the very rock of the cliffs. Rising high into the day. But they will not meet there, no. It is to the lake he goes now.
@[member="Xos'Nulo"]
