Cay'den Kela'dar

  An In Character blog for Cay'den Kela'dar, who is a Sin'dorei holy Batle Priest on Wyrmrest Accord. (He's back on WRA, hmu yo)

[expressions-of-nature]

Cool Morning in the Forest by Dmitry Zakharov

[liivn]

[devils-queen]

✞ 666 ✞

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[maureen2musings]

epitome of tranquility

shreddin_kevin

[lone-nyctophile]

One such soul is sometimes worth a whole constellation.

- Fyodor Dostoevsky

[caidence-keladar]

And here's a piece we just bought this month from @/zombiecat on Twitter. Absolutely in love with it. You might notice a twin piece on another blog of mine :eyes:

[caidence-keladar]

"I surrender who I've been for who you are."

- Sleeping At Last, "Turning Page"

[thestoriesfromwithin]

Inkbound Stories

Every tattoo had a meaning. That’s why it was permanently marked on his body was for its unique significance. For each, he had a reason as to what, where, why and specifically how. It was out of respect of his priesthood, had he hid them away for so long and why, only years later, did some finally venture out of the confines of his smothering robes.

He started small - with names, on the inside of his upper arms: Melvaen and Tasen on his right, Aeleda and Jovida on his left. The cliche being ‘my siblings give me strength’ but the truth being, 'I fight for my siblings’.

The feathers were next, for his parents that raised him on the principles of which he trains others.  Sahae'themar is inscribed on a golden feather beneath his left pec and Faehdrel is on a violet feather beneath his right, both rest on the second rib and both signify the legacy of the union he carries.

The recently updated 'Object of Discipline Faith’, as it has been called, rests between his shoulder blades. It is his largest tattoo and yet one of the least seen. It is a Scourge Val'kyr spliced with a Spirit Healer with their respective wings carrying over his shoulders and, now, halfway down his biceps. The spirit healer is the left side and the Val'kyr, the right; to him, it says more about his training than anything, but to others it may not say enough.

His most recent addition, save for the wingtips, are the chained blades on his arms - caught between the lower upper arm and the upper lower arm. They were curved hilts, with purple gems and elegant blades - the hilt and the lower part of the blade itself were bound by chains, and the chains were so tight they pulled the skin almost until it broke.

There were names on the blades - the left being his and the right… was presently absent. He does not say whose name was on it before, but says, simply, that it’s enchanted.

Cay'den’s personal favorite piece of art was the least seen partly because of location and partly because it was never interpreted correctly.

It was another pair - most things he did was in a pair - of Light and Shadow, respective left and right, around his thighs… They were chains - one glinted and gleamed with holy magic and the other seethed and smoked with shadow magic, both constricted his legs so tight, it pulled they skin nearly until ripping. They were both redone recently to match the daggers in that sense.

His mother always called them lewd, his father liked to forget he had so many tattoos, but to Cay'den it signified the hold his discipline path had on him. He was both magics, even if he was more one than the other, and he could never be without that - never be free of that.

On the back of his calves were two crosses - on the left, a white and gold one and one the right a black and purple one. These were not made to look as though they were imbued.

Last but not least, the tops of his feet. Left: holy, Sin'dorei sun, recently touched up to look more like the House crest, thus having hints of red in it. Right: a shadowy half-moon that had room to be added to in the future.

@caydenkeladar

[thestoriesfromwithin]

As Scars Reappear...

As the magic fades.

As stories return.

As a history is relived.

As scars reappear.

Four on his ears, one on his cheek… The first of so many. He ran his fingers over the line worn into his skin, peering at it as he remembered who it was that held a blade to his face. He searched and found nothing. He didn’t remember - or it wasn’t a memory he had anymore. He touched the chips out of his ears, smirking as he recalled not knowing when he’d been slashed. One was larger, probably a bullet straight through, but the others look like they could have been scrapings from a hail of ammunition fire.

He ran a hand over his neck, fingers touching a line he knew only to be there. He didn’t know its age, but interrogations as a prisoner were so distinct. They’d attempted to kill him and nearly did; he asked his sister to hide it so as not to alarm their mother. His fingers smoothed over the clawings on his shoulders that were slowly coming through. A hunter’s knack to tame a wild animal was beyond him and it only confused him more when it appeared just as ferocious in combat, as if it had never been tamed.

He touched his left shoulder, thumbing over a puncture that would soon rear its ugly head again. He touched his sternum and internally winced; he’d nearly been crushed more than once and his breastbone had taken a beating. He dropped his hand to his ribs, walking down three to find the muscle in between the third and fourth. He ran his finger between the bones, peering at it in the mirror. Nearly crushed, nearly punctured a lung, nearly escaped a collapsed rib cage.

He sighed, running the full of his hand across his stomach horizontally - a near gut spilling splash; then diagonally - that same bloody bear; then landed just under his bottom left rib… He grazed over it wistfully, smiling. His first time listening to healers and medics after fixing some damage before he got stitched up. It was a strange, unreal feeling to look back at so many of these.

He ran his hand up the backside of his ribs, feeling for the old slashes between his muscle and shaking his head. They were likely too recent or too well hidden. He moved his hand to trace over and between his shoulder blades, find the gashes that would return soon. The scars he bore on his back, he could barely touch, or barely find - they were lost beneath his fingers, at least..

He’d hid from his scars for so long, so afraid he wouldn’t look the part anymore. So concerned that a healer, or specifically, a priest was an unscathed miracle worker who walked in the Light. He should have allowed his scars to return when he set on the disciplined path, but even his own scars were not reflective of himself at that time. His scars meant something and in the times ahead, he’d need them to remember what. He needed to remember his age, his wisdom, his experience and his stories.

He wore his stories on his skin.

In the ink, in the scars.

Beneath the robe and beneath the shirt,

His stories were clean and clear.

And as magic fades.

As stories return.

As a history is relived.

As scars reappear,

So does the man who walks in both Shadow and Light

For the good of his people,

And for the good he has done.

His stories are clear.

[theravenclawswolf]

« Knowledge is a weapon. I intend to be formidably armed. »

[demonicchiip-deactivated2019013]

Ravenclaw • Bronze

[wolfytrait]

Ravenclaw mood board

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, If you’ve a ready mind, Where those of wit and learning, Will always find their kind.

[poemswords]

[bibliotheque-la-nature]

[thestoriesfromwithin]

Zenith

He sat at his desk, leafing through a weathered tome and murmuring spells he knew by heart. He’d done this a thousand times since, without combat, there was little ways for him to stay refreshed or improve… not that this was ‘improving’ anything. He leafed through, regardless, hardly looking at it as his gaze drifted to an old and most untouched Sunfury tome. Someone had recovered it from a Dawn Priest and offered it to Cay’den, who had accepted it without really looking at it. For no particular reason, he’d ignored it, thinking there was little he could learn of it but he was rather bored and it was something new to read. He closed his old tome, pushing it aside and reached up to pull the red and gold bound book out of its place on the shelf. He took a breath and sighed as he opened the tome, scanning over the first few pages mildly before taking an interest in it. Much to his surprise, he read the tome cover to cover without casting a single spell or scoffing or any other such act. When he closed the tome finally, he sat and mulled over things… 

He was taught as a Quel’dorei with relations to the humans and thus he used the Light. Despite the pride of his family, he was never taught to worship the Sun or to use its power. These thoughts that occurred to a priest 600 years old baffled him. He’d used Belore’s light before - that’s how he started off - but he was trained out of it and he was trained with the restraints and confines of the Light. His pale golden eyes blinked and he shook his head. He sat in the Sunvalor Estate at solar noon in the middle of summer and he, as a Sin’dorei, was using the Light. He opened the Sunfury tome again, blinking at it before withdrawing to his mind and seeking out Belore and the light of the sun. He beseeched them for their power, humbly requesting to learn as he should have all those years ago. He had learned prayers and hymns and spells in Thalassian, but through the wrong power. As the sun granted him power, Cay’den felt a surge and his eyes flew open. He had never used the Sunwell, and he never sought to now, but he’d also so rarely felt this unrestrained power and possibility and never before felt like his opposing forces would allow for each other. There was no such judgement in the light of the sun and it almost made him cry… almost. He was momentarily upset that his father had insisted he learn from Paladins of the Silver Hand and never one of the Knights of Silvermoon, but it passed and he sighed. He paused a moment, taking time to process what he was feeling and what had changed between the Light and Belore… 

He felt stronger, he felt taller, his vision felt sharper and when he raised his hands to his face, his eyes glowed stronger and brighter than they had before. He normally was constantly aware of the turmoil of light and shadow, but with Belore’s gifts flowing through him, the conflict was gone; the Sun knew there could not be light without dark and vice versa and it encouraged him. He felt stronger in these last two minutes than he ever had in the last 50 years. He looked now to the old tome and carefully moved it over to him, flipping open to a random page and murmuring the Thalassian incantation on the page; it was a prayer of healing, something he was very familiar with, but he had never felt it swell and perform like it was now. It filled the room with warmth and light and, though he fared no wounds, the power of it surged through him and he felt renewed. He took a deep breath and exhaled, pondering something as he looked to his hands and formed a shadowy orb. It was larger than he had intended, so he quickly squashed it and took note of needing to familiarize himself with his newfound swell in power. 

He shook his head and closed both tomes, rising to get changed. He hesitated at first to pick a ring, but snagged the gold one and slip it onto his right ring finger, moving to grab the red and gold garments he so rarely touched before finally picking up his gold staff and heading out. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go, but he needed to talk to someone about what he’d found. For now, he simply worried if Belore would return him to blond…