The White Raven

Lasher Grau ( Servant of Níðhrafn & Mercenary ) s p i r i t - p o s s e s s e d u n d e a d ❝ Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it. ❞ ― Cormac McCarthy

[hasbakianeji]

It disappointed him. The words that were spoken to him. For a moment Hasbaki thought perhaps it was the dead finally come to give him some mental reprieve to his delusion, in a way maybe that's what the man was, but it did not feel like a reprieve. If his mother was not in the one place within the cemetery soaked in death that held a modicum of beauty then she was amongst the rest of the graves stacked one on top of each other, not an ounce of life to them.

Once he exhaled a disappointed breath he sought the origin of the voice, turning to see a man of hair so white he thought perhaps he was a banshee come to wail at him. A notion that was cut short by the indication of who he had been speaking over since he was a child.

A young girl.

No. The Aneji coven had no young women. Women were, by the diety they worshipped, filled with sin and so were unwelcome within the coven. The few women that did enter their sacred grounds were ones that came to have the Aneji coven's sons, and then returned home - so far as he was told, and long suspected was not truly the case. Hasbaki had always been of the delusion that there was some magic to them, that made sure they had males, but the man's words offered an alternate indication. One he could not bring himself to fully think, let alone say. So his lips merely pursed in denial that beneath him was a baby girl denied life.

Pushing himself up from where he stood, glancing around at the headstones knocking against one another, the graves of differing heights for some had been buried without coffins, while other's thrown in, and was not quite sure if he wanted to know, or if the man was simply a trickster come to con him. Not that he looked it. Conmen had a way to them, a style of sympathy that this man lacked in his aesthetic even if his words felt as though they wrung with it.

"If she is here that is bad, is it not?" Hasbaki asked but she would be. Those that died on the grounds, in service of a false god, could not move on because there was no one to aid them, not a god, not their own fortitude for one need to always have a god, not any concept of anything beyond but one that was a lie. The statue of this diety watched the pair with unseeing eyes, an ominous figure that forced obedience from Hasbaki and his coven.

Hasbaki stepped forward, his long black cloth dragging over the dry dirt. "How do you know who is beneath the soil?" he asked. Sure introductions would come with time but not yet willing to offer up his own name in case this was one of his Uncle's tricks.

[lashergrau]

Lasher sensed the disappointment in the man rise up, almost ready to strike — likely because it was tied to a notion that his claims were unjust, unfair, cruel, deserving reprimand. Though his mind was muddled by a haze of unending wakefulness, by the onslaught of so many directives and sensations that were not his own, he understood the logic and merely bowed his head in respect. The blow he'd landed was likely unwelcome, but it was truth, nonetheless — and truth had a way of purifying, of cleansing away rot, restoring order. If only someone had stumbled upon him and struck him down with a blade forged with it.

The two of them stood for a long moment, obelisks coiled with pale mist, each surveying the graveyard in his own quiet way. Lasher closed his eyes and let the tapestry of many voices drape him, chasing away the emptiness that reigned in the marrow of his bones, touching the hollow walls of his soul. It was as if they sensed he was a vessel they might fill, but if so, he was but a leaky gourd. Not yet whole. Not yet able to hold. He was a copse of brittle, dead trees through which wind coursed and nothing took purchase.

When he heard the question asked of him, he took a moment to consider it. To Lasher, any state of being — even trapped — seemed a blessing. Was not a soul fixed to a body the same as one chained to a graveyard? At least they were whole in essence. But he understood how a son might prefer his mother's soul free. To imagine someone you loved damned eternally to a den of cursed souls, unable to pass on, dishonored, nameless — must have been unspeakable. Lasher wondered idly if there were those that loved him who might mourn what he himself had become.

As he opened his eyes, they flared like a fire in the otherwise colorless night. More voices washed over him, articulated fragments. Some raged, others wept, most sought some sort of absolution or release.

❝ Mm, ❞ he supposed. ❝ There are no souls buried here of their own will, if that's what you mean by 'bad'. ❞ Bad was so subjective, though. Lasher knew it was wrong to envy the souls here, but he would rather have no place to belong than to be without his own soul, his own sense of self. At least they had that. The man stepped closer, and Lasher raised his chin. As tall as he was, he was often looking down the ridge of his nose at others. ❝ I am the Scorn-Raven's servant, and the souls here were done a great injustice. It is because they deserve vengeance that I can hear them, and they me. ❞ His gaze wandered from the man's face to scan the proximity of the cemetery. ❝ Why was your mother buried in such a place? ❞

[madkingmerry]

Blood, Sweat & Beers is a nightly haunt for Merrymock. He flits around the spacious tavern, fluttering with the crowd, the loudest and brightest in the room for he always shines. A walking spectacle. He dances with the music or without, more often without than with. He picks up a lyre and delights with a raunchy tune about hares in winter and excessive copulating. He balances a chair on his nose and absorbs applause  from those around him like oxygen. Attention, smiles, laughter, these are his life bloods, and a good ale. Lots of ale. And wine. Lots and lots of wine. No one escapes his attention for Merrymock, though appearing to be a flighty thing incapable of maintaining focus on any one thing for too long, is always keenly and intensely aware of everything around him.

He hears the hollow spaces of the room that do not ring with laughter as a warning.

Landing like a bird with a broken wing against the side of the bar  beside the white haired man with his glinting great sword, Merry exalts with a great heaving breath, “My, my, my, you are a lively one!” Laughter bubbles from his throat. His grin stretches wide. Merrymock is never without his signature smile, all sharp teeth and curled edges, wrinkled cheeks and glittering eyes. Kohl and grease and sweat nests beneath the creases of their yellow flame. “Oh, oh, but I know you. Yes? Mm,” Merry hums thoughtfully, a clawed finger taps his chin. “Oh, darling of moonshine, oh warrior of ash, would I were as dazzling as your dying light.”

[lashergrau]

Scorn-raven's formidable servant responds slowly to the overbearing stimulation come to find rest at his side. Of course, the brightest sun in this din would navigate to the lightless void that was Lasher — it was a natural requirement, a balance of things beyond their understanding. Unfortunately for him, the being at his side is one that commands attention, and even his own nature is sundered by the sounding of such a directive.

From afar, the tiefling had been a wingless butterfly. Driven by a sewn-in desire to please, to delight, to entertain. Whether he finds true fulfilment in such frivolity, Lasher cannot ascertain, but he does feel a draw to whatever lives beneath the glittering, distracting surface layer presented. A sort of recognition glints in his amber eyes. The fate of one who is driven by a false nature, one dialed by environment, circumstance, desperation, and not by true presence, perhaps? Familiar. His lip curls. A feral wolf's warning.

❝ You mock me, ❞ he growls, fingers tightening around the mouth of his chipped glass. ❝ I'm not interested in whatever cheap amusements you offer. As dead as I may be, I am more whole than you. ❞ The words are meant to slice, but they only irritate Lasher more once he's spoken them — for they are a half-truth. Whatever he is has not been realized, still in the throes of becoming something other than a thrall of his deity. He is still but a reckoned weapon, a nameless haunt that razes and stalks, never sleeps. But something stirs beneath the layers of ash and gray sinew that compose him. Dead blood doesn't flow, and stolen eyes don't see, and yet ...his soul is an ember, still burning, catching fire.

And he will see to its resurrection.

That toothy grin sparks a memory from the foggy miasma in his mind. Lasher remembers the feel of the tiefling's throat collapsing under his hand, the taste of fel blood and sweat on his marigold skin — skin blooming with bruises wrought by the unforgiving execution of their union.

The recollection is not like others — some random echo that ripples over him then falls away into obscurity. It's a cacophonous clang that jolts him into the present with a surge of clarity. In that remote hour so long ago, he had felt alive. The tiefling ( was it Merry? ) had suffered his hand, wore his welts, writhed beautifully, achingly, hungrily in the shadow of his rage.

❝ You, ❞ he accuses, mind swirling in the haze of the bard's befuddling poetry. It is difficult, this overwhelming flood of sensations, but he weathers its intensity — until he cannot any longer. A calloused hand carved from marble reaches out in a flash, wrenching in the fabric of Merry's tunic to draw him in, chest to chest. The nearness brings another flood of sensations, and he releases a shuddering breath against his captive's cheek. Life ignites in his still veins. ❝ Merry, ❞ he seethes, a beast waking. ❝ How could I forget you? ❞

[hasbakianeji]

A Grave Sight || Hasbaki&Lasher

The temple grounds of the Aneji coven did not reflect the land that surrounded in it Ashharren. While life seemed to flourish with exotic trees and blossoming flowers of pastel hues, water often caught in stone puddles from light rain showers, within the Aneji grounds life had been ripped from the very soil so not even grass could grow.

It was like stepping into another world when one walked through the tall wooden gates - only open a few hours a day in an attempt to recruit new members - and saw looming sandstone statues of death, trees where even the bark was dying and gravestones. So many gravestones. They surrounded the carved temple that lacked window panes and only seemed to feature the smallest of gaps that cautious eyes watched through. Many graves were so on top of one another the gravestones knocked into each other.

Hasbaki had picked one towards the back for his mother, where some of the tree from the neighbouring building had grown tall enough to be seen over the high fence. It gave the headstone some shade but an unmarked stone was an unmarked stone and Hasbaki would never know which of the graves truly belonged to his mother, it was simply a thought in his heart that nature would wish to offer some of itself to her, even if...even if Hasbaki knew nothing of the woman beyond that his father spoke of his weakness being inherited from her. That was enough for the man to decide she would have loved him in ways the family he had been stuck with could not.

"Things will change soon, mother," he assured the shaded stone, placing down an impala lily, not quite ready to blossom and so only half open. Some of his robes typically drawn up had been pulled down, including that of his mask so his words were clear, though none could presume what he meant by them, be it the coven members also wandering the grounds or the guests who were exploring either out of genuine interest for joining or to say they'd gone to the creepy temple and made it out alive.

Dusting off the knees of his black linen garb he slowly stood with an exhale. "And if you are not my mother," he spoke to the spirit he imagined might also own the grave. "Tell her what I said."

@lashergrau

[lashergrau]

The hunt had been relentless, lasting longer than a fortnight. When the Scorn-raven's drive was inescapable like that, Lasher often found himself deep in an existential pit. Dissociated, watching from behind borrowed eyes as his body was thrown mercilessly forward. A bidden steed, forced to trample all in its path.

And his targets were monstrous. Not the usual fare of petty tyrant who succumbed to him easily. Most of them were simply wayward souls, too broken and flawed to understand how to undo all the wrong they'd wrought. When he took those lives, he saw a glint of thankfulness in their eyes — to him, he was the reaper come to collect, to put them to rest, to free them of their demons once and for all. There was no joy in meting out judgement to those that longed for it. Only a melancholy conviction.

But this brand of viciousness traveled in a pack ...and it had taken Lasher weeks to get the right angle on them, to understand the breadth of their savagery, the complex dependency they had on one another's depravity. There was no way to truly qualify the rare brand of emptiness that reigned in their hearts, but he had witnessed it first-hand night after night until their insanity began to reach out and scratch at the edges of him. There was only so much malevolence a man could observe before it began to do its insidious work on him.

As if the Scorn-father took mercy on his son, he had shown clemency and departed once the final devil was felled. Lasher had walked away from the blood-drenched earth feeling dizzy, despondent, hopelessly wrecked. It was rare his own rage came up to meet the pitch of his deity's, but that night, it had.

He had meandered long into the next day & night, not knowing where his foot-falls might lead him. When he found himself on dusty, barren soil — the hallowed ground of a cemetery — he almost laughed. Bitterly. What came out was a dry, rasping chuckle. He had walked from one fresh graveyard of his own making to another, but he couldn't deny the calm he felt stepping through the boundary of the place. The graveyard took on that unsaturated glow projected by a waning gibbous moon, and dead branches clattered over head. Whatever energy was here, it was restless, but still damned to death — just like him. It felt familiar, like he could wade out into it, spread himself open, let go.

A sensation came over him — akin to the relief one feels when intentionally exhaling — but it did not last long. Deep in the field of unmarked stones sat a man speaking to the dead. To a spirit that was not his mother but a young girl calling out for her own.

Despite his size, Lasher's footsteps were quiet as he approached even while he did not seek to conceal himself. Only to be respectful.

❝ That is not your mother, ❞ he offered, his voice softer than he realized it could be. ❝ It is another motherless child crying out. A young girl. ❞ Bright amber eyes flickered to watch the other's face, curious how this unsolicited information might be received. His voice was low with nearly no inflection. Tired. But it was his own. ❝ It might be why you were drawn here. [...] I'm sorry. ❞ Lasher's eyes fell to the stone, and he listened to the quiet murmurs of the long-dead child: mindless calls for her mother, bursts of pitchy giggles then shuddering whimpers. ❝ I could help you find her ...if she's here. ❞

It felt good to offer something in service of another, something he wasn't commanded to give.

[lashergrau]

Lachesis Grins Featuring: Merrymock ( @madkingmerry ) & Lasher Locale/Time: Blood, Sweat, and Beers, Nearly Midnight

Ablutions in a cold river bed lift away the layers of grit & crimson that stain him, and he is reborn, pale and perfect, from plumes of red and ash that swirl away in his wake. He dresses methodically in the darkness, stark white in forested shadow, and leaves behind the death he wrought as if it is nothing at all. Acts like this should make him feel more human, awaken his senses from the haze slouching through his mind, but it only reminds him he is dead. What he feels is a suggestion of biting cold. An echo resonating through resurrected sinew and bone — like a stone hitting the bottom of an ocean. A distant knock, forever unanswered.

Tonight, the voice of the Scorn-raven is lost to him, leaving him an empty, hollow vessel in dreadful silence, aching. Even that stentorian thrum which buzzes in his limbs, borrowed energy from a higher source, has gone quiet, and he is torturously free of all his usual purpose & distractions. He is truly alone. Errant. Lost. It's nights like these when he feels the need to claw at the ivory cage of himself, to see if he can break free, feel anything, recover something. He is, all at once and without warning, a slave loosed from his shackles with no concept of what it is to be free.

The drive to run when there's no escape makes it impossible to rest.

Lasher finds his way into the heart of Destarin, some old rote buried deep within him taking over and directing him towards a nondescript tavern. Perhaps in the life stolen from him, he drank his fill every night, enjoyed the company of a shapely woman when she'd have him, brawled tactlessly with his brothers at arms. Perhaps he laughed, fucked, scrapped, and howled at the moon like the others and felt a perfect sense of belonging and rightness with the universe when his head hit the pillow after.

But now, he sits stiffly at the bar, his scarred palms flat on the surface — strange, white-knuckled appendages that once were his to wield, just extensions of Níðhrafn. Acts like this should make him feel more human, but only remind him he is dead. The warmth of the hearth within doesn't chase the chill away, and the lively music doesn't move him. The din of patrons drunk and red-cheeked around him is only a miserable static. He is but a vestige of human, a starless abyss that rips and tears.

His woolen hood masks his citrine eyes when he addresses the barkeep, ordering the most vicious whiskey distilled. His voice is gravel and growl. When he shifts, the greatsword between his shoulders glints silvery white.

[crownswarrp]

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐓-𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘

the white raven, ravenbound, servant of níðhrafn.

38 (physically, died a century ago), he/him. Lasher is haunted by the spirit that steers him, exhausted by his duty in service of Níðhrafn, and angered by his plight. He harbors a melancholy longing for death or rest, wrestles with having no sense of self or history — all was taken from him but his name. He seeks a sense of purpose beyond the one given him, a way out of the contract that binds him, but he is growing hopeless.

who are you?

TW: Death, Murder, Fire.

He was born Lasher Grau, a solitary hunter from the frost-ridden pines of Withermore. He lived simply and spoke little, devout only to the old ways and the sacred oaths of kinship. But his life shattered when a lordling’s men torched his hamlet in secret — a purge to silence a political rival who’d taken shelter among Lasher’s kin. He returned to smoldering ash and half-burnt bodies, and for the first time, he called to the gods not for mercy, but for vengeance. The old gods did not answer. Something older did.

After hunting and killing five of the lordling’s men, Lasher collapsed beneath a gallows tree, bleeding out in a circle of ravens. There, he was claimed by Níðhrafn, the Scorn-Raven — a forgotten god of vengeance who feeds on broken oaths and the restless dead. The spirit wove its essence into Lasher’s cold body like a wisp of smoke, stitching itself to his soul, resurrecting him as something between man, wight, and weapon. His hair & skin paled, his voice hollowed, and his shadow twisted into a winged wraith with a thousand heads. From that moment forward, Lasher became the Ravenbound, a vessel of dark retribution. He does not serve Níðhrafn; he is ridden by him, wielded by him, compelled to answer the savage shriek of injustice with the weight of his blade.

Now, the Ravenbound looms in Destarin like a silent curse. He hunts murderers who wear crowns, sellswords who break contracts, and oathbreakers hiding behind false gods. Villagers hang up white feathers as warnings when he is rumored to be near, and some beg for his aid in desperation. Few understand the cost. 

He does not take coin. He does not bargain. He does not spare.

what are you?

species: spirit-possessed undead. weaknesses: breaking curse or fulfilling purpose, fire, purified water, mental instability due to possession, can be summoned/controlled by witches/sorcerers/etc that know níðhrafn’s chant or master necromancers. strengths: binding grief, pain manipulation, precognition & postcognition as provided by Níðhrafn, flaming weapons. physical description: though undead, the spirit that possesses him has restored him to his prime. his hair and skin are deathly pale, and his eyes are a piercing and unsettling ochre — features of a creature cursed by níðhrafn.. additional notes: níðhrafn is an ancient god of vengeance of which there are still followers, servants, and worshippers. those possessed by this particular spirit usually share the same physical manifestations: pale hair & skin, and yellow-gold eyes. those that are devout and blessed followers of Níðhrafn can assume control of those possessed by the spirit by invoking an ancient ritual & chant. the possessed have no choice but to do as they are bid.

lasher grau is played by deadeye and their fc is henry cavill.

[thejingshi]

THE WITCHER | 1.06 Rare Species

for @vortexoffate