Bastard of the Rift

Wrest Erebos Meridian ( Rift Sorcerer ) Arcane Librarian & Rift Researcher at the Library of Destarin ❝ Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real. ❞ ― Cormac McCarthy

[kallistetheharpy]

Anything but the wings

Closed Starter: @wrestmeridian Location: Near Kyngeshed

Destarin can be a dangerous place to live in, especially for those who don't possess a natural affinity for fighting, weaponry or magics. It takes a particular kind of person or creature to traverse the winding streets without fear. That particular kind of person would need an attentive eye perhaps, or an intimate knowledge of the residents, and the cultures, they would know the unspoken rules of survival.

Even with her golden brown wings which afforded Kalliste defence against most magics and weaponry, Kalliste knew to be careful. She was never seen out after dark, and even during the day she walked through the streets with her wings wrapped about her like an undulating set of armour shields. That is to say, Kalliste knew her vulnerabilities, and she compensated for them, perhaps a little strictly. But Kalliste is not without her flaws, and even the most safety conscious of Harpies could fly up into the rafters of an old decaying temple in the middle of a town like Destarin to explore, sit down for a breather and awake four hours later cloaked in the night's dark cloak.

It was cold when the Harpy opened her eyes and released her wings from the cocoon they had formed around her sleeping body. She sat up immediately, pushing away from the stone cold wall she had rested against, and at once saw how dark it was. Half of the wall of the temple had been torn down at some point during it's long history, and buildings had shot up around it, crowding it. The noise from outside of the temple was significant. It was clearly late enough for the Kyngeshed doors to be slammed open every minute or so, by patrons coming and going, hollering and singing, fighting and embracing.

The sound of life should have been reassuring, given the hair raising stillness of the temple remains, but the sounds of the streets hustle and bustle darkened Kalliste's heart with fear. She had never been caught out so late. She had never been out so late, so far from the room she rented, so far from the few friends she had made since moving to town.

It was as if the thudding of the Harpy's heart were as loud to the rest of the world as it sounded to Kalliste, because she heard a rough chortle. Kalliste flinched, looking about her, rising from the marble bench she was seated on. She was not alone.

Without a whole roof to provide shelter, moonlight should have lit up the room, but there were clouds in the sky that night, cloaking the moonlight. Instead, Kalliste relied upon her average eyesight and the flickering candle lights from neighbouring homes, and the Kyngeshed open windows.

A coarse whistle from the intruder sent Kalliste flying from the room. Panic surged through her, clouding her common sense, as her feet hit the stone, marble floors. Laughter followed her now, several voices whistling and cat calling, enjoying the sight of a frightened winged creature. When a hand reached out to grasp at Kalliste, claws tearing out feathers, Kalliste released a raw shriek of terror, surprisingly loud for the softly spoken harpy.

Somehow, Kalliste managed to avoid further grasping hands, and she escaped down a flight of steps, tumbling when she failed to spot a missing step in the darkness. Bruises would show within minutes, and Kalliste could taste blood in her mouth from where she had bit her lip upon landing. She was no runner, no athlete of any nature, and the intruders seemed to sense this. They gave her time to fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, and cheered her on as she dragged herself towards the exit.

"Help" Kalliste pleaded softly to no one as she clambered up, a boot missing, her hair dishevelled, her eyes shining with tears, and her cheek bruised and swelling. Pitiful, pathetic, Kalliste lifted her round eyes and stumbled forwards, headed for the exit, Kygeshed entrance doors in sight. Sharp white teeth ground together in determination, Kalliste's unsteady feet stamped desperately. She was so close to the streets, to potential freedom or aid, but her hopes were not realised. When she saw a looming figure or what looked like a familiar face through her teary eyes, Kalliste called out again in a hoarse whisper "Help-" before a large net was thrown over her face and she was dragged abruptly backwards.

It had not yet occurred to Kalliste to use her wings, to swat her attackers away. This was her first time in a life and death situation, and if she was lucky she would punish herself deeply for her delayed responses, her failure to utilise what the Gods had blessed her with. But Kalliste did not think she was going to be lucky. It is hard to feel lucky when a group of hooded figures are forcing you to the floor, wrapping a harsh, untreated, hemp rope net around her. With each twist and turn Kalliste gave attempting to fight the restraints, the rope cut deeper into her sensitive skin.

It wasn't the net however that brought a final silent shriek from Kalliste's lips though. Instead, it was the shining, silver sheers being passed between the assailants. Horror choked Kalliste who fell silent, freezing beneath her binds.

[wrestmeridian]

There was a point in Wrest's inevitable cycle where his prodigious and prolific hyper-focus became unbearable. One minute, he was locked-in, productive and high-functioning, and the next: everything was totally amplified, sharp, oppressively present. Lights were not just too bright, they were blinding. Singular sounds morphed together into some mutant, stentorian wave crashing against his own thoughts & rendering them unintelligible. Once he passed into that realm of sensory overload, the world was simply too much. More than that, his reactions to the stimulation were often unreasonable. Conflagrant temper, hostile words, even grand delusions usually followed.

Having a logician's mind, he had experienced this cycle enough times to know when it was coming. Charted it like the heavens. Like a self-perpetuating flame or a phoenix, he would spark from ash, burn brighter than the sun — even go as far to almost touch it — before combusting and drizzling into a pile of ash once more. Unfortunately, understanding the way his mind worked was but a battle in the lifelong war Wrest knew he'd never win. It was poetic, really, that his personal nature so poetically reflected that of the rift in his sternum. He was always so deadly close to eclipsing himself in one way or another. A cure for both of these problems was underway but yet undiscovered.

The lesser one, that of his moods, was currently managed by ingesting a delicate balance of stimulants and depressants — whiskey, for one, was a great place to start. It took the sharp edges of reality away and blurred unforgiving lines, but it wasn't always enough to bring him down from precarious heights. In those cases, he took a dose of Mother's Milk — a viscous, pearlescent liquid he'd perfected after years of trial and error with the help of herbalists and alchemists alike. It was not to be used lightly and had dangerous consequences like addiction and dangerously low blood pressure. To answer the latter, Wrest had created a delicate citrine powder he called Vitriol. When Mother's Milk wreaked its havoc, one sniff of powder kept his heart-rate from plummeting to the bottom of a cold & deadly river. Both were kept in vials — one around his neck, the other in his breast pocket.

Tonight, he'd begun his "controlled" descent from spiraling heights with whiskey at the Kyngeshed. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to acquiesce his restless spirit, and Wrest soon found himself instigating an argument with a cocksure mercenary about whether or not free will was a thing. Even though the sorcerer's delivery was belligerent, his argument was well-formed, sound, worthy of good debate. But the mercenary's form of rebuttal was a white-knuckled fist. The back-and-forth that followed resulted in a broken bar stool and a firm one week ban for both rowdy perpetrators.

Wrest left the tavern with a nebulous bruise blooming on his jaw but a crooked smile on his face. It was just what he needed to calm his mind's whirring even if it meant drinking in rougher joints the rest of the week. A quick sniff of Vitriol enhanced the feeling of elation & boundlessness expanding in his chest.

He'd just thrown his head back to marvel at the cloud-rippled night sky when he heard it — a familiar voice and a soft yet ragged plea of "help!" quickly snuffed by the sounds of a scuffle. Bodies conquering in the dark. Spinning on his heel, he peered into the black dimensions of the old temple. Adrenaline swept over him in the form of a cold sweat. When the shadows didn't grant him any answers, he stepped forward — one tentative step, two, then three. The shriek that came next jolted him into action and he rushed the wall of darkness and found himself in the belly of the crumbling ruin.

Pathetic shafts of moonlight were all he had to follow, but that was enough to reveal the truth of the situation when he finally stumbled upon it. There were three figures clad in black-dyed leathers, their faces concealed by hoods and bandannas, eyes shining with a foul meanness Wrest had seen too many times before. There was a soullessness there, confirmed by the feathered form crumpled and whimpering in a hempen net between them. A quick second glance and he was sure it was Kalliste — the revelation was enough to cause his breath the catch, his fists to wrench at his sides.

❝ What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing? ❞ he shouted, his veins now rushing with a certain fearless substance. One of the three darted into the shadows toward him, slamming him back against a pillar. All the air was knocked from his lungs, and he let out a breathless croak as their heads banged together. Wrest felt a strange numbness from the impact then the warm trickle of blood from his nostril. Suddenly, the sorcerer was laughing and strange, dark flame had begun to ripple from his skin. It was enough to spook the assailant into backing away a few paces with a quiet ❝ what the fuck? ❞

Wrest took the opening with a grin. Arm extended, palm up, he commanded the forces of gravity to let loose of the man, lifting him ten then twenty feet off the ground. Holding him in place for a moment, he leveled his eyes on his next target. A smaller, sniveling looking weasel who looked ready to bolt as soon as he had his chance.

❝ Going somewhere? ❞ Wrest asked, his voice calm and level as if he were simply brewing tea. Meanwhile, his eyes gleamed like a star-filled aurora, his skin lapping with shadows. Then a snort of laughter. ❝ Not that he'd be of much use, but you should take your idiot friend with you. ❞ The man held aloft let out a cry of pain as Wrest closed his fist — it was as if the forces that he used to lift the man were now bearing down on him from all sides. With a swipe of his arm, the man flew in the same direction, crashing down and pummeling the other to the ground.

❝ You son of a bitch! ❞ The third man accused, drawing a dagger from his cloak that flashed hungrily in the dark. Smartly, Wrest thought, the fiend pointed that dagger at Kalliste instead of charging at the sorcerer attacking his lackeys. ❝ Oh, so you're the smart one, ❞ Wrest declared, humor dancing in his eyes. Though he appeared unfazed, he was scanning desperately for solutions. If he opened a portal up beneath the man, there was too much of a chance he'd send Kalliste down it with him; she was too close. Even telekinesis was a risk. Groans sounded as the other two began to untangle themselves and attempt to stand.

Wrest took another few steps closer, seeming to meander. As if he enjoyed the challenge of solving the problem, but really, it was to buy time. ❝ It's the wings you're after, isn't it? Don't get me wrong — you've got a good eye. They'd be worth a pretty penny on any black market, but I'm not sure you've calculated the risk. Take her, and you'll open up a whole world of trouble for yourself. I mean, her father? He's a God. ❞

❝ Tricky, tricky, tricky. ❞

His eyes dropped to Kalliste for a brief moment, attempting to assess her state — hoping she was unharmed. His fingers tingled as he began to work up the energy to stop time. All he needed was thirty seconds to grab her and flee but ..in his current state, altering time could get messy. Really fucking messy.

[wrestmeridian]

From Esoteria, She Became Featuring: Fiadh ( @fiadh-aich ) & Wrest Locale/Time: Western Tower of the Library of Destarin / Wrest's Personal Quarters @ 8PM

The tower had been uninhabitable when he discovered it. Up a dangerous, spiraling staircase with only the light from shuttered or crumbling arrowloops to go by, piled to the collapsing rafters with erroneous scrolls, rotten tomes, and dilapidated furnishings. It was obviously once a private office with accompanying ( if humble ) living quarters which had turned, over the course of however many centuries, into a store-room, then a dumping ground, and eventually a hazard to anyone who ventured into it. Wrest saw its potential right away. When the shutters were taken down, the view of Destarin was far-reaching and spectacular. When the dust was swept away, the floors polished, and the beams replaced, it resembled a cozy, livable space. After several years of his diligent attention and many more of his settling in, it had become his very own, private, comfortable haven.

Along the curling walls were high shelves, packed to the max with his most precious books, enchanted tools, rare and suspect artifacts, and even a specimen jar or two. Painted tapestries hung above his desk, detailing the expanse of The Twelfth World he'd charted, and angled out the largest window was a telescope in a state of disrepair; one of his many incomplete, pending projects. The space was never neat. In fact, it often looked like a hurricane of unbidden energy had cycled through it, but it was secluded enough without being remote that Wrest was able to focus on his work and even manage an accomplishment here and there without disappearing into himself.

It was reflective of his very polarizing moods: mania & despair. The empty whiskey bottles and cracked mirrors streaked with suspect powders told the story of how he tried, very poorly, to mitigate the effects of them without blowing himself or the city he loved away in an astral-charged mushroom cloud.

The hours had gotten away from him. In fact, he'd totally forgotten the date he'd set with Fiadh. It was only because of his sincere interest in her predicament that he found himself swallowed up by research on the topic of the strange, azure markings that glowed just beneath the veil of her skin. Without that fixation anchoring his focus, he would have been completely empty-handed when she showed up at his door. Still, he never invited anyone to his quarters, so the knock nearly threw him off the windowsill where he'd been so precariously perched — reading, as it were. Last he'd looked up, it had been bright afternoon sun streaking through his rooms. Now, it was twilight. No wonder his eyes were exhausted. Reading by the light of the moon would soon blind him.

❝ Just a moment, ❞ he called, setting his book aside. On his way to answer, he lit candles and switched on arcane lanterns as he passed them. The juxtaposition of warm fire light and the cool blue emitted by the lamps was strange but comforting to him. It felt almost like the astral realm. Opening the door, he pushed his hair back from his face. ❝ I might have forgotten when we agreed to meet. ❞ A shite greeting but honest. ❝ Uh, come in. But no judging. I'm a sorcerer with no one to answer to but himself. ❞ It was his only excuse.

[crownswarrp]

𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍

soulless, the void-king, malgrin’s undoing, bastard of the rift.

37, he/him. Working tirelessly to build a real life, one his shadowy youth never afforded him, Wrest ignores the pain of his past and the well of cosmic power brimming inside of him. He fills his days with research, trying to distract himself from dark memories & the truth of his condition with every vice possible. The rift-scar within him grants him power, but it is a dangerous thing; one misstep, and he will collapse in on himself like a dying star, perhaps dragging all of the continent along with him.

who are you?

TW: Child Abuse, Torture, Patricide, Murder, Death.

Wrest Erebos Meridian was born beneath a blood moon eclipse, an omen his father, Malgrin the Pale King, took as prophecy. Malgrin, a feared and elite necromancer who ruled from his crypt-throne, Starspire, saw in his infant son a great, unbidden power. Wrest would not be a child to be groomed & taught in his father’s dark ways, but a conduit to fuel his journey toward Lichdom. Wrest’s first memories were of being bound in soul-runes, siphoned for his latent magic. He grew within the shadow of his unacknowledged agony, his body scorched by arcane burns, his mind fractured by endless, ritual torment. Where other young sorcerers gathered around lecterns to learn, Wrest only learned to bleed in rhythm to his father's chants. To survive this monstrous beginning, he buried his pain and let his mind dissociate, eventually finding himself in the astral. Mind awake, body asleep. This place that he would come to call The Twelfth World became his home, a mother’s embrace, a healing, nurturing sanctuary that answered his screams of torment with beautiful visions of a limitless universe.

By fourteen, Wrest no longer cried. He no longer feared his father. From his newfound kingdom of source, he planned the loathsome man’s demise as well as his own escape. Guided by ethereal spirits of the astral, a mythic spell was revealed to him, etched into the alabaster walls of a great, suspended skull. Wrest believed if he could correctly recite the words and understand the complexity of its truth, it would grant apotheosis — or at the very least, keep him suspended in the astral for all time. But there was difficulty in translating what was understood in the astral into physical reality. Nuances lost in translation, slivers of the cosmos lost to the abstracting rules of the physical. But after a year of concentration, he thought himself ready. The ritual was undertaken on his fifteenth birthday in secret, under the glow of the same blood moon to which he was born. To his horror, the spell backlashed, ripping the divine well in him asunder and leaving a yawning, gaping void at the center of his chest. He would not ascend to this higher realm. Instead, he would be a mortal gate to all the power it possessed, teetering dangerously on the edge of obliteration.

In essence, his soul was shattered. Splinters scattered across the worlds, impossible to put back together.

Since that moment, a churning wound has pulsed inside him like a star collapsing in slow motion. His penance was feeding the ravenous void with regular offerings of essence — drawn from beasts, spirits, artifacts — lest his form begin to unravel, his voice to echo in a chorus, his bones to resonate & dissolve to ash. The first one to cull this unanswerable hunger was his father and every one of his dubious followers.

His tale was infamous, a story of warning to young sorcerers.

Dedicated to mastering The Twelfth World, as he calls it, he threw himself into his studies. Liquidating his father’s dark empire allowed him to travel the continent in search of answers that would sustain him, fend off his affliction, and lead him towards the lost shards of himself scattered throughout the astral. Use of his magic beyond a few spells he’d mastered proved dangerous to himself, and worse, others. Having outrun “rumors” of patricide, he has settled down in Destarin, renowned as a great scholar and teacher of formidable Rift Magic, ever toiling away at his seemingly unsolvable problem. Despite his dire circumstances and his insidious past, he still finds happiness in the astral and the exploration of it, still hoping for cosmic forgiveness for his hubris & the many costly errors of his past.

what are you?

species: rift sorcerer weaknesses:  mortal, weakened if cut off from the astral, conduit of volatile magic that could devour him or cause loss of grip on reality. strengths: portal/rift creation, manipulation of time & space, astral projection, telekinesis, arcane languages. physical description: mortal, but in heightened states, nebulous wisps of black seem to lap off of his body like cosmic flames and his eyes appear to reflect a starry sky. at the center of his chest is a void surrounded by runes and covered by a runic channeling disc. it produces a strange, soft whirring sound, like a metal gyre churning.  additional notes: n/a.

wrest erebos meridian is played by deadeye and their fc is garrett hedlund.