The mundanes of this world live a pitiful and fear consumed life. Stark-raving mad with worries of that which fills the depths of night. Petrified with the idea of being further victimized. Whimpering and whining that the world is a cold, cruel, and murderous place. Tortured by the knowledge that as a terrestrial being, they are more likely prey than predator. There was a time when one Dark-Horse could rise up and turn the tables of reality upside down.
The Dark-Horse was not born with any particular advantage. It was the Essence inside that ignited the divergence. It takes only a little reflection to realize no event happens independently. Just as the rainfalls, the conditions must be present and fertile for occurrence. Our Dark-Horse is simply a gifted Seer, endowed with the ability and training to see things from the Rising Field.
Unlike cowardly mundanes, the Dark-Horse stands wild-eyed and fierce in the face of pending destruction. A smirk fastens to his face, as his blade (metaphorical and at times literal) with precision timing and accuracy delivering debilitating lesions effortlessly. A sinister chuckle seeps from his lips caused by the delight of his enemy’s ranks turning on each other in frantic terror. Their terror is the residual effects of a poison he leaked by uttering a few malefic breaths. The malefic breath takes possession of its victim, rotting them at the core. Provoking a feverish madness of mistrust and malice for the very herd they felt protected within, just moments before the breath fell on their ears.
The Dark-Horse has a nature of such, that he is without ambition to be known or revered. His effectiveness comes from his ability to be the wildcard. He will amass no more than a clan. Populated by Emissaries, Seers, and Sly-men working together to affect the mundane field; sickening it.
The clan only takes its fill, respecting the nourishing mother. Preserving the balance of the causal, the clan, rely on its predictability for their craft. Believing to be the carnal manifestation of a certain primordial essence. Creative, corrosive, inverse, and sinister; the essence of Svātantrya.
The Dark-Horse was not born with any particular advantage. It was the Essence inside that ignited the divergence. It takes only a little reflection to realize no event happens independently. Just as the rainfalls, the conditions must be present and fertile for occurrence. Our Dark-Horse is simply a gifted Seer, endowed with the ability and training to see things from the Rising Field.
Unlike cowardly mundanes, the Dark-Horse stands wild-eyed and fierce in the face of pending destruction. A smirk fastens to his face, as his blade (metaphorical and at times literal) with precision timing and accuracy delivering debilitating lesions effortlessly. A sinister chuckle seeps from his lips caused by the delight of his enemy’s ranks turning on each other in frantic terror. Their terror is the residual effects of a poison he leaked by uttering a few malefic breaths. The malefic breath takes possession of its victim, rotting them at the core. Provoking a feverish madness of mistrust and malice for the very herd they felt protected within, just moments before the breath fell on their ears.
The Dark-Horse has a nature of such, that he is without ambition to be known or revered. His effectiveness comes from his ability to be the wildcard. He will amass no more than a clan. Populated by Emissaries, Seers, and Sly-men working together to affect the mundane field; sickening it.
The clan only takes its fill, respecting the nourishing mother. Preserving the balance of the causal, the clan, rely on its predictability for their craft. Believing to be the carnal manifestation of a certain primordial essence. Creative, corrosive, inverse, and sinister; the essence of Svātantrya.
