Aamu
The white hair is a long braid down his back, a little dusty, a little dirty, soot-stained and tangled. A leather cord holds it together; it was done up earlier in the day, and not three centuries ago.
By himself, and not by some sad specter of his past.
Aamu knows one thing very well: he needs something to do. He needs something to pass the hours with, a source of income, because he's still walking around in the same thin and threadbare clothes he was dug up in, but mostly he needs a sense of permanence. Purpose. A focal point as he puts off going to The Voice with his questions.
And what can he do? He's weak in the sunlight still, a dull, brittle blade, and no war rages. He has to look elsewhere, to skills more mundane, less lethal, pieces of a past he hasn't quite put back together yet.
It worked out in such a way that the local blacksmith was willing to share her forge, letting the Ascended do business by night—pointy things, sharp things, something his hands remember even though his brain barely does. He gets the curious feeling a part of him had thought he was done smithing swords for the rest of his unnatural life, but it seems he's proven wrong.
He's just doing something or the other, getting familiar with this stranger's forge, when he senses someone behind him. Aamu straightens up to face him, one eyebrow gently raised in question. Indeed, who is he? Some old ghost come back to haunt.
The weaponsmith—oh, yes. But that is not all, as the other rambles on, and slowly the smile spreads across Aamu's face; small, crooked, wry. His eyes soften with amusement. "And yet, you found me," he offers in that light, lilting voice of his, something archaic snaking around the words. "Aamu." His hand is cool, perhaps too cold; Aamu has trouble discerning when to wear gloves to protect himself, after all.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in thought. In truth, he had not expected someone to look for him, and in some ways, he's thrown by how surprisingly handsome he is. Rugged, charming—it doesn't matter in the end, but for now it's .. odd. He's not sure how he feels about it.
"What can I help you with?"
By himself, and not by some sad specter of his past.
Aamu knows one thing very well: he needs something to do. He needs something to pass the hours with, a source of income, because he's still walking around in the same thin and threadbare clothes he was dug up in, but mostly he needs a sense of permanence. Purpose. A focal point as he puts off going to The Voice with his questions.
And what can he do? He's weak in the sunlight still, a dull, brittle blade, and no war rages. He has to look elsewhere, to skills more mundane, less lethal, pieces of a past he hasn't quite put back together yet.
It worked out in such a way that the local blacksmith was willing to share her forge, letting the Ascended do business by night—pointy things, sharp things, something his hands remember even though his brain barely does. He gets the curious feeling a part of him had thought he was done smithing swords for the rest of his unnatural life, but it seems he's proven wrong.
He's just doing something or the other, getting familiar with this stranger's forge, when he senses someone behind him. Aamu straightens up to face him, one eyebrow gently raised in question. Indeed, who is he? Some old ghost come back to haunt.
The weaponsmith—oh, yes. But that is not all, as the other rambles on, and slowly the smile spreads across Aamu's face; small, crooked, wry. His eyes soften with amusement. "And yet, you found me," he offers in that light, lilting voice of his, something archaic snaking around the words. "Aamu." His hand is cool, perhaps too cold; Aamu has trouble discerning when to wear gloves to protect himself, after all.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in thought. In truth, he had not expected someone to look for him, and in some ways, he's thrown by how surprisingly handsome he is. Rugged, charming—it doesn't matter in the end, but for now it's .. odd. He's not sure how he feels about it.
"What can I help you with?"
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
