I Am A: Neutral Evil Elf Wizard/Sorcerer (2nd/1st Level)
Ability Scores:
Strength-10
Dexterity-12
Constitution-12
Intelligence-18
Wisdom-16
Charisma-12
Alignment:
Neutral Evil A neutral evil villain does whatever he can get away with. He is out for himself, pure and simple. He sheds no tears for those he kills, whether for profit, sport, or convenience. He has no love of order and holds no illusion that following laws, traditions, or codes would make him any better or more noble. On the other hand, he doesn't have the restless nature or love of conflict that a chaotic evil villain has. Some neutral evil villains hold up evil as an ideal, committing evil for its own sake. Most often, such villains are devoted to evil deities or secret societies. Neutral evil is the best alignment you can be because you can advance yourself without regard for others. However, neutral evil can be a dangerous alignment because it represents pure evil without honor and without variation.
Race:
Elves are known for their poetry, song, and magical arts, but when danger threatens they show great skill with weapons and strategy. Elves can live to be over 700 years old and, by human standards, are slow to make friends and enemies, and even slower to forget them. Elves are slim and stand 4.5 to 5.5 feet tall. They have no facial or body hair, prefer comfortable clothes, and possess unearthly grace. Many others races find them hauntingly beautiful.
Primary Class:
Wizards are arcane spellcasters who depend on intensive study to create their magic. To wizards, magic is not a talent but a difficult, rewarding art. When they are prepared for battle, wizards can use their spells to devastating effect. When caught by surprise, they are vulnerable. The wizard's strength is her spells, everything else is secondary. She learns new spells as she experiments and grows in experience, and she can also learn them from other wizards. In addition, over time a wizard learns to manipulate her spells so they go farther, work better, or are improved in some other way. A wizard can call a familiar- a small, magical, animal companion that serves her. With a high Intelligence, wizards are capable of casting very high levels of spells.
Secondary Class:
Sorcerers are arcane spellcasters who manipulate magic energy with imagination and talent rather than studious discipline. They have no books, no mentors, no theories just raw power that they direct at will. Sorcerers know fewer spells than wizards do and acquire them more slowly, but they can cast individual spells more often and have no need to prepare their incantations ahead of time. Also unlike wizards, sorcerers cannot specialize in a school of magic. Since sorcerers gain their powers without undergoing the years of rigorous study that wizards go through, they have more time to learn fighting skills and are proficient with simple weapons. Charisma is very important for sorcerers; the higher their value in this ability, the higher the spell level they can cast.
Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)
Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)
Postado por
Moonala
comentários (0)
Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain?
Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.
O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where all men may dwell,
O tower not of ivory, but builded
By hands that reach heaven from hell;
O mystical rose of the mire,
O house not of gold but of gain,
O house of unquenchable fire,
Our Lady of Pain!
O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.
In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,
Out of sight though they lie of to-day,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That smite not and bite not in play.
The life and the love thou despisest,
These hurt us indeed, and in vain,
O wise among women, and wisest,
Our Lady of Pain.
Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories
That stung thee, what visions that smote?
Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,
When desire took thee first by the throat?
What bud was the shell of a blossom
That all men may smell to and pluck?
What milk fed thee first at what bosom?
What sins gave thee suck?
We shift and bedeck and bedrape us,
Thou art noble and nude and antique;
Libitina thy mother, Priapus
Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek.
We play with light loves in the portal,
And wince and relent and refrain;
Loves die, and we know thee immortal,
Our Lady of Pain.
Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;
Thou art fed with perpetual breath,
And alive after infinite changes,
And fresh from the kisses of death;
Of languors rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid
And poisonous queen.
Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice
The lilies and languors of virtue
For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
There are sins it may be to discover,
There are deeds it may be to delight.
What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,
What new passions for daytime or night?
What spells that they know not a word of
Whose lives are as leaves overblown?
What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,
Unwritten, unknown?
Ah beautiful passionate body
That never has ached with a heart!
On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody,
Though they sting till it shudder and smart,
More kind than the love we adore is,
They hurt not the heart or the brain,
O bitter and tender Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
As our kisses relax and redouble,
From the lips and the foam and the fangs
Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble,
No dream of impossible pangs?
With the sweet of the sins of old ages
Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore?
Too sweet is the rind, say the sages,
Too bitter the core.
Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,
And bared all thy beauties to one?
Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,
If the worst that can be has been done?
But sweet as the rind was the core is;
We are fain of thee still, we are fain,
O sanguine and subtle Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
By the hunger of change and emotion,
By the thirst of unbearable things,
By despair, the twin-born of devotion,
By the pleasure that winces and stings,
The delight that consumes the desire,
The desire that outruns the delight,
By the cruelty deaf as a fire
And blind as the night,
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining
The light fire in the veins of a boy?
But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,
Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;
Less careful of labour and glory
Than the elders whose hair has uncurled:
And young, but with fancies as hoary
And grey as the world.
I have passed from the outermost portal
To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;
What care though the service be mortal?
O our Lady of Torture, what care?
All thine the last wine that I pour is,
The last in the chalice we drain,
O fierce and luxurious Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
All thine the new wine of desire,
The fruit of four lips as they clung
Till the hair and the eyelids took fire,
The foam of a serpentine tongue,
The froth of the serpents of pleasure,
More salt than the foam of the sea,
Now felt as a flame, now at leisure
As wine shed for me.
Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen,
Marked cross from the womb and perverse!
They have found out the secret to cozen
The gods that constrain us and curse;
They alone, they are wise, and none other;
Give me place, even me, in their train,
O my sister, my spouse, and my mother,
Our Lady of Pain.
For the crown of our life as it closes
Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust;
No thorns go as deep as a rose's,
And love is more cruel than lust.
Time turns the old days to derision,
Our loves into corpses or wives;
And marriage and death and division
Make barren our lives.
And pale from the past we draw nigh thee,
And satiate with comfortless hours;
And we know thee, how all men belie thee,
And we gather the fruit of thy flowers;
The passion that slays and recovers,
The pangs and the kisses that rain
On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers,
Our Lady of Pain.
The desire of thy furious embraces
Is more than the wisdom of years,
On the blossom though blood lie in traces,
Though the foliage be sodden with tears.
For the lords in whose keeping the door is
That opens on all who draw breath
Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores,
The myrtle to death.
And they laughed, changing hands in the measure,
And they mixed and made peace after strife;
Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;
Death tingled with blood, and was life.
Like lovers they melted and tingled,
In the dusk of thine innermost fane;
In the darkness they murmured and mingled,
Our Lady of Pain.
In a twilight where virtues are vices,
In thy chapels, unknown of the sun,
To a tune that enthralls and entices,
They were wed, and the twain were as one.
For the tune from thine altar hath sounded
Since God bade the world's work begin,
And the fume of thine incense abounded,
To sweeten the sin.
Love listens, and paler than ashes,
Through his curls as the crown on them slips,
Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,
And laughs with insatiable lips.
Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,
With music that scares the profane;
Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,
Our Lady of Pain.
Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle,
Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;
In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,
In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.
In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,
In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;
Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him
Asleep and awake.
Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses
With juice not of fruit nor of bud;
When the sense in the spirit reposes,
Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.
Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,
Who would live and not languish or feign,
O sleepless and deadly Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.
Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber,
In a lull of the fires of thy life,
Of the days without name, without number,
When thy will stung the world into strife;
When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion
Smote kings as they revelled in Rome;
And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian,
Foam-white, from the foam?
When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;
When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter
The children of change and their gods;
When the blood of thy foemen made fervent
A sand never moist from the main,
As one smote them, their lord and thy servant,
Our Lady of Pain.
On sands by the storm never shaken,
Nor wet from the washing of tides;
Nor by foam of the waves overtaken,
Nor winds that the thunder bestrides;
But red from the print of thy paces,
Made smooth for the world and its lords,
Ringed round with a flame of fair faces,
And splendid with swords.
There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,
Drew bitter and perilous breath;
There torments laid hold on the treasure
Of limbs too delicious for death;
When thy gardens were lit with live torches;
When the world was a steed for thy rein;
When the nations lay prone in thy porches,
Our Lady of Pain.
When, with flame all around him aspirant,
Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands,
The implacable beautiful tyrant,
Rose-crowned, having death in his hands;
And a sound as the sound of loud water
Smote far through the flight of the fires,
And mixed with the lightning of slaughter
A thunder of lyres.
Dost thou dream of what was and no more is,
The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?
Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores,
For these, in a world of new things?
But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate,
No hunger compel to complain
Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate,
Our Lady of Pain.
As of old when the world's heart was lighter,
Through thy garments the grace of thee glows,
The white wealth of thy body made whiter
By the blushes of amorous blows,
And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,
And branded by kisses that bruise;
When all shall be gone that now lingers,
Ah, what shall we lose?
Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion,
And thy limbs are as melodies yet,
And move to the music of passion
With lithe and lascivious regret.
What ailed us, O gods, to desert you
For creeds that refuse and restrain?
Come down and redeem us from virtue,
Our Lady of Pain.
All shrines that were Vestal are flameless,
But the flame has not fallen from this;
Though obscure be the god, and though nameless
The eyes and the hair that we kiss;
Low fires that love sits by and forges
Fresh heads for his arrows and thine;
Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies
With kisses and wine.
Thy skin changes country and colour,
And shrivels or swells to a snake's.
Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller,
We know it, the flames and the flakes,
Red brands on it smitten and bitten,
Round skies where a star is a stain,
And the leaves with thy litanies written,
Our Lady of Pain.
On thy bosom though many a kiss be,
There are none such as knew it of old.
Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe,
Male ringlets or feminine gold,
That thy lips met with under the statue,
Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves
From the eyes of the garden-god at you
Across the fig-leaves?
Then still, through dry seasons and moister,
One god had a wreath to his shrine;
Then love was the pearl of his oyster,
And Venus rose red out of wine.
We have all done amiss, choosing rather
Such loves as the wise gods disdain;
Intercede for us thou with thy father,
Our Lady of Pain.
In spring he had crowns of his garden,
Red corn in the heat of the year,
Then hoary green olives that harden
When the grape-blossom freezes with fear;
And milk-budded myrtles with Venus
And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod;
And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us,
A visible God."
What broke off the garlands that girt you?
What sundered you spirit and clay?
Weak sins yet alive are as virtue
To the strength of the sins of that day.
For dried is the blood of thy lover,
Ipsithilla, contracted the vein;
Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover,
Our Lady of Pain?"
Cry aloud; for the old world is broken:
Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest,
And rears not the bountiful token
And spreads not the fatherly feast.
From the midmost of Ida, from shady
Recesses that murmur at morn,
They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,
A goddess new-born.
And the chaplets of old are above us,
And the oyster-bed teems out of reach;
Old poets outsing and outlove us,
And Catullus makes mouths at our speech.
Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city,
With such lips as he sang with, again?
Intercede for us all of thy pity,
Our Lady of Pain.
Out of Dindymus heavily laden
Her lions draw bound and unfed
A mother, a mortal, a maiden,
A queen over death and the dead.
She is cold, and her habit is lowly,
Her temple of branches and sods;
Most fruitful and virginal, holy,
A mother of gods.
She hath wasted with fire thine high places,
She hath hidden and marred and made sad
The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces
Of gods that were goodly and glad.
She slays, and her hands are not bloody;
She moves as a moon in the wane,
White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,
Our Lady of Pain.
They shall pass and their places be taken,
The gods and the priests that are pure.
They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?
They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?
Death laughs, breathing close and relentless
In the nostrils and eyelids of lust,
With a pinch in his fingers of scentless
And delicate dust.
But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;
Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,
As the rod to a serpent that hisses,
As the serpent again to a rod.
Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;
Thou shalt live until evil be slain,
And good shall die first, said thy prophet,
Our Lady of Pain.
Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it,
Now he lies out of reach, out of breath,
Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet,
Sin's child by incestuous Death?
Did he find out in fire at his waking,
Or discern as his eyelids lost light,
When the bands of the body were breaking
And all came in sight?
Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime —
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain —
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.
Who are we that embalm and embrace thee
With spices and savours of song?
What is time, that his children should face thee?
What am I, that my lips do thee wrong?
I could hurt thee — but pain would delight thee;
Or caress thee — but love would repel;
And the lovers whose lips would excite thee
Are serpents in hell.
Who now shall content thee as they did,
Thy lovers, when temples were built
And the hair of the sacrifice braided
And the blood of the sacrifice spilt,
In Lampsacus fervent with faces,
In Aphaca red from thy reign,
Who embraced thee with awful embraces,
Our Lady of Pain?
Where are they, Cotytto or Venus,
Astarte or Ashtaroth, where?
Do their hands as we touch come between us?
Is the breath of them hot in thy hair?
From their lips have thy lips taken fever,
With the blood of their bodies grown red?
Hast thou left upon earth a believer
If these men are dead?
They were purple of raiment and golden,
Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,
In marvellous chambers of thine.
They are fled, and their footprints escape us,
Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,
O daughter of Death and Priapus,
Our Lady of Pain.
What ails us to fear overmeasure,
To praise thee with timorous breath,
O mistress and mother of pleasure,
The one thing as certain as death?
We shall change as the things that we cherish,
Shall fade as they faded before,
As foam upon water shall perish,
As sand upon shore.
We shall know what the darkness discovers,
If the grave-pit be shallow or deep;
And our fathers of old, and our lovers,
We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.
We shall see whether hell be not heaven,
Find out whether tares be not grain,
And the joys of thee seventy times seven,
Our Lady of Pain.
Sobre o blog e a autora
Postado por
Moonala
comentários (0)
Well, hello...
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| fato 1 sobre mim: AMO comer :3 e escrever, claro... |
Como
começar? Não há maneira mais tradicional do que me apresentando:
me chamo Bianca - embora isso já esteja presente no título do blog
xD -, costumam me chamar de pandinha, tenho 21 anos e sou apaixonada
por RPG. Estudante de engenharia e cone de World of Warcraft, gosto
de escrever nas horas vagas. E foi juntando esse gosto por criar
histórias com o amor por RPG que surgiu a ideia desse blog. Atualmente jogo Dungeons and Dragons (3.5, com algumas adaptações do mestre) e interpreto uma feiticeira humana de tendência neutra e má MWAHAHAHA - ok, parei. Essa é a minha primeira vez no mundo de D&D, mas já tive experiências com Vampiro: A Máscara, Lobisomem: O Apocalipse, Demônio: O Preço do Poder e Anjo: A Salvação. Inclusive, já tive um blog que contava histórias de um personagem de Lobisomem, o meu amado Grenouille, Ahroun Presa de Prata. Infelizmente, num lapso de paranóia acabei deletando o blog e todos os outros - também tinha um blog pessoal, e um em que eu escrevia fanfics :3 - então não posso linkar aqui pra vocês T_T.
Sou uma jogadora extremamente chata. Não do tipo que fica anotando regras ou que tenta ser overpowered, mas sim do tipo que AMA contar histórias e interpretar. Para tudo existe uma explicação, uma origem, uma história. Até meus personagens de MMORPGs possuem suas historinhas, e quem sabe um dia eu crie outro blog para contar sobre elas. O que acham? Então, como uma jogadora chata e "escrevona", eu não me contentaria apenas com a história do meu personagem que vai na ficha. E também não sou louca de explicar tudo numa folha, até porque não daria espaço hahaha, logo, esse blog serve como uma válvula de escape para que eu possa deixar tudo bem claro sobre meu personagem, que eu mal criei e já adoro pakas. Considero-me bastante criativa, então o que eu puder adicionar para trazer mais realidade a coisa eu vou trazer. Uma correlação, música, imagens, desenhos - muito embora eu não desenhe nada bem T_T -, poemas, vídeos, tudo.
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| loot perfeito: COMIDA |
E com isso, espero que você, leitor, consiga ter uma boa experiência e se prenda na história dessa feiticeira que de humana, só tem o nome no setor "raça" da ficha. E já vou avisando: se você não gosta de histórias de terror ou de personagens vilões que se dão bem, melhor não ler esse blog, pois eu não vou pegar leve! Vamos tocar o caos... Não, pera, caos não porque a Marcy é neutra e má. Ok, vamos tocar o terror e viver grandes aventuras. "Now... Shall we begin?" (se você entendeu a referência já tem um espaço garantido no meu inferno pessoal <3).
AHHHHHHHH! Óbvio, eu não jogo sozinha com o mestre. Pretendo escrever das aventuras com o grupo, porém do ponto de vista do meu personagem, já que é ele que eu estou interpretando. E como essa é uma iniciativa minha, não tem historinha dos outros personagens, mas eu darei todo apoio caso algum colega queira seguir minha ideia e estarei postando aqui pra quem quiser. Mas é algo meio difícil de acontecer, então por enquanto se contentem com as minhas historinhas.
"Historinhas de dragões, estão em nossos corações, vem com a gente, vem brincar, aqui na terra dos dragõooooooes!"
Resumo
Postado por
Moonala
comentários (0)
Marceline
Ravenhelm nasceu na famosa cidade de Scarborough, localizada na
província de Rivenspire e conhecida por sua enorme feira, onde se
dizia ser capaz de encontrar de tudo. Seus pais, Peter e Elizabeth
Ravenhelm, eram pessoas simples e possuíam uma fazenda nos arredores
da cidade. Desde pequena Marceline aprendeu a trabalhar na fazenda e
desenvolveu um talento nato para a cozinha, fazendo deliciosas
tortas, pães e bolos, que vendia na cidade para ajudar sua família.
Mas além do talento culinário, ela descobriu ter uma grande
afinidade com a magia. Diferente dos magos, que frequentam escolas e
aprendem com livros e mentores, Marceline foi aprendendo a lidar com
a magia de forma autodidata, o que a fez manter em segredo seu
talento, muito embora seus pais já percebessem que havia algo
estranho com a filha, e que sua presença influenciava no ambiente ao
seu redor. Muitas vezes, velas eram acesas do nada, objetos se moviam
e luzes dançavam pela casa, mas isso não ocorria quando a jovem
garota não estava em casa, o que era suspeito.
Apesar
de ser reservada por conta do poder mágico – que ela ainda não
sabia controlar –, Marceline sabia lidar com pessoas e era
considerada uma jovem simpática, devido a seu trabalho de
comerciante na cidade. E foi na Feira de Scarborough que ela conheceu
o amor de sua vida, Dohko, um bardo extremamente talentoso que
aproveitava de sua conexão com a música para sobreviver, vivendo
assim de taverna em taverna, até um dia encontrar Marceline, que com
pena do jovem moço que parecia estar com fome, ofereceu um de seus
pães. Como a fazenda estava precisando de mais pessoas para
trabalharem lá, Marceline levou Dohko até seus pais, que ofereceram
um lugar para ele viver, em troca de seu trabalho. O bardo então
aceitou, e quando não estava trabalhando com sua música, ajudava
com pequenos serviços na fazenda.
Apaixonados,
Dohko e Marceline desenvolveram uma profunda amizade que foi se
fortalecendo com o tempo. Apesar de ele ser onze anos mais velho que
ela, eles se davam muito bem e sabiam dos mais profundos segredos um
do outro. Dohko era um licantropo, que fugia em toda noite de lua
cheia, pois se transformava em um enorme lobo. Apenas Marceline sabia
disso, assim como somente ele sabia que ela tinha um talento pra
magia e que estava aprendendo a controlá-lo, seguindo a doutrina da
deusa Wee Jas, que prometia que o sucesso vinha do estudo da magia.
Certo
dia, durante o outono, já em sua idade adulta, Marceline saiu para a
cidade para vender suas tortas. Despediu-se dos pais como em qualquer
outro dia comum. Sua mãe estava esperando um filho. A fazenda havia
crescido e a família Ravenhelm já começava a ser conhecida, o que
despertava a atenção dos nobres cidadãos da cidade. Neste dia
Dohko ficaria em casa, pois era noite de lua cheia. A feira estava
cheia e aquele dia foi ótimo para Marceline, que conseguiu vender
todas as tortas e pães que havia feito. Ao final do dia, onde já
anoitecia, a jovem feiticeira estava exausta e parou em uma taverna
para se refrescar. Quando estava chegando em casa, a lua cheia tomava
um grande espaço no céu. Ao olhar para a lua, pensou em Dohko, e
segurou seu pingente em formato de coração que havia ganhado do
mesmo com força. Um vento impetuoso quase a derrubou e a sensação
de perigo a fez apressar os passos. Dohko, isolado na floresta
próxima a fazenda, teve a mesma sensação e decidiu ir até os pais
de Marceline para ver se estava tudo bem.
Ao
chegar na fazenda, Dohko avistou o fogo alastrando as plantações e
ouviu gritos de dentro da casa. Um grupo de bandidos havia atacado a
fazenda e estavam saqueando o que podiam, enquanto matavam qualquer
um em seu caminho. Quando avistou o corpo dos trabalhadores pelo
campo, uma onda de fúria percorreu Dohko, transformando-o em uma
criatura horrenda de garras e dentes enormes. Em meio aos gritos, um
uivo seguido de um rugido nervoso. Ele precisava proteger a família
de Marceline. Mas quando entrou na casa, lançando os bandidos que o
atacavam para longe, viu que era tarde demais. Elizabeth e Peter
estavam mortos, dilacerados pelas lâminas do chefe do grupo de
mercenários. O bando, por mais assustado que estivesse, ainda eram
muitos, e cegados pelo medo e ganância, partiram para cima Dohko,
atacando-o. O licantropo ainda conseguiu matar alguns dos homens que
atiravam flechas e apontavam espadas em sua direção, entretanto,
uma flecha acertou seu coração, matando-o por fim.
Marceline
chegou na fazenda e encontrou apenas morte e destruição. Sua casa
pegava fogo, assim como todos os materiais ao redor. Tudo estava
revirado, todos estavam mortos, e nesse momento ela também desejou
estar morta: a visão de sua família sem vida a despedaçou, mas foi
ao ver o corpo de Dohko coberto de sangue e já inanimado que a fez
cair em prantos. Ela agarrou o lobo, aconchegando-se em seu pêlo
branco. Este foi o último dia em que Marceline foi capaz de amar.
Ela recolheu dentre o que restou suficiente para uma viagem, e ateou
fogo no que ainda não havia queimado. Toda e qualquer lembrança
ficaria para trás, assim como qualquer sentimento.
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