- Joined
- Aug 14, 2009
Life is cruel, and it had been especially cruel to the Hunter, Marquis Quintilius le Dolmance, Exarch of Her Majesties Imperial Arms; at least that was how he viewed the world. The world as fucked him and now he did everything in his power to fuck it right back in it's puckered little ass.
Sadly such ploys on his part had the misfortune history of just putting him deeper into servitude and weakness; two states which the man simply deplored.
But that had never prevented him from pursuing his overly ambitious desires. Which explained why he was out of his element of courtly intrigues and was roughing it with farmers and scoundrels in some backwoods inn. Why he was here?
Simple, there was a rumour. A rumour that had come to his attention by means of his many scouts and informants; to be a human in the court of the Unseelie required paranoia in excess of all others. The Hunter loved power; but felt extreme pleasure in the pursuit of power; which was why he was willing to bloody his own hands in this quest.
The rumour itself was one of power, a relic which could be utilised and make its wielder powerful. This man was arrogant enough to deem himself worthy of its strength. He thought that it would give him temporal powers enough to force the Queen he had set on the throne to bend her knee to him, and perhaps enough for him to break free from his Master.
His life was a series of quests, each one littered with pain and blood paid for by himself and others. They had left long emotional scars upon his mind and had focused him into a hate filled individual that wished to subjugate reality to his will.
Such a simple desire sprang from a complex history that had him waiting for one individual. She had been spotted travelling the road and it was expected that she would seek shelter in this inn. Fortune favoured the Marquis as his target was also Fey in nature. That cursed breed which he despised and hunted. She would be his.
Perhaps she even knew of him, feared him, hated him. It made him smile as he drank second rate grog.
Sadly such ploys on his part had the misfortune history of just putting him deeper into servitude and weakness; two states which the man simply deplored.
But that had never prevented him from pursuing his overly ambitious desires. Which explained why he was out of his element of courtly intrigues and was roughing it with farmers and scoundrels in some backwoods inn. Why he was here?
Simple, there was a rumour. A rumour that had come to his attention by means of his many scouts and informants; to be a human in the court of the Unseelie required paranoia in excess of all others. The Hunter loved power; but felt extreme pleasure in the pursuit of power; which was why he was willing to bloody his own hands in this quest.
The rumour itself was one of power, a relic which could be utilised and make its wielder powerful. This man was arrogant enough to deem himself worthy of its strength. He thought that it would give him temporal powers enough to force the Queen he had set on the throne to bend her knee to him, and perhaps enough for him to break free from his Master.
His life was a series of quests, each one littered with pain and blood paid for by himself and others. They had left long emotional scars upon his mind and had focused him into a hate filled individual that wished to subjugate reality to his will.
Such a simple desire sprang from a complex history that had him waiting for one individual. She had been spotted travelling the road and it was expected that she would seek shelter in this inn. Fortune favoured the Marquis as his target was also Fey in nature. That cursed breed which he despised and hunted. She would be his.
Perhaps she even knew of him, feared him, hated him. It made him smile as he drank second rate grog.