A Forum RP Developed by RazukenCarrendar and DusklyRaven

Cruel Angel’s Thesis

DusklyRaven: I keep seeing this light within my dreams; I feel a person looking down at me from the storm clouds, but I never see his face. Since I painted that picture of this man I’ve been seeing him in my dreams. Is it possible that I’ve become obsessed with him; with his eyes I colored and the smile I brushed? What is it about this man and dream that makes me feel so complete? Why when I aim to draw the light my hand draws his face?
She sighed as she mused and gazed up at the portrait composed of oil and heavy strokes. His sharp face held edgy green eyes and a smirk while gazing down at her from the mantle. The candle light complimented the clash of maroon and white in his attire and caused his cane sword to shine even more brilliantly. She placed a white chrysanthemum in front of the painting before closing her eyes and whispering aloud, “Stranger, pray tell your identity. I beckon to know your persona and why you call to me in sleep.” Her eyes fluttered open and on to him before diverting to the moon. “Good night my dear Sir and come to me in dreams, but when you do I pray you whisper me a name.” She crawled into bed and curled up drifting to dreamland yearning to meet him.

At the turning of twilight, when the night is set deeply in the valley, he feels himself being drawn out of the canvas by some strange force about him.. What was more on his thoughts was the young woman who had stood before him, placing the white flower next to his painting. He deftly jumped down from the mantel and landed without a sound. Looking back he saw that his sword was still in the painting. Regaining focus, he slowly and silently passed to the side of her bed and gazed down at the soft form of the sleeping woman. After taking in every feature and movement he leaned toward her ear and whispered softly, “My name…is the divine name Harachel.” He smile knowing that the young beauty could hear this. He lightly back to the painting, picking up the chrysanthemum at his feet and jumped gracefully back into the canvas, posing as he was but with the flower in hand.. He gazed at her for the rest of that night until the force locked him in his place.

Harachel, Harachel, Harachel…”Harachel!” She gasped as she woke and glanced around her room. Quickly she stood to her feet, her long brunette hair flowing past her shoulders and down her back as her white child-like gown, which stopped about three inches above the knee, paralleled with the hair movement. Her white legs were strong and beautiful, her arms lean, her face small and thin; this face harbored a gentle smile and adventurous hazel eyes. She went straight to his portrait and her eyes sparkled as her smile broadened; in his hand he held her flower.
“I knew it!” She gleamed, “I knew you were more than just a mere dream. Harachel, such a lovely name. I’m so grateful to have been told it. In return I shall introduce myself. My name is Ophelya Angelique Morgan, lady of this manor. It’s a pleasure to meet you Harachel. Pray tell you visit me again and stay with me?” She was so excited, so eager to please him. She wanted nothing more that to learn about him. What was he like? Who was he? Why did he come to her? So many questions and so few answers.

RazukenCarrendar: Once the night came, he jumped from the painting, and crept silently to her bed side. He could feel her sensing his presence, yet she did not awaken. He breathed calmly and looked at her with his green eyes, riddled with past memories and seemingly infinite wisdom behind them. He brought his finely edged, yet soft face next to hers and whispered in her ear, “Ophelya, such a lovely name for such a lovely young woman. I accept your request to stay with you, but I am afraid that I cannot be more than a painting on a wall. It saddens me greatly, but i assure you that you bring me great joy when you come visit me.” He hovered over her for a moment, looking at her fine featured face as she lie there like a well-placed doll ornament. After taking in her young features he stood back up and took out the polished gold pocketwatch from his rusty maroon colored suit pocket and watched as the golden, celtic designed second hand ticked away and stopped at one o’clock. He briskly turned around on his left heel, his white hair flowing in the turn, catching the glimmer of the last moonrays, and walked slowly to the painting again. He took the chrysanthemum from his front pocket and gently plucked the petals off and set them in a way that it read, “Dusk is Dawn.” He climbed up the pedestal and stood in the painting again, but this time with his eyes downward so he could look at her, and then smiled a little. The force that sealed him there every night crept from his feet to his legs, like a cold chill. He felt himself being locked into place, as he took in a short breath before finalizing his pose. A sparkle in his emerald-like eyes lit up just before the force framed his face. He was frozen there… a fine painting, a masterpiece.

DusklyRaven: Just as quickly as dusk came dawn returned and filled her room with light again. Her eyes peered open and quickly set them self on the portrait. She felt him last night, she just knew that it had to be him who watched at her bedside, for whom else could it be? She climbed out of bed and curtsied to him with a bright smile.
“Good morning my dear sir,” her voice like honey, “I am off to breakfast now and then to my lessons. I will return as swiftly as my legs will allow me.” With that she dressed herself and made her way down to flights of stairs to the extravagant and lovely dining room. As soon as she entered she noticed that neither her mother or father were there. It was no surprise. She was however greeted by a young maid close to her age.
“Good mornin’ Miss,” she smiled warmly.
“Good morning Ceceil,” she replied.
“What would you like today?”
Ophelya stood and thought. “Just the usual today. Nothing fancy.”
The maid nodded and went on her way only to return a minute later with a plate of bacon, eggs, toast with jelly, and two glasses one filled with milk the other with crisp water. Ophelya smiled brightly and kindly at the food in front of her and then once more spoke to Cecile.
“Would you care to join me? I’ve been having some odd dreams lately and I want to share them with some one I trust.”
Cecile nodded and took a seat next to the young lady with open ears.
“Do you remember the painting I made a couple of weeks ago of the odd man with the dreamy eyes?”
Cecile nodded.
“He has been coming to me in my dreams. He says his name is Harachel! Oh Cecile, these dreams always seem so realistic. Just last night I laid a flower on the dresser in front of the painting and when I awoke from my rest he held it within his hands. And Cecile, I keep hearing his voice to strong and sweet. These must be more than just dreams, other wise my imagination is wildly taking off by itself.” Ophelya looked to her friend with excitement, yet concern deep within her eyes. “Tell me am I talking crazy?”
Cecile shook her head. “Where I come from there are tales of guardian angels whose existence sprout from their passion. For example, the gardener’s most lovely rose will grow strong and seem to bring the gardener peace from misfortune. In his sleep a name will come to him, and henceforth he will call that rose by it’s true name. I don’t find it odd at all, mi’lady.”
“Ah-hem!” A rough cough ecd through the room. Cecile stood immediately and bowed quickly.
“Good morning Sir,” she greeted.
He nodded back quickly and put his focus on Ophelya. “Hurry and eat. No more gossiping with the help. You have music lessons to attend in the garden and he will not wait for you too much longer.”
“Yes…” Ophelya agreed with a heavy heart as the man smoothly turned and left. Quickly she ate and raced out to the garden.

The flowers were strong and beautiful, their colors vibrant and soothing. She could hear the birds tweeting their songs and melodies so wonderful and energetically. As she approached the center her eyes set themselves on to a man with red hair at least ten years older than she whom was playing rather brilliantly the violin as he perched himself on one of their lovely marble benches. This was not her usual teacher who was a much older man and a tad critical. This man seemed far more leisurely and perhaps bohemian.
“Good morning Monsieur,” Ophelya greeted and curtsied.
The man quickly jumped to his feet and grinned. “And a fair morning it is to meet such a fair young miss.” He lightly too her hand in his and kissed it softly as he bowed. “My name is Count Drake de Artisanat-Amour, your previous teacher Herr Leibelich has taken ill as of late. I will be subbing for him for a while.”
Ophelya, with out thinking blushed at the man. “It will be a pleasure I’m sure Sir Artisanat-Amour.”
“No no, Drake please. Now let us get started.”
Ophelya borrowed his extra violin and they played for at least an hour, after which they would then go over her voice lessons. Her voice, as Sir Drake even stated, was soft, fluid, and innocent for her age. He had never heard a voice as sweet before.
“You are quite talented,” He complimented and smiled. “Until the next time mi amour I bid you adieu.” With that he left.
Poor Ophelya’s heart was pounding within her chest at Sir Drakes words ‘mi amour’. She knew she probably shouldn’t take it too seriously, for certainly he had a cute wife at home waiting for him, but she could dream. Of course her curiosity still rested on the mystery of Harachel and as she sat in the garden she once again painted his face.
“Harachel, are you my angel as Cecile suggested or just a figment of my imagination?” She questioned.
Suddenly she heard a rustling and a growl behind her. She spun around and at her face was a rather large wolf. Her eyes watered as she believed that soon she would die a rather gruesome death. Ophelya backed away slowly, but the wolf continued to eye her.
“Somebody, please help me!!!!” She screamed in terror.

RazukenCarrendar: The wolf stepped forward to Ophelya, its light brown eyes glaring at her unblinking with a hungry stare. Its tail lowered, just above the ground as it lowered its head and flattened its ears to even out its weight for a lunge. A deep and chilling growl emanated from its throat as its hackles rose and it tensed up.

Count Drake de Artisanat-Amour, as well as the other adults cringed at the blood chilling scream that pierced the air from the Garden. Ophelya’s father jumped to his feet from his garden chair and yelled her name in horror.
Drake spoke under his breath as his head turned toward the garden that he was walking away from.
“Oh no…”
Cecil and her mother had a look of pure shock upon their face as they froze in terror. Her father, as well as Drake sprinted toward the Garden, their adrenaline pumping wildly through their blood as they feared the worst had happened to the young and beautiful Ophelya

In Ophelya’s room, on the third floor, Harachel opened his eyes within the painting as the enchantment began to unbind him from his prison. He looked around wildly, noticing that the sun was peering through the curtains along her windows. He suddenly heard the scream from Ophelya from the window right in front of him. A feeling where his heart was, jumped at the sound of her scream, though it felt more empty as it was still a part of the frozen picture. A voice in his head, which was feminine and much more ancient-toned than his rang in his head.
“Harachel. It is now time to fulfill your purpose of being created. Save the lady Ophelya!”
As the enchantment freed him, he clenched his left fist and took his cane in his right, holding it tightly by the middle, and took a step back to the painted wall that was behind him, his maroon coat swirling around in the swiftness. He looked to the window, his green eyes locking onto his target. He put his left boot forward and spoke under his breath with a tone that was sweet and smooth, but dripped with a deadly nature.
“Ophelya, I am coming..”
With these few words, he lunged from his right foot, toward the edge of the canvas, his figure bursting through the material, causing it to rip, leaving behind a hole, exposing the fine wood wall behind the painting. He landed on the floor gracefully, crouching to his left hand to break the momentum, his boots making a delicate organic ‘thock’ as they hit the floor. He began to sprint from his crouched position, locking his gaze on the window ahead of him with a steely glare, drawing his sword from his cane with his right hand and roaring out with a raw battle-like power, as he jumped through the window, looking down three stories at the wolf.

The wolf would hear the sudden deafening roar and would be caught off guard, looking up to see Harachel decending. The wolf scrambled to get a distance from Harachel but not soon enough.

Ophelya’s father and Drake stopped dead in their sprint to see Harachel burst through the window, glass hurdling in every direction as he descended at a high rate of speed toward the wolf, yelling like a battle veteran. They seemingly were stopped and awestruck by this display of bravery and ignorance toward possible death.

Harachel tilted his sword downward, his left hand gripping the pommel, as his right overlaid the hilt, his feet separated shoulder-length to land just over the wolf. The sword gleamed against the high noon sun, sending a hazy ray of light scattering across the vision of those who watched. All in these few seconds, Harachel measured the distance between him and his prey, and steadily pointed the tip of his blade underneath the right shoulder of the wolf. He was upon the wolf with a loud grunt, the blade entering cleanly through the fur, splitting between two ribs of the wolf, puncturing its heart, then coming out of the other side, the tip going into the ground.
The sickening sound of the strike still hung dimly in the air as the wolf became limp and fell to the ground, impaled by the sword. Harachel rose from his feet and drew his sword with his right hand from the ground, the acrid smell of blood in the air as the blade met the open wind, the blood of the wolf running down the razor-like edges. He looked up to Ophelya with his emerald-like eyes, his long white hair blowing in the wind, partially covering his face. It was almost like a painting in itself to see him standing there. The maroon victorian coat caressed his figure firmly, his sword in hand, pointed diagonally toward the ground, as blood dripped from it, standing over the fallen wolf with a resolute look about his fine features. The gold chain that held his pocketwatch gently hung from an embroidered pocket. The sun shone from behind him, a few clouds in the background surrounding it, only leaving rays to trail the outlines of his figure.
Harachel looked down to Ophelya and was shocked by her beauty exposed in the sunlight. He was rendered speechless as the next scene unfolded.

(To be Continued)