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 Aeshma, Pied Piper

you can dance on the grave and the bones of the children, if you know what to say / and you know it's begun from the beat of the drums, and the screams from the mouths of the babes / and we pray, as we're watching the charade / welcome to your wedding day

Jun 11 2016, 01:07 AM Quote


Pied Piper
Adam Lambert

EST [gmt-5:00]--PM/Skype: wrennymellon or AIM--Felix Cooke

Aeshma's Vital Stats and Descriptions--condensed.

His birth name is Aeshma, nothing more, nothing less. When he left the Order of Fate and Allutheria, he took on the title the Pied Piper, as he discovered his identity in music and magic intertwined.
The Piper is old--3,479 years; and yet in many ways he is still a child, all emotion and all rage; and quite ignorant of the world of Ga'leah.
Aeshma is angry, with the gods and with the fae. He feels outcast, unfairly punished, he feels superior and he wishes to wreak vengenace on those who have done him wrong. He isolates himself from others, and only recently has begun to feel true pleasure once again; through his music, and through exercising his power over others. He is not a wise being, though far from unintelligent, and is warlike.
Magical power ; Lack of empathy ; Intelligence ; Loyalty ; Weaknesses
Lack of empathy ; Ignorance of Ga'leah ; Fear ;
Aeshma stands at 5'10'', with smooth, pale skin that's lightly freckled, and dark brown hair, cut short, often waved and styled. His eyes are hooded, dangerous and most often, yellow; his nose is strong, feline, and his mouth is expressive, a smirk often present. His brow is strong and arched, and he has a slim build.
Aeshma doesn't know 'friends', nor lovers. He's antisocial to extremes and cannot carry on a pleasant conversation for the life of him. He is defensive, aggressive, unpleasant and competitive. He does however have a strong sense of loyalty, and that can be seen underneath his prickly exterior. If he respects you, you'll also know--he has little sense of honor, but while playing dirty means nothing to him, someone's power and grace means a lot--and he'll often treat those who are, in his sense of the word, good, with respect and dignity. He will give every last breath to those he considers worthy, or himself indebted to. He may grow to realize there is more in his heart--but he's still so inexperienced, with everything to do with life, that it may simply confuse him, upset him too much to bear any fruit.

His Beginning

Aeshma. A name that should be spoken with a hush, if ever at all--the fae, old enough to have seen the battle, to have fought against the pantheon in his childish fear and arrogance, was never entranced by the charms of Allutheria, his paradise prison--never content to live on and let things be as they were.


It was a beautiful world in which he came into being; a sense of belonging and home and pride, in himself, in his beauty and the fantasy of everything around him, filled his soul to the brim--new life could hardly be contained, and with the power he, like the rest of his kind, were given, and the lack of hard dangers and grueling survival, with benevolent masters and a life in Eden--nothing was learned. All was joy, yet nothing came of it. Imagine a child, growing up, yet always, always contained, always provided for and cared for, given everything it wants--yet the child only grows in power, as it matures.
Aeshma was a child, who wanted more, as all children do. He saw the light that the gods held, the power within the pantheon, and, though nearing maturity, still thought only selfishly, in terms a human toddler could understand. He was not the only one, and easily caught up in the anger, the hurt and the selfish greed that was all they could ever know, with no guidance and no goal but their own pleasure.

And so he fought. He was torn by this, the first notion of violence and unhappiness deep seated in his being, with such a need for what others had and every time, beaten back by those more powerful--foolish and driven by anger, the fae was torn from a peaceful, blissful life and shoved into a war-torn and hateful one, the effects of which have only continued to grow throughout his life.

His Adulthood

Aeshma was imprisoned, in Allutheria. That was how he had always felt; trapped because he was too powerful, too strong for the Pantheon to deal with. He and his brethren were caged for no crime but that which the gods themselves had ordained--he felt wronged, and could not see beauty in what the fae created of Allutheria; only a shambles, making do with what they had after having everything torn from them. Such frivolities and pastimes were merely distractions, attempts to pacify themselves while the world moved on--trying to forget the clearly horrendous mistake it had made in creating them. Him.
Though he could stomach the void, amuse himself, distract himself, Aeshma never became truly assimilated, consumed with his resentment and still burning greed for the world of humanity. He lived isolated, occupying himself with himself, with his home, and with his thoughts. Those fae he'd known when he was young, who he might have called friends, he forgot, or else avoided. The courts never gained support from Aeshma, as he thought them a farce, disgustingly naive and content--placid sheep in their pen; which were his thoughts on just about everyone in Allutheria, himself excluded. Did he truly believe all of his race were content in Allutheria?
Yes, to put it simply. He could not see their anger or their efforts, not at first--feeling like the only wakened one in a city of dreamers, his arrogance surpassed even plenty of the fae, blinding him to the companionship he could very well have rejoiced in, rebelled with instead of against--and eventually, that did happen, far later than it should have--and Aeshma's bitterness only grew.

When the Order of Fate came into being, Aeshma had already been hard at work, destroying the bonds of reality between Allutheria and humanity, and he had known--dreaded, in fact, the fae's reactions. That they would regulate their own freedom, only to preserve some cowardly truce with the gods that had caused all this, and in this he was outspoken--and it was only his age and power that kept him alive; and to an extent, his intelligence, which, while not strong enough to hold back his anger and rash words, was enough to apologize for them after the fact; and to make brilliant amends--for his magic was strong, and he certainly could be of use to those who wished him. It was in this dangerous lifestyle, arguing with the very people he'd only moments later, do anything for to keep his skin safe, that Aeshma began to realize how little he cared for any of them. His loyalties...were not to Allutheria. He felt a sense of duty, to the fae as whole--to let them out. To let them free, without bounds, onto the world that was rightfully theirs--but he despised them for letting this be their life.

This was not their life.

But the fae, who had taken to calling himself a demon in light of his absolute hatred of the gods--had one place in his heart not solely for loyalty--but for admiration, and in some odd sense, love; though far be it from him to ever feel, romantic or even sexual. Adora, the goddess--he knew she had blamed the gods, as he had. He knew it was because of her they were alive--and despite his resentment of their 'prison', he could not deny his gratitude towards her for his life. She did not know him, nor he she, personally-- but as the land of Xehacora came within reach--and thus, the whole of the human world--his thoughts turned to her. He wanted to meet her--thank her. free of Allutheria. For good. He felt no bondage of loyalty to anyone but she who had risked life and limb for him and for his kind. For she who had been so mistreated--though he was not aware, perhaps, of the extent to which she had been punished for crimes he was not even aware of--not until later.

He had begun to see it, in his caged home--the blight's influence. He'd seen it--confronted with a portal near what would be Yarrow, on the outside--he'd seen fae, twisted and changed; and it was that which scared him from entering the portal out of fear of what lay on the other side. His isolation had led to him being ignorant of much of the goings on, out there; and this first, very real encounter was eye opening for him.

He had needed to leave. He knew that much--his world was not with that of the fae, not with those who chose to remain when there was still a way out. Not while the Blight took over, not while he still had life in his body. Throughout his long, miserable life in Allutheria, he had isolated himself, while still constantly working for the Order out of sheer necessity; to remain in good graces, he could make up for his obvious hatred by providing service, until that day when he could no longer take it. The blight was coming ever faster and it felt his time was running out.

He wasn't going to let it.
So Aeshma left. One day, he simply left, as if on a mission--but he tossed his head, smiled--for the first time, letting his responsibilities fall away and not focus on the task at hand--because what task was there? None. No longer did he need to hide the wonders of the world from everyone, lock them up--just like he, the fae were locked up. Well, not anymore. His freedom was assured--he'd like to see the gods, in their sorry state, try to put him back, as the fabric of Allutheria was crumbling. He began to wander; with no purpose, he enjoyed his newfound freedom more than he'd enjoyed anything--he'd come close to dying at the hands of the walking starvation, and he had to rely on his wits and his power to survive--not a difficult task, with power such as his own, but still so refreshing. So new. His hatred of the pantheon for taking this from him--it only grew, but instead of festering in a doomed, jaded fae, it sparked him to life and to delighted rage; he began to take ever more pleasure in openly despising the gods, in cursing their names. He took freelance work, for pay he would use his magic--and there were quite a lot who desired his magic, this day and age. He would take their money, their goods; whatever it was they had that he wanted, and often it was not something he needed in the slightest; he'd taken livestock and killed it, left it to rot, and how he'd loved it.

The fact was-- he was exhilarated, and giddy; and acting on impulse more than he had in his entire life, since the war between the pantheon and the fae. A newfound sense of sadism, driven more by curiosity and a lack of empathy--and then, later, by a sort of channel for his anger--than a pure desire to hurt that which he did--was quickly growing. But a new interest had begun to present itself to Aeshma; and that was music.

The Piper's Pipe

He'd crafted it himself, after he'd first heard one play, and began to realize the bewitching talent he possessed; laced with magic, his pipe entranced the listener, even himself--and his silver tongue, nimble fingers, quickly became known..with one escapade to a town in Xehacora. He knew where he was--that Maleficent ruled, here, but truthfully, all thoughts of meeting with her had faded, as his gratitude towards her had waned, his thoughts of righteous vengeance fading as he grew accustomed to his new life. That all changed, when he charmed the rats of Hamelin; and when he was refused payment. Rage was hardly what you'd call his reaction--in fact, he seemed almost to relish the silence with which he was met, as he asked for the agreed settlement. He let a cold smile slip, and he'd left.

And that night, Aeshma, Piper--who called himself a demon, a fae of the other world, led the children away, from screaming mothers and bellowing fathers. He kept himself shrouded, safe; untouchable, just as the children--until his palm made contact with the payment that Jareth, Goblin King had agreed upon.
Some people remembered their debts.

Soon enough, he was called before her--queen of Xehacora, former Goddess, savior of the fae and--in Aeshma's eyes--nothing but power. He was awed, humbled; for the first time in his life, full of respect for the woman he knew he owed much--and had yet to repay. Her offer seemed too good to be true; and in a heartbeat, the fae took it, despite misgivings about the other gods taking part--he wanted to bring them down. The Pantheon would be no more--and if Maleficent betrayed him? If she refused him godhood? Then so be it. He would have helped to bring about the end of a tyranny, a tyranny he shuddered to live under, and he could be killed for it, or he could kill for it, or both. The Pied Piper had purpose, renewed.

He would not be denied his vengeance.
The Pied Piper. Cruel, boundless, angry--a fae worth avoiding, or seeking out should you have wished revenge on someone; so long as you could pay the price. Magic was in his eyes, often yellow, staring and cold, as his lips pulled back in a cold smile. That smile spoke of a sadistic desire to pull out your intestines--to pack salt into every wound. Aeshma, as he was rarely called, was not often afraid. He was not often in danger--a human was paltry, a wild beast puny--and should his confidence shake? A glamour, a disguise of the utmost quality in place as he veiled himself as his enemies' lovers, their comrades. Thus, he...was safe.

Or so he hoped. Because, this time--things were different. His hand shook, his thoughts were quick and numerous; as the walking starvation approached--the sight. The sound. The smell. He felt sick, a queasy rolling in his stomach before he turned away, swallowed back the bile--and stepped into the shifting silver that would return him to Xehacora--where he considered as close to a home, as anywhere in this world. So long--so long he'd been trapped in Allutheria. So many wasted years--and now, now he was out--with the end of the world seemingly nigh. How could he--how could they destroy the Pantheon, while keeping themselves safe from this? Were they safe? Was even Maleficent safe? He had noticed the consequences of his magic--how every price seemed steeper, how it all took more, like everything was hungry to drive him into debt, into a pit from where he'd not escape. He was clinging on with every fiber of stubborn determination; he would not let his fight for freedom end so casually, so devoid of meaning.

The truth was--the Piper was frightened. The Blight seemed inevitable, inhuman, and he had taken to hiding in Xehacora; grateful for his Queen's protective barriers, and shameful of his cowardice towards the Blight. He was frightened of his life slipping away--of a spell needing too much--of his life being cut short. Nearly four millennia, and the Piper felt young--too young. The war with the Pantheon? He had fought with unbridled recklessness, no fear of death; and now, he felt childish, naive. He was growing hesitant, not against his rage, not against the gods; but against the dead. The corpses that walked.

When all of the beauty turns to pain When all of the madness falls like rain As long as we crash and we collide We will be gorgeous, you and I.

The Bard
Jun 15 2016, 02:25 AM Quote

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