Nharaziel, Hand of the Void Wanderer

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ohshinakai
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    Human (Illiaxu) · Hand of the Void Wanderer · Fantastiska Universe



    Name

    Nharaziel

    Epithet

    Hand of the Void Wanderer

    Age

    Unknown (approximately mid-20s)

    Date of Birth

    Unknown; records of her early life in Illiax are absent or suppressed

    Race

    Human (Illiaxu)

    Role

    Warrior; chosen instrument of the Void Wanderer; bearer of Qazreth, the Black Blade

    Location

    Last known location the deep Illiaxu jungles and the Black Temple of Abakax

    Universe

    Fantastiska

    Status

    Non-Story Character

    Appearance

    Nharaziel stands in stark and immediate contrast to the Illiaxu she came from. Where her people are typically wiry and lithe, adapted to the dim rainforest, she is now voluptuous and physically imposing, her form remade by years of Void corruption into something the blade designed rather than biology provided. Her skin is pale as cracked porcelain, pallid and fractured by fine dark lines that trace across her body, the same slow bleaching and fracturing seen in other Illiaxu who have been claimed as the Void's tribute. Her hair is pure black, and her eyes are the opposite of Illiaxu norm: solid white, pupil- and irisless, reflecting nothing. She wears form-fitting black leather armor under a heavy hooded dark cloak, her silhouette absorbed by shadow wherever the light is poor. Qazreth, what others call the Black Blade, what Nharaziel calls by name, treating it as a person rather than a weapon. When she draws upon its power, dark violet energies emanate up her arms and across her armor while her white eyes bleed faintly purple at the edges. Even sheathed, a faint smoky purple haze seeps from the blade's edge like breath from a cold mouth, curling against her hip and dissipating before it rises far.

    First Impression

    The hood doesn't hide her. And Qazreth at her side doesn't act like any normal weapon: the gem in the handle pulsates like it is a breathing, living thing. A thin curl of purple smoke rises from its sheath at all times, the only part of her that never holds still. Those who look into her white eyes long enough find they cannot recall, afterward, what they were thinking before they looked.

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