In the distance of happier times and a well planned fair, night loomed. It always loomed amongst the border of Ashengard. The province was as cold and bitter as the icy grip of death itself and made it's impression as such. Yet the night brought little attention to travelers and in so, he travels quietly along the path's of long since rotten happiness, bound for the moss and sunlight of the places long since forgotten to the people here of ash and snow.
The frost bitten air of a suicidal dowfalling tune to exsistance only seemed to meld with the darkness that approached on swift winds. Tattered and broken limbs of tree's and the wiling of the ever moving sky seemed only to glare in angry stares of destitution upon the movement down the path of hell itself. Frost glazed the frozen kingdom of tree's and bit relentlessly upon the trimmings of the world as if to take the sun from the sky forever. Serpent's sting and venom clawed in the very air about the forest of ashen snow. The fire's of home long since snuffed out in the passion of the night that leapt into darkness as if the tar of life seemingly stuck to one's own ribs desperatly clinging to life. The path bent and twisted, wandered and snaked throughout the path of frozen forestry.

Falling hoof steps sounded amongst the silent night as the church bells of sunday morning funerals. The shimmer of the heavy fall followed immediatly by the collision of the pathway that implodes in the dusty explosion of dust, frozen dirt and ashen snow. Death cowered in the shadow of the twisted tree's and dead air, as even his scythe delayed the wind and chilled the very touch. The hourglass frozen with sands falling one at a time as the snorting of the horse shattered the glass with holding the sands of time. The mighty Fresian snorted again as both rider and mount simply braved the cold and liquid darkness of this eve travelling a damned path of old times along silence. The heavy horse trots with passion in his step and bravory only described in knight of legend. The long black charcoal tail trimming the ground with little more then dancing ballets of the desperate to cling frost bitten ground. The snow lazly jumping acround beneathe thundering falls. The blanket and saddle both warming and comforting the steed in pleasure as the rider atop himself seemed to almost be death himself.

A darkness followed around them, as if the clouds of steady swallowing destruction walked in thier very wake the man atop was a figure to be with held indeed. A heavy hood shrouded the figure in the very darkness that creeped the night in stealthy wakeings of the devil. Raven feather's decore the trimm and cowel as the wind blew in a cold hush of silence. The Fresian beneathe him snorted in disgust of the foul wheather as the man atop gently patted the mighty war beasts side. His scaled metal hand leather bound to chainmail and flesh. The hooking that of dragons of evil in the legends of old as if he were a wraith of the tomb. The darkness and black shrouds of ash and blackest sin still surround him as the wind struggles to catch the face of deepest insanity beneathe the hood. The wind tugged to reveal again as it suceeded in the right arm revealing a silver death. The glittering of the mail and plate under the moon striken gaze of darkness seemed only to glow in ghostly transmission of tomb raidig suspicion. A great shoulder strtch about the cloak with a mighty inlaid book chained to the armour with passages inscribed in the metal sculpt. The dragon scale look stretched down the armour that seemingly ended in a demonic looking hand in sculpted glory. The spines of death and features of creeping gore were all about the crafted plate mail. Even beneathe the baggy black silken robes this could be seen. The thick golden double laid trim only glittered alittle in the passage of divinity it had symbolized in darkness. Death cowered at the sight of this approaching fiend of the the shadow in the guise of light. The robes covered the rest of this man's body as a crafted and woven gold seal on the chest in the shape of a an old withered tree wrapped in the thorns of a rose tappered off to a sun shining below.

Trappings of the wind cast this sight aside blowing the tattered shroud of battle worn effeciency across the scene hinding it from view once again and retreating. The hood revealed a Silver refelction of pale flesh. Black silken hair tossed about the face of a wolfen feature. His cool keen eye's pericing the night in defiance of the liquid darkness. His pale blue freezing the very air in an icy glare. Passion swirledand wrapped mighty hands about the identity of this traveler. Chaos was sewn in a bag upon the saddle to his side. His Flamberage is that of his Father's and his own sweat and blood. The long blade is folded in contrast to the usual bludgeing of a broad sword. This blade is capable of cutting through horse and rider in one foul swing. The young warrior has adapted his own saddle to accompany his side at the cost of sheild and alternate weapon. The blade is decorated with the snakes of wrath up the blade itself wrapping about the blood groove. The two bladed spikes located six inches above the hilt are for docking aswell as cleaving purposes. The blade is fine metals and a sharp contrast to the weight is made from less dense of metal's as they are heated differently making it possible to keep durability with less weight. The hilt itself is a haunting sight to say the least. The hilt is composed of the metal of the blade that stretches within the the hilt but is then layered in quark. After that it is wrapped in the bone of his father, the bone is shaped and bent to cover the quark for several layers. After the bone was shaped and hardened it was then wrapped in silk and cotton to protect his father's legacy as he finished the blade after the death of his father. The final peice is that of a skeletal hand holding a small star saphire within it's palm. The skeletal hand is also made of his father's bone and stricken passion.
Darkness was quelled ahead of his path with the sight of a conspired recollection. His cloak bearing the emblem of a long since past sect of knight. The young man felt the grimmace of death once more swallow his face in defiance. The Intrcate L laced in throns and blades upon his back is encompassed and enclosed within the hallowed circle of pins daggers and hooks. Los'Alendros was a sect of templar long since banished from the light for mnay things that were considered barbaric. They had been associated with darkness for the fact as a sect requirment one was to take a so called familiar.

His left shoulder was not empty however as the shattering and all the more haunting call of the Raven that sat atop it was all the more suspicion to this man's allignment or even alligiance. A player of darkness and a fondeler of dark arts he seemingly walked the edge of a sauntering destruction in the warpath of destruction that lay ahead. A foul cooing almost he raised a plated hand to silence the bird with a voice of a ice and snow