In a cataclysm known as the Nightfall, the worlds were almost completely destroyed by a harrowing surge of darkness.
In the shadows of the ensuing chaos a new group has taken shape. Led by an Aegyl named Kalos, the 11th Hour touts an esoteric knowledge of how to combat the darkness and restore the worlds. They might be the worlds’ best chance at survival; but nobody really knows enough about them to confirm or deny their claims.
On the brink of collapse, the universe holds its breath in anticipation. Of restoration? Of destruction? It is up to individuals like yourself to decide.
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This profile intentionally has bits written as Discoverable, not because of lack of enthusiasm but because I want interactions with Kalos not to be affected by information about him. What would it be like to meet Kalos in the streets? Just like meeting any other stranger whom you know nothing about, I imagine. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORIGINAL or CANON: Original
Series of Origin: Race from FFXII: Revenant Wings
What was the inspiration for them / do they embody a particular feeling or emotion?
The inspiration behind Kalos was to try something new. He represents an idea that I wanted to experiment with here on the forum, and I hope there are good reactions - either positive or negative - to who he is and the direction he will take.
Name: Kalos
Nickname: N/A; he sees these as fake and despises them. Kalos believes that there is power in a person's true name.
Age: He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
Gender: Male
Species: Discoverable
Being Type: Somebody
Learning type: Kinesthetic
Natural Affinities/Abilities/Skills:
Creative
Aesthetically inclined
Limitations/Drawbacks:
Weak: His build leaves a lot to be desired in the way of raw strength.
Weapon:
Rosethorn; an extravagant rapier. The hilt resembles a delicate light blue rose with a single bramble coiling a few inches around the base of the blade. The blade projects through the middle of the flower. It is likely that few will actually see him use it, as Rosethorn is rarely brandished.
There was something to be said for the beauty that had graced the verdant land today. Rain clouds were breaking up over the horizon, allowing the sun to fall in horizontal strands across the world as the rays covered the waterfront land in soft golds. The air was cool, the sunlight warm. A few white gulls flapped past the balcony and disappeared beyond the strong stone walls.
Standing on the precipice of the Antiquated Castle balcony, the way the waterfalls cascaded into nothingness as it married with the clouds - it really felt like he was where he belonged belonged: in the heavens.
It was the day that his beloved city would fall.
*
The quiet clink of his richly adorned coat tail pierced the quiet night as black boots clad in iridescent gold girding took a wide stride.
*
It was a celebration day; the right sort of day to enjoy a theatrical production. He had only just exited the theatre, not making it more than a few yards before several of Dalmasca's inhabitants flooded around him. From behind the festive mask he'd worn, iolite eyes drifted from one of his fans to the next. After all, since he'd arrived in the city he'd been a commodity. And having his anima back gave him the right faculty to truly appreciate this fawning. Questions rifled from the small crowd, one after another about what he thought of the play, whom his favorite character was and why, and if he'd planned to see another any time soon. Had he had anything like this where he was from?
*
The next boot stepped out of the gold-tipped, diamond-shaped coat edges as he took another stride. Another clink rolled into the brisk air from the brassy chain fashionably binding the fabric against his lower back.
*
On the other side of a sheet-shaded kiosk, a dusty maroon Bangaa had been trying to convince him of the engraving he should get on his bronze pocket watch. The penny-hungry Bangaa was obviously trying to up-sell him, due to the color and shape of the watch he 'thought it would look best'.
A very large shadow ripped across the sky. Kalos' gaze snapped up to see the sight, his jagged-cut hair bouncing a bit with the sudden movement as that gaze thinned on the shadow that blocked out the sun. All at once the world seemed to eclipse. It was as if the sky were being ripped away. The ground trembled. People screamed and a slew of shadowy beasts sprouted up from nowhere. They'd arisen from nowhere, the same as he'd seen when the Auraliths were torn asunder. The beasts were different this time. They lunged and scratched at anything close by.
Quickly Kalos snatched his pocket watch back from the vendor and with an easy beat of his wings he had landed on the ground between the shadow-creatures and several of the panicked citizens.
He secured his left glove and with grace and majesty and poise he brandished Rosethorn. He could still hear the shriek of the metal as the rapier sang out its alacrity.
*
One more quiet stride as those light bluish-purple eyes stared at the undamaged clock on the sculpture below. If that really was the time then it was six-o-four in the evening. Standing proudly, he withdrew his bronze pocket watch. It did not read with the same numbers, but he'd chalked that up to the fact this was a different world. Perhaps it ran on a different schedule. With that dismissing thought, he would return the quietly ticking contraption to its rightful pocket.
Whichever city lights behind him had still worked were twinkling puffs of color through the last of the dwindling fog. The eerie blue glow of the fractured moon was only a backdrop from atop the fractured pinnacle of Sunset Hill. What was once a scenic plateau now stood as little more than an crumbling hilltop. A good half of the ground jutted at a sloping angle toward the rolling darkened plains. The moonlight and the last of the mist gave an uneasy touch to the world that once had a peaceful past. As a result of the recent cataclysm, the smaller statue of this city's iconic clock tower jutted off to an angle, barely hanging erect over a dilapidated wooden fence. A pool of water had collected at its basin since the last rain.
This evening the air smelled clean and clear. The atmosphere held a bit of a chill; it was uncomfortable, but not unbearable: unpleasant enough to keep one’s mind firmly ticking on what was important without much room for a leisurely stroll.
Black boots girded with iridescent gold would take turns in a leisurely step, one after the next, across the darkened ground and over the puddle at the base of the leaning statue. Iolite eyes snapped down from behind an intricate mask of swirling gold and Kalos cracked a gentle grin at the visage staring back at him from the water's surface. It was a short glance. His grin fell when he saw a dark purple expanse in the gentle ripples behind his head. It was a sad realization that the stars had been smitten, leaving behind an expanse void of the night's natural beauty.
He would gracefully walk along the gentle vertical slope of the replica Clock Tower. When he’d made it to the very edge of the carving he would stop, white-gloved hands tucking into the pockets of plain black slacks. His persona was bathed in soft white light from the lamps on both sides of the statue.
Tall and thin posture stood completely upright, retaining its pride even while he stood sentinel. He held the poise of a rich man and his black clothing had been adorned with the detailed golden embroidery and adornments to go with it.
Kalos's gaze scanned the shadow-filled town and the rolling plains below that faded into the darkness on the horizon. His mind began to turn over the possibilities. It was obvious to him that somewhere in the shadows, the Darkness was taking root within this - the last of the sanctuaries of Light. And it was apparent that even now, in the town’s Eleventh Hour, there was so very much work to be done.
The skin around his eyes contracted just a bit while his gaze focused on nothing in particular. In the masked man's mind thoughts were ever tinkering. The wind played through the black strands of hair barely short enough not to brush his shoulders.
If there was to be anything worth while to come of this, well, they would have to get to work. Time was ticking!
Just below that golden mask, a grin widened. A decisive look slid across the man's pale face. Two expansive wings of black obsidian feathers snapped out on either side of him, and with one powerful beat of them he had taken to the air.
The only thing in Kalos’s wake were a few obsidian-glass feathers that drifted weightlessly to rest upon the grey stone of the statue below.
Image credit for the avatar and hover image go to the original artists, neither of which could be found to credit, though if they come forward the proper credit will be given.
