At first, the sight of the executioner is almost ethereal. But, before the ghostly, albino TempestWing gets too close, first the fear will size your chest like the grip of a vice. It is not the dragon it it of himself that evokes the fear, no, his face is blank and his body language is utterly calm. It was never him himself, was it?
No, it was your father who would have always told you to stay far away from him.
As you almost bound aside to let him pass, you notice that his pale blue eyes are fixed on nothing; they are unseeing. You don’t dare even think about how his talonfalls could be so decisive, how the swing of his blade was ever on target.
Of course, there was yet another layer to his oddity, his scorched ram skull, the draped asphodel flowers across his tall form. Feathers peeked out from beneath his rippling black cloak. The gods were cruel in making him. A Spark without sight. A TempestWing who could never see a flash of lightning or the atrocities he's committed, you heard your mother’s words almost whisper to your folded back ears.
They made him utterly beautiful, angelic in every sense. But of course, the chaos pantheon had taken one talon and dragged it across his irises. He was born blind, that much was clear.
Before he passes underneath the archway seperating you from the next room, his head snaps up and his eyes stare directly at you. You just now notice that every other TempestWing had gone while his back was turned.
He nods once, a curt gesture that didn’t stop your heart from pounding, before his black cape trailed around the corner. And like that, you would never see Ethos in the flesh again.
You didn't even notice that his real horns were broken or that his face was scarred beyond words; all you saw was that damned ram's skull. No one would ever ask why he was scarred or why they were broken anyways.
I seek no harm for others.
Solemn is the only word to describe the executioner. His pale eyes are blank, if you ever do get a glimpse of them through the mask. Decades of death has done him no good, and neither has the looks, the whispers, and the twenty-foot parted crowds around the bone-white TempestWing.
He has donned a robe as black as night to cover his shame, but he is unmistakable, even with it. He is an aberration. It has been drilled and drilled into his head, by his former mentor, by his queen, and by the terrified public. His slightest touch could curse, a brush of a wingtip could kill.
He has no defined personality, no individuality to call his own. All he knows as truth in this world is all he expresses. One could call him wise for his tomes-worth of knowledge, but Ethos is impartial to it. One would not expect such a mal-treated dragon to have empathy.
But empathy is the only thing Ethos has that was never stripped from him. He does not seek to harm the world, only dispose of those who must be disposed of. He does not take sadism in his ways, unlike his former master. Instead, he makes demise quick and never steps out of his lines. He knows that it's best to leave society alone. The curse of the executioner is far too inborn into the title for him to dispel.
Before his apprentice, he had not spoken in so long. When Somnus came to him, his voice was as broken as steel against rock. His vocal cords are mostly ruined anyways, so he mostly communicates through writing and sign.
Death is supposed to be natural, but some cause too much pain to deserve that.
This character is only open for selective roleplays.
This status is not a tool, and is is surely not meant to be a weapon.