Andarin: The Mountains: And risk, you will risk,

“This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.:
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save Us!'...:
...and I'll look down, and whisper, 'No'"

It was not day, nor was it night. Neither seemed fitting for the man that now emerged from the shadows and darkness that concealed him. His name was not well known, as far as he knew there were few here who truly could say that they knew him. The man did well in the business of the recluse. I doubt that fame would ever befall him, and I know that it was not something that he desired. He was misunderstood in so many ways, and that was the way he wanted to keep it. Some called him hero, others swore him villain. All in all I’d have to stand by the claim of hero, though he was unlike those you would hear of. He preferred anonymity as did most hero’s, but his was different. No one would recall him sweeping the victims from harms way, nor would the victim claim that there was someone there to stop them from their doom. No, he was a ghost, a shadow that was not even noticed enough in a whisper. Only the two who knew him would know that it was him that was the hero and not fate. His daughters, who would keep his secrets well, for they knew him enough to not whisper a word. He was, truly, a silent guardian and watchful protector, a Dark Knight.

The man is still in shadow for now, the spiraling flame from him directly from the forest. It had a special way about it, a fierceness and beauty that was not seen in common fires. If you looked past it you would note the man, though for now the fire that was drained from him and channeled before you made him something less than stunning. He was a shadow in himself, black save for the glowing amber eyes that were even more wonderful and terrifying than the flames that they were focused on. In them was all the intensity of the fires, and yet all the emotion and passion of the world. It was his eyes that told you that this man had seen the world rise and burn, much like the phoenix that hovered silently above the spiraling flame.

He had loved, hated, cried, and so many other things.

Others who held elements would relish in the thought of holding more than one. Others would not feel whole without the two that they had come across. But Nicodemus was nothing without his flames. He could not imagine holding more than fire, nor did he ever once yearn for it. You could see that in his being, his actions. They were purely fire and nothing more. And yet there was a darkness that caused you to feel otherwise. The way that the wind swayed the flame and his mane. And perhaps it was then that the flames illuminated the gash that ran along just behind his cheek, more appropriately called the jugular. Yes, those who knew of the shards would understand then that this man was a slave to the devil himself.

Perhaps that was why he had become even more recluse than before, why for a long while the Seer had disappeared. Nonetheless, whether by the power of the shard or the willingness of his own mind, Nicodemus had returned home. And not to Solira’s edge, but to Andarin’s. He was stronger than he thought he was before. Before he had run in fear of bringing harm to his few loved ones to the sea, the farthest reach of time and space. And yet now he knew he couldn’t hurt them, even if it was a command from the one he served. His heart was stronger than the shards. Everyone had always said of him that he was a rare thing indeed that when he loved he did so with all his heart.

Now the flame began to return to him, slowly. And with it so did the awesomeness that was Nicodemus. The flames gave him color, life, brilliance. The blackness became reds, bright and shining like his own flames. His eyes shone now more than before. Other than the eyes, his face was set in stone, emotion void from anything other than his tell-tale eyes. Beauty was often terrible all at the same time.

The small creature upon his back stirs, a low growl falling from his fierce lips. A wolverine. He steps forwards, because you turn out to be just who he is looking for. He doesn’t know a thing about you, but he knows that you are strange. Nicodemus was attracted to strange.

“Are you lost?” He hesitates, ears flicking back, muscles tense. “Because you don’t look like your from around here.”

SEER

**NICODEMUS**

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.

Picture Copyright to Artwithapulse at Deviantart