#wildward

Genius. Curious. Reactive.

He is the one that knows all. Who sees the unseen, and can read his enemies like a book. He is the wielder of the Raven Aegis; Kaarne.

A trickster. A scholar. A ghost. He does not fight with brute force, nor does he dominate the battlefield with sheer might. Instead, he dances along the edges of perception, slipping between moments like ink bleeding into water. His presence is unsettling, a lingering watchfulness that prickles at the edges of the mind—unshakeable, inescapable. He is the flicker of movement in the periphery, the phantom breath against the nape of your neck. And when he strikes, it is with eerie precision, as though he has seen every move before it was made.

His sightless eyes see more than most. Deprived of vision, Kaarne reads the world through means far beyond the mundane—keen ears that catch the subtlest quiver in a voice, hands that trace the contours of truth and deception alike. The way the wind shifts, the way the air hums, the way silence breathes. He listens. He learns. He understands.

His transformed form is both ethereal and unnerving, something born of a world adjacent to this one. The Raven Aegis, an unassuming earring when dormant, embeds itself into his ear upon activation, dark veins of energy threading from it like ink-stained cracks along porcelain. His hair, impossibly long and inky black, shimmers like raven feathers beneath the moon, shifting in iridescent hues of blue and violet when he moves. His coat, a flowing mass of shadows, twists and unfurls like living ink, trailing behind him as though he is never entirely tethered to this plane.

To face Kaarne is to fight inevitability itself. He does not overpower his enemies; he dismantles them. He preys upon uncertainty, weaving misinformation and manipulation into his arsenal as deftly as any blade. His voice is a whisper in the dark, a soft murmur behind your shoulder, a question that plants doubt in your mind before you even realize it. And then—when you falter, when hesitation stills your hand for a fraction too long—he strikes.

A blade that bends like liquid, shifting in form, curling and warping with the fluidity of thought. A weapon that can never be anticipated because it is never quite the same. His attacks come from nowhere and everywhere, unpredictable yet meticulously calculated. His fighting style is not one of brute strength, but of control—playing his enemies like a finely tuned instrument, plucking at their fears and flaws until they unravel.

Some say he is not truly human. That he is something else wearing human skin, something that knows too much, hears too much, moves too strangely. The people of Bougainville whisper his name in hushed, uneasy tones—a specter, an omen, a force that does not belong here. The hunter that does not stalk its prey, but lingers just outside its awareness, waiting, waiting, waiting. And when the moment is right—