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Every since walking through a handy dandy portal he found whilst bullying some muggles in a local crackden, Marcus Flint has been having the time of his life. Well, at first he was most certainly not having the time of his life, because about five minutes into his debut within the new world he found himself thrust upon, he was brutally murdered by having his throat slit by some giant barbarian in a bear outfit. But he swiftly recovered, and he returned, with a cool scar.
Of course then some old goody two-shoes Dumbledore alike wanted him to perform some good deeds around town, a task he did not and could not compete for many days until a coin fell out of a hole in his pocket into a beggar's lap, and after he just so happened to untie some woman in the sewers preparatory to aggressively flirting with her. Once those two coincidences occurred, he was given super powers by the old prat and preachy bint, and the world really became his own.
"Behold, I grant you…wings!"
The bint, who calls herself 'White Crow' (eye roll) throws her hands towards Marcus like she's shoving an invisible bookshelf into him with intent to crush. He knows what that looks like, because attempts were made on his life once or twice in the Hogwarts library when he was there, flirting with that bushy haired mudblood girl. Only what the lamely named witch in white grants him is not wings in the traditional sense, but a tatty black cloak. Extremely tatty. Like something a Weasley would possess. However, instead of giving it to him like a normal person would give a cloak, she attaches it to his back, forcibly, somehow packing it away beneath his skin. Excruciating pain is his lot for an agonising minute, but he's not allowed to suffer it in peace, because the old bastard masquerading as a beggar kicks him off of the edge of the floating island all three are standing on.
"Practice makes perfect!" calls Alustin, at the rapidly retreating dot that is Marcus' falling body. Rubbing his hands together then standing up straight and wiping them off on his robes, he turns to his colleague. "I don't like that version. Let's try another."
Unfortunately for them, Marcus was quite a good quidditch player back in school, and he doesn't freak out and die like they expect him to upon finding the earth sprinting up to meet him. There is no time wasted screaming. Instead, his mind automatically clears and focuses, as it does when he's playing quidditch, the noise and fury of the rushing wind disappearing so he can focus on doing his job, which in this case is using those brand spanking new* wings to fly his Slytherin ass away from coming to a sudden, terminal stop on the earth below.
The tatty black cloak of a blood traitor, full of holes, the wings, emerge magically from his shoulders, without pain this time and without damage to the scattered pieces of rather swish armour he's already managed to pick up from here there and everywhere. From a man with a touch of troll blood in him, Marcus transforms into a giant black crow slash bat, with a touch of troll blood in it, retaining his human form but becoming extra super duper Goth on top of it. To anyone who happens to be looking up (local dogs, pigs) he appears to be the Grim Reaper, out for a nice Sunday flyby.
I could get used to this, he thinks, as he swoops over a goblin encampment, his beady eyes glinting in anticipation of the bullying to come.
Up on the sky island, sweat beads on the foreheads of the watching sky wizards.
🐍🐉🐍
Ever since acquiring wings, Marcus has become an international terror, as he would've been back in his own world, if he wasn't afraid of his grandmother fully as much as he was afraid of the Department of Aurors and Azkaban. None of those things are present in Pywel. It's still Crimson Desert though, so there are a great many unkillable characters wandering about, and he can't cause nearly as much chaos and destruction as he'd like, but he certainly tries his best.
Naturally, being a coward, he prefers nighttime to daylight for his shenanigans, and mothers and fathers and grandparents of all races all across the land have quickly come up with stories of the 'Demon Crow' and his prosperity for doing away with naughty children who don't come inside and go to bed or otherwise do what they're told. The truth of the matter is that Marcus is indeed keen on bullying children most of all, seeing as he's never grown up.
One day not long after his arrival in this strange new world, a beautiful dawn morning in Hernand finds him lounging about in the narrowest one-man jail cell you've ever seen. It's shaped and sized like a port-a-potty made of bamboo, but a prisoner cannot even sit down in it, a most cruel and unusual torture.
"Hey, my sentence is up. Let me out, you thieves!" He calls, rattling the bars. He could break out, but the entirety of the guard population would continue to chase him then, and that becomes extremely annoying after a while. The reason for his presence within the cell is because he chose to stop off at a tavern after his latest crime spree, subsequently being tackled to the ground while lifting a well deserved glass of beer to his lips.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, hold your horses," A warden sticks an ordinary brass key into the lock and opens the door. "That'll be fifty gold, you miscreant."
Now, sadly, Marcus has no gold in his possession, which means his jail-induced debt is now up to a staggering six hundred and fifty gold. As this perilous number attempts to crush him, he looks up at the sky, where no islands float. He needs to sort that problem out before he finds himself unable to purchase anything ever again.
"Time to rob some goblins, I suppose." He says, cheerfully.
The Goldleaf Merchant Guild, that's where he's off to. However, goblins can be potent little blighters, fond of stabbing a bloke in the kidneys, so he's going to have to bring out the big guns. For this he flies all the way into the Crimson Desert itself, in order to visit the only living thing he cares about.
The bandit sentries inhabiting the local fortress, notice a huge black shape dart through the navy blue world which exists between midnight and three thirty in the morning, but they imagine it's a desert bird. Up until the shape, it's black wings pointed and curved forward like horns, flies over without flapping those wings, and they catch a glimpse of gleeful eyes glinting behind a steel helm.
An epic clash results when the fiend lands and his wings disappear and he begins throwing magic from two different worlds around in a great pyrotechnical display visible (and audible) for miles around.
Once fort number nine hundred and ninety nine is liberated, he leaps off its parapets and sails on, into a deep gorge dark with night like spilled ink, a gorge where there is a large nest perched on a shelf of red rock, blue in the deep dark, like everything else.
"Hey, baby. Did you miss daddy?" He coos, walking up to a giant lizard with a sugar cube cupped in his outstretched palm. "Here, baby, baby, baby."
The 'baby' in question is a dragon, six limbed, like an insect. In daytime it's appropriately green and silver, but at night it's a boring blue. Scrabbling out of the nest, it licks up the sugar cube, then polishes Marcus' armour for him with its sandpaper tongue, chirping happily all the while.
Once suitably reacquainted, the man and dragon pair take a leisurely stroll down to the river, for the night is young and dragons fly faster and for longer than Marcus can.
While the dragon is slaking it's thirst and it's owner is considering how much gold he might make in the next few hours, a man with a fabulous horned helmet and curious, full face mask that leaves everything to the imagination, manifests out of the reeds beside the river, swords raised to attack.
Marcus looks up, over a cigarette. "I don't need your shit today, Walter. I have goblins to harass."
The Reed Seed and Sneed Devil is his mortal frenemy and best drinking buddy, and, upon being rebuked by Marcus, he lowers his weapons and manifests a six pack of beer in their place.
🐍🐉🐍
A pair of drunken bullies (and a dragon) make their way from the blood soaked desert to lush green Unicorn Cliff, in Hernand, where the richest goblins in the world dwell. The beating of the flying lizard's wings are surprisingly quiet, but the deathly silence of the deep night still finds itself disturbed. A shifty goblin king, wandering around shiftily just beyond the walls of the encampment (no doubt searching for someone else to have assassinated) hears something with his large and sharp ears, and peers up at the star spangled sky.
"Hmm. That's odd." he says, narrowing his eyes at a strange, starless patch. A curiously starless patch which is moving fast across the navy dome of night. Curious.
Yes, very curious, when a dragon falls out of the sky on top of him, followed by a pair of bullies, one emo, the other not. Wings made of rags whoosh and whirl while Marcus crawls and floats around, gathering up the gold coins spilling from the goblin's pockets.
Luckily, Shakatu is one of those immortal characters whom Marcus can do nothing to except beat bloody, steal from, and generally upset.