Appearance: Azir stands at nine feet and eleven inches tall. Weighing around four hundred pounds. Her body type is muscular, but she has a muscular gut that is quite pronounced. She has short brown hair that is uneven because she is not very good at cutting it herself. Her eyes are bright red, with her pupils being slits. Azir’s body is riddled with scars from the many battles she had with humans and with the other races. Another noticeable feature is the earring on her right ear that she stole from a human female. Her teeth are sharp and slightly yellow from not staying hygienic.
Azir doesn’t wear much except a loincloth that barely hides her skin. Although she doesn’t care about clothes, she is forced to wear them inside the prison.
Personality: Azir is a sadistic person who likes to torture those she fights or finds weak. Looking down on people she thinks are weak and worthless of living. For the most part, she would play with her “food” before killing and eating them and torturing her victims with glee before killing them. However, if she does find someone she considers strong, she will praise and respect them. Azir is quick to anger and will react violently to something that she doesn’t like or hear. She is gluttonous and obsessed with food, explicitly drinking liquor. She was getting angry if she was denied food. She also loves fighting, which has caused many problems for the prison. A few things she dislikes are weaklings, vegetables, and bathing.
Azir will not take losing lightly unless it is to someone she respects. Anyone she deems lower than she fails to will anger her greatly. She is also very vengeful, always remembering those who wronged her. She is also stupid and ignorant of other people's feelings. Deep down she wants to be loved, and will show this love in her own strange way.
Background: Azir was an orphan because humans killed her parents while she was young. Because of this, she had to fend for herself against the harshness of nature. She would foredge for food, mostly hunting animals or eating wild berries and getting into constant battles with humans, elves, and the occasional dwarves. During this time, she had acquired a taste for flesh. She was partaking in cannibalism, especially enjoying the flesh of human children. In her adulthood, she would murder people and eat their bodies when she would get hungry. These crimes would become noticeable as she started killing a lot of farmers and their livestock. She also was an aggravation to the public and lived in a shack in a swamp by herself.
One day, she met another ogre, Edzar, who would eventually become her mate. The two of them lived together for a long time. Eventually, Edzar taught Azir how to fight with her fists and a club. One day, while they were hunting, Edzar was killed by a group of the king’s knights. Azir flew into a rage and killed most knights before being captured and sent to prison. Being angry, she lost her mate as well as her baby from a miscarriage.
Talents: Azir is somewhat skilled at fighting and using a blunt weapon and axes, although she primarily uses brute strength to defend herself. She is also incredibly strong and has the strength of fifty men. She is also skilled in hunting and cooking.
Flaws: Azir fears opening up to others because she doesn’t want to lose the people she cares for. Her violent and bullish nature makes it hard for her to befriend them. She is slow in combat, so someone could easily outpace her. She also fears being seen as weak in front of other people. Her vices include food and alcohol. Because she has no formerly education she is a little slow and ignorant. Speaking in short grammerly incorrect sentances.
Equipment: A club and a flask of homemade alcohol.
Appearance: Svanhild stands nearly nine feet tall, with shoulders broader than even the largest of human males. Her skin is a pale blue from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and her long hair is pure white as a field of freshly fallen snow. Pale markings run like rivers all across her body, beginning from the corners of her eyes and flowing across her cheekbones before they snake down her neck and trace countless faded paths across fields of hardened muscle and long-healed battle scars. The severity of her features recalls the harshness of her homeland, the stony beauty of a mountain peak that kills any who dare ascend.
Personality: For a giant, Svanhild is surprisingly quiet. She smiles rarely, laughs almost never, and speaks in soft tones that somehow carry all the more weight for it. Time and experience have humbled her youthful ambitions, but her pride remains unbroken, and her every footstep still carries the unshakable authority of a living force of nature.
It is a common fancy among the smaller races that giants are oafish by nature; Svanhild is living proof of the opposite. She approaches situations with a calm pragmatism, and is every bit as willing to resolve matters through cunning and diplomacy as through brute force. Much has been said of her unflinching gaze, always judging and evaluating the world around her like a game board covered in carved stone pieces. Her respect is not given lightly, and this she makes quite clear: those around her must prove themselves worthy before she's willing to extend them even a sliver of her trust.
Her deeper feelings remain carefully concealed. Both kindness and brutality come easily to her, and it's often difficult to tell when she may veer one way or the other. She enjoys material pleasures and worldly possessions, but only when she feels she has earned them; the barren life of the Maw is to her a just reward for having ended up there in the first place.
Background: Born to a giant chieftain in the coldest reaches of the distant highlands, Svanhild was raised to be the fittest and fiercest among her already mighty race. Though tradition dictated that she should inherit the role of clan leader from her mother, the position could only be maintained through proven strength and cunning, and other families lurked like waiting wolves to pounce on any moment of weakness and install their own heirs. Thus, as soon as she had learned to walk and speak, she was taught how to hunt, how to fight, how to barter and negotiate, how to crush her own fears and stand firm in the face of any danger. She learned the icy magics of her people, and the equally potent powers of raw strength and discipline, each one reinforcing and shoring up the weaknesses of the other. Even as her young heart hardened and hid itself away within an invincible shell of frost, a fire began to burn deep within, a flame of ambition that urged her not only to command her clan but to lead them to new heights of greatness and influence.
Fate had other plans, however. The ever-growing Kingdom and its people were encroaching further and further into the highlands, and their plump forts and settlements proved a target too tempting to ignore. An ill-advised raid ended in a one-sided slaughter, and Svanhild's mother ended up with her head mounted on a pike at the hands of the White Tiger's soldiers. The remnants of the clan were forced to scatter and flee, seeking refuge with other giant tribes lest they be killed or taken as slaves by the ever-advancing tides of civilization.
Just as she had been taught, Svanhild swallowed her grief and froze over her pain, never accepting defeat. She joined ranks with another clan, and quickly proved her mettle there, offering up the fresh carcasses of fierce beasts she had broken with her own hands. The young chieftain took a liking to her, and she entertained his fantasies, slowly seducing him with the promise of a strong and beautiful wife. When he finally demanded her hand, she challenged him to win it from her in a barehanded contest of strength—and proceeded to mercilessly thrash him with his entire tribe as witness.
With a new clan now at her back, the giantess sought out allies. She rode across the highlands and parleyed with a dozen other nomad leaders, winning them over with generous gifts and careful flattery while emphasizing the imminent danger of the Tiger's expanding Kingdom. They could unite and make a stand here, or be slowly swallowed and subsumed by the beast of civilization: which would it be?
A loose alliance formed, rival clans of giants and others amassing into an impressive barbarian horde. They surged forth across the highlands and spilled deep into the kingdom, burning and looting as they went. Their sheer speed and numbers briefly overwhelmed the opposing forces, and for a moment Svanhild's dream seemed nearly within reach—she could use this momentum to consolidate power, unite the tribes beneath her, and ride forth with an unstoppable army to conquer the entire kingdom, taking back what it had stolen from her a thousand times over.
Unfortunately for her, the White Tiger's generals were already well-versed in the suppression of upstart savages. Recognizing the threat, they acted before it could fully manifest, and used spies and sleeper agents to sow dissent among their enemies. Chaos erupted between the clans, as old grudges suddenly resurfaced and naked greed formed new divides. Some struck out on their own, others turned on each other, and none were prepared when the Kingdom swooped in with a methodical and well-organized force that cut through orcs and giants like a scythe through so much wheat. Svanhild met them head-on, and drenched herself in the blood of pulverized soldiers, but no amount of skill or vengeful fury could save her from the weight of numbers arrayed against her. On the verge of death, she was chained up and dragged from her home, a suitably impressive spoil of war to be caged up and paraded before the citizenry.
It took just two days before she pulled a nearly successful escape attempt, and took the life of several guards in the process. The incident made it clear there were only two ways left to deal with her: chop off her head and be done with it, or throw her somewhere deep and dark enough that even a giant could never break out. Protocol dictated that a large-scale threat like her ought to be properly disposed of, but an unstoppable living battering ram was bound to come in handy someday... And really, where was the downside? Death itself would release her from its clutches before the Maw ever did.
Talents: Even the feeblest of frost giants can snap a man in half like a twig, and Svanhild is a monster among her kind. She can plow through brick walls and crack open stone fortifications with raw strength alone, all while maneuvering her enormous body with a terrifying swiftness and agility. Trained to hunt and fight from the early days of childhood, she applies this overwhelming power with devastating precision, and is equally proficient at squaring off against opponents her own size as she is at squashing swarms of irritating little bugs. Her sheer mass and size make her incredibly difficult to put down, and lend her an imposing presence that draws attention and strikes fear in equal measure.
The giantess is far more than a simple powerhouse, however. She’s an experienced commander versed in battlefield tactics, group operations, and diplomacy, as well as an exotic variant of frost magic that can conjure up tools, weapons, and armor of enchanted ice. It’s a simple, practical spell that can be cast on the fly to equip her for any kind of situation—she can even arm her allies, assuming they don’t mind the cold.
Flaws: Number one downside to being an enormous blue woman: it makes you stick out like a sore thumb. Stealth is nearly impossible for a being like Svanhild, and her presence tends to set people on edge and make them paranoid for their own safety. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s from the far frontiers, and though she’s picked up the local dialect during her time in the Maw, she hasn’t had the chance to learn much of the Kingdom and its ways in person.
Though her prior defeat and capture taught her a sore lesson about underestimating humans and their cunning, she still clings onto her pride as a leader by birthright, and chafes at being forced to follow orders. She considers herself superior to everyone around her, and it’s hard for her to recognize anyone as a true equal without also seeing them as competition to be surpassed. She also likes to take trophies from her victories, particularly important and valuable things, and doesn’t pay much mind to the fact that people might come after her for whatever she stole.
Equipment: Her boots and clothing, ornate and striking yet far tougher than any threads woven by human hands.
A high elf, touched by the slow beginnings of undeath, Sariel is said to have been cursed by her close association with the undead. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight, and her eyes seem almost to glow with a cold, baleful blue light. Hidden beneath a layer of fabric, her right arm is skeletal, and moves through arcane means.
The light of the elves has begun to fade from her being. Warm joy now turning to cool detachment. Sariel moves no longer with the effortless grace of her people, but with the ghostly agility of the undead. Her visage has become that of a fell apparition, conjured from the depths of some long forgotten tomb.
Personality
Sariel is a creature driven by her singular obsession with understanding the cosmic forces of life, death and undeath. Marked by her studies, her emotions have been tempered by the wisdom of the grave. She feels all that she once did, but she notes a growing detachment in her passions and a cold chill that has begun to envelope her soul.
Far from menacing in most situations, Sariel is polite, kind even, if permitted such graces by the situation or those she encounters. She knows that many fear her. She knows that many revile her. She holds little hope for reconciliation. The Maw is proof enough of the paltry mercy offered by the kingdom. Sariel does not deceive herself. She sees no advantage in such desperate deception. They will not free her, all know this to be true, but the dead counsel her to be patient, and Sariel intends to heed their whispers.
Imprisonment has done little to dampen her confidence. However, Sariel remains far from reckless and the dark, damp cell in which they have left her has only sent her gaze further inwards. Even in the Maw there are dead to speak to. They can take her arcane components. They can take her possessions. And they can take her beloved grimoire. Sariel does not dispute this. Yet, a wizard, a necromancer, a true seeker of the truths that lie beyond death itself cannot be so easily dissuaded.
In happier times, Sariel was disagreeable only when faced with the ignorant and those quick to judge her for her vocation, reviled as it is across the land. For all her differences with her kin, she still possesses the storied charm of the elves, transformed as it has been into the dread presence of the grave. She navigates social interactions in the Maw with unexpected ease for a wizard with a habit of engaging in lengthy conversations with the dead.
Uninterested in tradition wreathed in ceremonial judgment, Sariel is unconcerned with the social mores and taboos that would restrict her practice of necromancy. In turn, she would happily offer others the same freedom and keeps an open mind.
Background
"Unhappy rumors have reached my ears, Aldhelm. They say a darkness hangs over the High Fells of Valandor. I pray that you have returned to us now to dispel such fearful tales."
Bowing down on his left knee as he entered the room, Aldhelm rose with greater difficulty, feeling his many years as he slowly stood up. He was no longer a young man. It had been fifty years since he had arrived in the Spired City. He had fought and defeated great evils. The faded scars and old injuries earned from such deeds were plain for all to see. He was a hero in Talcus, Aldhelm knew, for all the good it did him.
He had been richly rewarded for his services to the kingdom. He had risen to highest echelons of society. He had a title. He had lands. He dined with the nobility. He spoke with members of the royal family. He had more servants than he could count. He had a cadre of apprentices learning under his careful tutelage. And he slept in a luxurious bed. However, such gifts did not come without a heavy price. He knew the rich rewards he had received had to be safeguarded through continued service. Knowing this did little to diminish the weariness he felt deep in his very bones. Leaning heavily on his staff, Aldhelm collected his thoughts, considering how best to begin.
"I bring grim news, my lord Baron. There is a dark presence that dwells in the tomb of Adgyth Mara, a sorcerer who can summon the undead, a necromancer."
Loud gasps escaped from the members of court scattered in familiar groups across the great hall and the Baron raised a calming hand, smiling good-naturedly as he beckoned for order to be restored.
"My old friend, surely you jest. Perhaps this spellcaster is simply a maleficent conjurer, a charlatan dabbling in the black arts in order to frighten the simple, wretched people of the lands."
"I would offer such findings happily my Lord, a base magician would not trouble me. Alas, there have been sightings of growing groups of undead gathering and moving across Thalore. To what end, we do not yet know. However, it is only a matter of time before this foul creature, this baleful necromancer, assembles an army of undead and proceeds to threaten the nearby settlements."
"What do you suggest?"
"We must act, your grace. We must secure the silver mines of Umeth. The King would be most displeased if the supply of silver was interrupted."
"Of course," the Baron agreed, nodding sagely. "And of the necromancer?"
"Forgive me, my lord, but I have already taken the liberty of dispatching Inquisitor Nelriel and her company. I did not wish to trouble you with such trifling details."
"Inquisitor Nelriel? Heartening news, indeed!" the Baron proclaimed with a smile, to a smattering of cheers and clapping hands,"Why, I almost feel sorry for this pitiful necromancer."
"Just so," Aldhelm said, returning the board smile with a forced expression of joy that he hoped would not be correctly divined.
"What do they call you?"
"Cefrey."
"I see... Who sent you? Oh, don’t bother lying. Don't tell me that stumbled here by happenstance. I know you did not come here by your own accord. I know you came here at the behest of another."
Cefrey hesitated. There was subtle violence in the soft words of the stranger and Cefrey knew she did not have much time," Aldhelm the Bright Handed"
"I know him."
"You cannot."
"Oh, why not? He knew my master. He was ever a friend of Taman Hakothi in those distant days," the robed figure said, taking a slow step forward, her cold blue eyes filling Cefrey with inescapable dread.
"Stay back! Don’t come any closer!" Cefrey stammered, pressing her back against the ice covered stone of the tomb, pointing the tip of her blade at the other speaker. "What do you want?"
A faint look of amusement crossed the pale elf’s face, "To talk, nothing more. I wish to know why Old Aldhelm sends assassins to invade my home and to murder me, most rudely, in this hallowed place. "
Cefrey tried to stay calm. She tried to think. She was cornered, surrounded by a host of undead, bristling with weapons and armor. They had lost Kalli to a trap as they entered the second level of the tomb. Brem had fallen to a hail of arrows not long after. The cleric accompanying them, Cesvel, had burned when he tried to rebuke the approaching undead. Nelriel had told her to run, screaming as an axe split her skull open. It had been a trap. Their spells had failed them. Their wards had been useless. The Necromancer had been ready. And Aldhelm had been wrong.
"Where is Vladislak? What have you done with him?" She meekly managed, her blade growing heavy in her hand and beginning to shake.
"Your friend is dead. Like the others that came with you."
"Why?"
"Do not ask foolish questions. You came here to kill me. Did you think that I would not defend myself? Your friend chose his fate. As did the others that came with you. And now you may choose yours."
"Please…"
The crypt echoed with the loud clatter and clank of metal as the expressionless skeletons closed in on Cefrey, holding their weapons ready.
"No. No. No, stop that," the necromancer chided, her voice rising softly with command,"Do not do that. Do not beg. You had a choice. You always have a choice."
Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together and offered a quick prayer before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure sitting in the chair across from her, wrapped in lengths of chain. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.
"State your name, wizard, so that it may formally be recorded."
"You know my name."
Tessele smashed her first into the table, uninvited flames of anger erupting in her bosom as her voice rose, "I will not ask you again, state your name, prisoner."
The reply came slower than the first, each syllable carefully delivered, "You know my name. You know me."
Unwelcome, painful silence followed, until unable to stand it any longer, Tessele spoke in a mournful tone,"You are Sariel, Sariel Amastacia."
"Indeed, I am. I am Sariel Amastacia."
"So there you sit, chained, and left to languish in the darkness."
"I have no need for any light. Certainly not for the light."
"So they say, always and unfailingly."
"I do not care. You waste my time. You bore me with your foolish prattle."
"Your time is mine to waste."
"Assuredly," the shackled elf agreed. "You are the inquisitor, are you not?"
"You subverted an agent of the crown. You had her murder a court wizard."
"No, I simply repaid Aldhelm for his poor manners and for his deeply insulting foolishness. The assassin…well, I gave her a choice. It would seem that she found undeath preferable to death. Have you found her? Have you captured her yet?"
Tessele chose not to reply, pursing her lips in fresh irritation and anger.
"Aha, now that is interesting. What will your superiors say? A wight on the loose in Talcus. I doubt they will be very pleased."
"Where is she?"
"In truth, I do not know. She is no longer bound to me. Her geas ended when she killed Aldhelm. As I promised her when we struck our bargain."
"You released a wight in the city? To what end?"
The necromancer seemed to study Tessele with a pitying look before she spoke, "A wight is no lesser undead. She retained the memories of her life. Her personality was untouched. She possessed free will. I am not cruel. I have little desire to enslave sentient creatures."
"Such kindness," Tessele hissed, "And yet, you summoned an army of undead, razing the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred innocent souls, lost in one night."
"An accurate count, by my measure, but they were not slain by my hand alone."
"You deny it then?"
"It was not my intention to fight in the town. Unfortunately, your soldiers did not share my apprehensions about conducting a battle among the peasantry."
"Do you regret nothing?"
"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My home was not theirs to sully. And my work was not theirs to interrupt."
"You blame us for the slaughter?"
"What reason is there to lie?"
"You killed innocents. You killed the King’s men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."
"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."
"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"
"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous moralizing. Do not insult me with pitiful stories. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I have but to listen and I can hear the screams of your soldiers. And I can hear the laughter of their countless victims rising louder still."
"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."
"There was no mistake."
Tessele’s voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."
"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.
"Where did you go?"
"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out learned masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages. The ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes, impossible for you to imagine with your ignorance, and shielded from your greedy violence."
"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"
"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."
"We heard stories about a great disaster befalling the lands of Thalore. It was said that the people had fallen into the hands of a Necromancer."
"It was peaceful, before you came."
"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"
The wizard leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tessele’s before the inquisitor had time to pull back.
"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."
"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, sending the candle clattering to the floor. She pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm,"Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."
"If I have changed, then it is only for the better."
"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"
"This?" the necromancer scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."
Talents
Spell Caster with a Capital S - Sariel is no mere hedge wizard, no unstudied practitioner of magic, and no unrestrained spellcaster. No, she is a wizard, a true wizard, a supreme magic-user who draws on the subtle weave of magic that permeates the very cosmos to cast powerful spells.
Necromancer - Sariel is a necromancer, a feared and hated wizard concerned chiefly with mastering the school of necromancy magic. Her spells manipulate the power of death, unlife, and the life force that animates all living creatures.
* Animate Undead - By imbuing a pile of bones or corpse with arcane energy, Sariel can create an undead servant, raising the target as an undead creature in a foul mimicry of life. This is the first act of necromancy expected of any true necromancer. * Summon Undead - Calling forth an undead spirit, Sariel can manifest such a spirit into a corporeal form, creating an undead creature shaped according to her will. * Command Undead - By uttering dread words, Sariel can command those undead creatures unable to resist her demands. * Dark Mending - Channeling hateful necromantic energies, Sariel is able to heal the wounds of the undead and unexpectedly even her own injuries, suggesting a growing change in the nature of her being. * Deathless Vigor - Years of tireless study have infused Sariel's body with a deathless vigor and she has become something more akin to the undead she once freely kept in her cohort. * Dead Whispers - Searching for answers, Sariel has come to understand the whispers of the dead and is able to speak with them, provided they retain some level of sentience or sanity. * Thrall Boon - She has become acclimated to the undead, strengthening the bond she has with her undead thralls, offering these servants a powerful boon. * Undead Graft - Long before her capture, Sariel grafted a necrotic rune into her right arm, dissolving the flesh from her arm, and leaving behind a skeletal appendage. A mere touch from her right arm can siphon the life force of others, bolstering her own health, dealing necrotic damage, and even paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be trapped in her cold grip.
Arcane Scholar - Deeply concerned with the underlying mechanics and nature of magic, Sariel is an ardent student of the arcane. She seeks to uncover arcane secrets through extensive studies, even trapped as she currently is in the hellish pit of the Maw. Steeped in the writings of mages past and the cryptic advice of the undead, Sariel possesses an extensive knowledge of arcane lore and history of the realm.
Flaws
Necromancer's Stubborn Pride - Sariel is prideful, convinced of her own righteousness, how else could she wander a path that most perceive as leading only to inescapable damnation? Her pursuit of arcane knowledge has grown beyond mere obsession and Sariel is unwilling, perhaps unable, to consider the dangers inherent to such unwavering single-mindedness.
Undead Torpor - At times, Sariel appears to be wracked by the apathy often identified in the spirits of the dead. The concerns of the living no longer seem quite as important to her. The petty squabbles and bloody wars of the narrow-minded now seem beneath her enlightened mind. Even death has begun to feel like an old, familiar friend, rather than something she should be afraid of. Rousing Sariel from such musings and moods can require significant effort.
Still Human - Besides a skeletal arm and her slow transformation into something undead, Sariel remains distinctly mortal, a noticeable disadvantage when compared to some of the other prisoners in the Maw.
Equipment
Taken from her when they tossed her into the Maw, Sariel's arcane grimoire contains the culmination of her study of necromancy. It is no exaggeration to say that Sariel would do anything to recover her ancient tome. She can see the silver runes inlaid into the black leather cover in her dreams.
Another of her prized possession lost to her jailers was a bag of holding containing a number of arcane components and small items of comfort.
Predictably, her guards also took away her ornate silver dagger, an enchanted blade that courses with the souls of more than one willing sacrifice.
Her final piece of confiscated property is a long robe, a gift from a patient demilich amused by her questions. An elegant garment made from exquisite black cloth, woven into the robe are protective magics far beyond mortal understanding.
With pale white skin and long white, straggly hair, she could be easily mistaken for a fresh corpse if it wasn't for the blood-red eyes that bore into anyone who met her. Her eyes are usually the first thing people notice about her, especially when she tends to hide in the shadows and the glow of the red is the only thing one can see.
Otherwise, her physique is not remarkable. She is slightly smaller than average, has a thin build, and has no real muscle tone.
Personality
Ruby appears to be very quiet and hidden, though most of this is probably due to her muteness. She might not take the stage often, preferring to manipulate and organise the situation from the background and let others truly shine. She would rather wait until death is certain and then step out to the light to show her true colours.
Just because she is mute does not mean she doesn't have opinions, though. Tiring easily of those people who can't interpret her gestures and true intentions. She tends to like very few people because of this, and those that she does like, she tends to bond intensely with and act like their protector from the dark. It's exactly why you might occasionally find her fiddling with a small and dead dried violet in her hands.
Background
Many wonder how a banshee comes along, and one can be created or born in many ways. However, in Ruby's case, it was that her mother had tried so hard to hide her pregnancy from the madam at the brothel that she ended up causing not only her death but also her child's. Well... almost.
A small, pale, and undead child, Ruby lived and worked around the brothel, doing small tasks in the shadows until she was of age. Unlike most trainees, she wasn't brought in front of the customers, as all her appearance did was tend to scare them. Instead, she learned the skills of a physician and a musician. Tending to the cares of the women in the household and playing music from the shadows, Ruby did well for herself, all things considered.
The only real thing that seemed to catch her up was, well, the fact that she was a banshee. She couldn't help the fact that she knew when someone was going to die; she couldn't help the scream that would come screeching from her mouth at the sight of them. Leaving her hiding from the people who were terrified of her, no words being uttered from her, as she lived in the shadows.
This was her life until around her 20s when things were becoming increasingly obvious to the young woman. Many of the injuries that she treated on her fellow sisters were not naturally caused but were caused by bad habits by customers. Customers that all the escorts agreed they would be better off without but could not turn away.
Ruby took matters into her own hands, trailing the often drunk and disorderly men down the dark alleyways, pushing them gently in the right direction of their fate. Towards a runaway horse, a slick staircase, or, in the most desperate situations, just in the way of her knife. Finally, as fate seemed to accept her terms, she would take a deep, enthralling breath as their death was sealed.
There she sang to them, in a language no one had ever been able to place, so lullingly soft and beautiful, entrancing them as she pulled away their life force. She had started to defend her sisters, but the more she participated, the more addicting it got.
She had seen justice done to dozens of patrons before the law even caught wind of her. Another handful died at her hands before they finally found her, hidden in the shadows of the whore house. Clamping on the metal binds, she surrendered silently as she looked up at them with glowing red eyes that bored into them and saw into their lifelines.
She just had to wait... everyone died, eventually.
Talents
Phasing through walls made of wood or stone
Moves eerily quiet
Seems to become one with the shadows while hiding
Precognition - knowing when people are going to die
Sonic screams - high amplitude
Death song - pulls their life force into her
Mimicry - Can repeat words she has heard others say back to them in their voice
Supernatural detection
Ages very slowly
Basic physician skills
Flaws
Selectively mute - except for death song, which is in a language she doesn't even know
Death song only works when she can tell they are about to die
Not a strong physical fighter
Can't phase through metal or glass
Doesn't like being touched
Equipment
One dried flower, a violet
One knife looks like a basic but sharp kitchen knife
Miscellaneous
Even though Ruby does not talk, she still makes sounds like humming or groans.
He has fair skin, grey eyes, black hair, and a short, fashionable build. Were it not for present circumstances and his current outfit, Viktor would easily pass for a sheltered noble. His pale skin proof he has no need to toil in the sun, his physique healthy but unstrengthened by the labour of peasants. With his true nature out in the open and much of his wealth confiscated he wears his durable ritual robes as standard, gloves keeping his hands physicaly clean even as he metaphorically dirties them.
Personality
Viktor seems to be a polite, eloquent gentleman, friendly and harmless. Or rather he did, for that was but a facade, a mask he has little reason to wear, condemned as he is. He's ruthlessly ambitious, lies as easily as he breathes, believes himself superior to just about everyone he meets and is possessed of a cunning, schemeing mind. He maintains a strict outward control of his emotions, coming across as calm and in control, usually. He is ruthless, but not cruel.
Background
Viktor is the second child of a once prosperous noble family, born nearly ten years later than his brother. His childhood on the family estate was comfortable, a solid education his only real duty, an almost idyllic upbringing. As time passed it became clear he was far smarter than his elder brother, yet it was the oldest child that would inherit the title, lands and power. As he reached his early twenties he was encouraged to put his intellect to use as a scholar, of what his family didn't really care, he just needed to be doing something respectable that still kept him out of the way, far from any allies he could make, for it was clear who he thought should be inheriting. Ever thirsting for power, it was the study of magic he pursued, this eventually led him to finding a short treatise on the summoning of demons, hidden in a seemingly dull book on the history of magical diagrams (he would later realise this was far from a standard inclusion, clearly whoever bound this copy intended to surreptitiously pass on this forbidden knowledge). In the dead of night with circles of blood and silver, he called forth a middling demon by the name of Izgath, though no payment exchanged hands that night, a bargain was struck, Viktor would receive knowledge of dark and forbidden magic in return for each sacrifice he made, he need simply include one of Izgath's personal runes in an appropriate sacrificial diagram. A plan was easily hatched, gold changed hands and a few criminals 'escaped' from the nearest prison, Viktor was nothing if not efficient, their souls were traded to Izgath, their blood painted ritual diagrams and their corpses made for obedient, tireless minions. A few years past, his power growing slowly with each victim. Eventually his parents die, at this point he is far from home and between the time news takes to find him and his own travel, his brother has had months to establish himself. The estate is in notably poorer condition, the locals he greets, not realise quite who he is, reveal a rather poor opinion of their new liege, for his brother has expensive tastes and little interest in his people. A few nights of planning, a further few of negotiating and Viktor has his twisted plan. He places a subtle withering curse upon his brother, taking advantage of their shared blood, then he simply waits a few days and returns home to 'help his dear brother in this difficult time'. Izgath's rune is carved on the outside of each wall of his brother's room, then concealed with a little rearranging of furniture, passed off as just the brother-regent getting comfortable, a complex diagram in the basement to tie it all together. Viktor's brother dies, Izgath gets a new soul, and Viktor claims his title at last. The plan goes off without a hitch, Viktor actually rules well, he's well liked, the family coffers (now really just his) grow under his leadership, the roads are safe and noone asks what happens to bandits. Alas it could not last. A bandit summarily executed by ritual saacrifice was apparently related to the king, classic tale of less than chivalrous knights out of work causing trouble, of course Viktor was well within his right to execute him, it's when they find his skeleton standing at attention in the depths of the family crypt, unholy sigils visible on his skull that causes a problem. In for a fiefdom, in for the crown, as they say, Viktor makes a stand, refusing to come quietly, certain that torture and the pyre await him. It goes well at first, he doesn't have much in the way of minions, less than a dozen basic skeletons, but his magic is powerful, flesh rending battle curses, blighted fogs and hellfire massacre the initial response, but it seems word got out and the next morning he wakes up in chains with Her looking down upon him with a gaze more terrifying, more inhuman, than any demon he's ever met, for a moment he thought maybe the pyre wouldn't have been so bad. He never did find out who let the King's men in, though he doubts any of his knights could really have stopped them, so it's not a matter he dwells upon. Of course when the 'offer' was made, that thought was soon gone.
Talents
He's well educated in topics such as history, politics, etiquette, literature and generally whatever you'd expect an intelligent noble to learn in this setting. (Probably need to say what that would cover if accepted)
He's well practiced in the art of summoning demons, usually binding them in circles to bargain.
Basic necromancy, one of the earliest pieces of dark lore he bargained for was the skill to animate corpses, though he never pursued this particular art much further,.
He can cast curses on people, bring ill fortune, slow death, weakness and such.
He has bargained for much magical knowledge, he knows how to call forth blasts of cursed hellfire, rend a man's flesh from his bones or sap the strength from a whole squadron of soldiers.
Sigils of Sacrifice, he has an ongoing deal with the demon Izgath, granting him the ability to incorporate one of the creature's personal runes into much of the magic he has learned, condemning their victims' souls and furthering his own bargain.
Flaws
He's arrogant, prideful and power hungry. He rarely considers the possibility of being wrong, making mistakes or being outwitted. Despite thinking himself the manipulative one, he's easily lured by promises of power. Physically he's very much just a man and he never picked up much defensive magic.
Equipment
Viktor has little in the way of equipment. The one item of note are his set of ritual robes (with gloves and hood), though beyond the fact they're unusually durable, more like leather than simple cloth and keeping him cleaner than expected, they don't seem to have any other abilities, though they bear some sigils of unknown purpose, Viktor bartered them from a demon, asking for something that would keep him "clean and safe" while practicing his fell sorcery, three condemned men were given to the creature alive as payment. He does have a small pouch of common chalk and charcoal sticks, and a dagger, tools of the trade.
Placeholder image from ref sheet while I wait on first commission.
Name
Omiku
Race
Blood Scion
Gender
Female
Age
172 years
Appearance
Omiku resembles an anthropomorphic kitsune with nine tails and a tall and slender build. She is about six and a half feet tall, has dark grey fur and long flowing black hair. Her eyes glow a piercing red that softly illuminates her face like the faded light of the moon. Around her waist, upper arms, and neck is a series of runic symbols that are so black they seem to swallow light at times.
Ordinarily she wears a crimson red suit of armor resembling that of the Samurai, though hers is visibly battle-worn and cracked, with tatters of a dark fabric long since shredded, a reminder of the heights from which she has fallen. From these cracks vague wisps of smoke-like shadows emanate, and on occasion, blood.
Personality
Omiku is a being of chaos and destruction. She has an intrinsic desire to feed off the lifeblood of others to sustain her and a greed to take more than is enough. Her heritage encourages an evil inclination, but Omiku is conflicted with inner turmoil and a desire to over come her nature.
Omiku is often cool and collected, on guard to restrain the random thoughts that take a dark turn. She is friendly, if a bit dispassionate, acting in good-faith with others, unless given a reason not to, so as to ingratiate herself in the minds of others.
Her continued existence depends on feeding off of the lifeblood of others, a requirement of her nature. But she has the freedom to choose the victim, often morally justifying her murder by killing unsavory characters if she can. Though in times of starvation her morality may go ignored.
Background
Long ago the creatures of the land began to experience a terrible epidemic of monsters. A horde of vampiric demons appeared from the forbidden lands every dusk to spread death and destruction before returning by dawn. For centuries their neighbors suffered before mounting a resistance together against these ‘Blood Scions’ as they referred them as. As one they formed an impressive defense that forced the Blood Scions to change tactics, no longer could they have their way by force. But with subtlety and trickery. No more were the lands pillaged and strewn with the dead, but in return people went missing. Stolen away in the night by unseen forces.
These events continued for several decades before King Tyronde came to purge the forbidden lands of foul influences and destroyed every trace of the creatures within. The king and his forces spread the purity of land to the dark and cursed lands, reigniting life and hope where once there was death and despair. Within weeks the people were freed from the horrors that plagued them and the region found peace and bounty once again. Or at least that is the official story. Some speak of alternative events in hushed whispers, of one of the monsters turning against the rest. A way for the Blood Scions to be weak and allow the king to appear as a hero without any meaningful danger. Some say that a few of those damned creatures still exist, somewhere near the king. And that his foolishness will allow for them to return.
Ever since that day, Omiku has been in the Maw. Not a pleasant place, the fact that most of the time she is kept isolated from the others. Perhaps they wish to break her mind? Or perhaps mold her into a tool for them to use. Regardless, she has had plenty of time to think and reflect. Her kind has been like a blight on this world, it was no wonder they have found resistance eventually. The humans were simply there to strike at that which has been a plague upon them, a perfectly understandable reaction to the actions of her kin. And of the traitor, he is the one that deserves all of her ire. Betrayal is a high offense, and for what she can only guess. But knowing her kin it was a lust for more.
And that is why she must be different if she is to survive. Her kin have brought little but evil and what did they get in return but the same evil reflected back at them? Omiku must change her ways if she wishes to survive where her kin did not. From now on the only hate she has is for the traitor, let him take on all of her evil. And she has her revenge, she will kill her evil and the traitor together and be free of the nature that consumed her kin.
Talents
Omiku can draw upon blood and darkness around her, utilizing both for different means. Blood is life for her kind, and as such it can have rejuvenating effects for her. By consuming fresh blood, she can recover quickly from wounds or even withstand harmful effects for longer than normal. She can form blood into hard objects like swords or shields for attacking or defending.
She feels most at home in the obscuring darkness where horrors are imagined, an entity of the night shunned by the sun. She is able to blend seamlessly in darkness like she was never there, or she can hide within shadows cast from living beings and objects. As long as the shadows cast from two or more different objects are connected, she can near instantly sink into and emerge from any point of the connected shadows. With great effort she can manifest zones of magical darkness that light can not penetrate, though this is exhausting and typically can not be used regularly without the rejuvenating effects of flesh blood.
Owing to the unique origins of her kind she is immune to non-magical diseases and ailments.
On occasions, a full moon may appear a crimson red in the sky above her presence. When this phenomenon occurs, she will find greatly expanded abilities for the duration of the event, but she will also experience equally great mental distress, believing she hears the whispers of her ancestors who speak of great and terrible things.
Flaws
Omiku’s unique anatomy requires blood for sustenance, anything else might settle her stomach but will not have any nutritional value to her. Regular practice of fasting has allowed her to go for extended periods of time without feeding compared to what is normal for her kind, but her abilities will generally diminish after a week without feeding and eventually her cursed life will end.
Additionally, her darkness-based abilities will obviously be less effective as nearby light gets brighter. If there is no absence of light nearby then the relevant powers will be nullified unless she manifests a zone of darkness herself.
Finally, her kind has always felt the oppression of the Sun. Direct exposure to sunlight will be harmful to her beginning shortly after exposure as discomfort before escalating to self-immolation after an extended exposure. Self-Immolation can occur from five minutes to hours depending on the brightness of the sun.
Equipment
The only thing Omiku needs is her armor, passed down through her clan for generations. Once a source of pride, now a painful reminder of vengeance not yet achieved. Her armor is an extension of herself, a manifestation of her blood and darkness combined. She can manifest or de-manifest it at will, if others attempt to grab it, they will find it intangible and unable to be manipulated. It still provides protections from attacks like normal.
Miscellaneous
Has no reflection. She may or may not use this trait to scare people as a joke.
Is not a vampire. Or at least not a typical one. She has a shadow unlike the traditional vampire, and can safely ingest garlic. She dislikes being called a vampire as she clearly is not one.
Is not alive nor dead in the traditional sense. Restoration and Necrotic magic have no effect on her.
The blood of different races tastes different to Omiku. For example, a human may taste pleasantly sweet with a hint of cheery while a goblin tastes vaguely like dirty socks. Do not ask her how she knows what dirty socks tastes like.
Despite not consuming anything other than blood normally, Omiku is a decent chef and can cook an enjoyable meal for non-kin with almost any ingredients at hand.
Silver blonde hair, a pale complexion with evidence of old fight scars, that of small blades and impacts. He really isn't all that interesting looking. He's tall and lanky, doesn't look like he weighs much more then 200 pounds soaking wet. His hands are rough from working, unsure of with what, and his knuckles are scarred likely from fights. His eyes are a blazing red with a yellow. Which seem to ignite with flares of flame boiling from his eyes when he's utilizing his magic. He's constantly followed by small licks of flame that bob and weave about him and seem to exhibit a small amount of intelligence even. His clothing is shades of fire reds, burnt browns, solar yellows and yellow-whites. An underlayer that is the blackest of coal like blacks. Leather guantlets, pauldrons and greaves in a burnt brown color end his normal combat outfit. He will wear these same colors but in soft supple leathers when not in a fighting situation.
Personality
Cocky, self sure and confident are three main words to describe the personality and attitude of Ricon. He knows what he's capable of, and those who have seen him know it too. And he takes pride in that, he's very proud. And very cock sure.
Long moments of being the cock of the walk in alot of situations has caused Ricon's personal filter to be a little off. And will often be the first one to throw a cuss, fist or a spell. And he sees nothing wrong with this at all.
Background
What can you do? You get born, you grow up, and you die. It's how it happens. Or sometimes you don't die and you get a second chance.
Ricon was born to a humble cobbler and a talented carpenter. His mother and father were good people. And he was born healthy and hale.
Until he was five. And the house they all lived in, him, his older brother and parents mysteriously caught fire one night.
WOOSH! FLAMES! EMBERS!
And all that remained of the house after was ashes and coals...and an oddly unaffected baby Ricon. He was picked out of the guttering blaze, bare as the day he was born, but without a mark on him. Sadly his nearest kin were an aunt who wanted nothing to do with him, and a grandparent who was already on deaths door. So he was turned over to the state. And into an Orphanage. Where he really didn't get along with people at all. So at ten, he ran away. And started to live on the streets.
This is where things started to get interesting. Out there on the mean streets of the capitol he fell in with a small gang of street urchins, and here he learned the fine arts of sneak thievery, pick pocketing, lock picking and various other skills in being a thief. And he was good at it too. He could work a lay like no one else, and became an outstanding member of the gang. And likely would have continued too. Just your odd little thief in the streets for the rest of his life. Until one of the older members of the gang, planned a pay roll heist. They wanted to filch the pay roll of a masonry guild. And Ricon was chosen to help pick the lock on the safe in the guild house. Nine people went in. And that's how it all went to shite. The casing of the joint was botched, and when they went in, rather then a quiet empty guildhouse, the guild was holding a late night meeting. Three of the group were pinched on entry. Another two when they were running in the halls. One was killed when a guild member hit him on the head with a hammer. And the last four were run down and arrested. Ricon was just seventeen.
Time time they gave him to the army.
Now remember those flames from when he was a toddler? It was his third day with the army, in bootcamp when a senior trainee decided to try and haze Ricon, he and five others decided to jump the little larcen after last bell. There was an explosion all of a sudden. A pillar of flames. The training sargeants came running. And found Ricon standing in a circle of roiling flames, one of his tormentors screaming in pain as white hot flames licked at his leg stumps. The ring leader? His charred skeleton still held onto Ricon's lapel. The others had run. It was an awakening. Ricon, had turned out to be a Pyromancer, and had just had an awakening that the College of the Arcane Arts Grandmages, would say hadn't been seen in generations.
Ricon would join the College of Arcane Arts just before his eighteenth birthday. He would stay there for six years.
He found magic, to be absolutely astounding. He dabbled at first, learning conjuration, summoning, alteration and other magical schools, while also studying his Pyromancy. But it was clear, he didn't really belong. Most of the students in the College were Social Elite. A generals son, a Lady Marquis with talent, or a Lords scion with a dream. And here is Ricon, a low born orphan, who was a former street thief, briefly a soldier and now one of the most powerful Pyromancers on record. The others hated him, and though Ricon loved magic, he hated them too. So Ricon put the screws to himself, he studied hard and gained a mastery in pyromancy as fast as he could. He was already considered a master in fire magic, by the time he looted his yearmates bedrooms of anything of value, and skipped school.
Now really none of this would have garnered a stay in the Maw. He would have been just branded a Rogue Mage and he would have had a bounty on his head. And that's that right?
After he left the College though, Ricon started to perform his old thievery tricks again. But this time, deaths occured. why shouldn't he back up his threats with real consequences? Didn't give up your jewelry? Then he burns your hands. Refuse to give up your coins? He'd slowly cripple you with flames. He earned the moniker of "The Infernomancer" Though, when he tried to extort a mining town. Thirty Five Thousand gold coins, or he'd immolate their town. They thought he lied. This is when he created his signature move. He procured a old steel broadsword, and set the blade aflame, then jammed the tip into the ground. Igniting a wave of white hot flame, a wall of scorn and rage. That roiled down and burned the town to the ground. he then walked in, casually and gathered up all the valuables he could find that still remained unmelted, and even gathered up some of the melted stuff, silver, and gold is still good even in a melted lump.
He did this several more times. And amassed a large fortune. That's when the King sent a task force after him. Six College Arch Mages, Twenty Royal Paladins, twenty eight knights and fifty elite soldiers. Against only the most powerful pyromancer in several generations. The fight would be recorded as "The Immolation of Yargo Pass". It lasted for seven hours. And by the end one arch mage was killed, two paladins, one knight and forty soldiers. Burned at the hands of The Infernomancer. But he would be captured, tried and convicted. No orphanage this time. No army, no college. The King sentenced him to the Maw.
Where his cell would be equipped with ice and water spells set to douse him and interrupt his fire magic. He'd often be heard to say while in solitary after burning a Maw guard, "I'm only in here because She, won't let me go. You have no power over me! Only that one does!" coupled with laughter, confident laughter, of a man who knows it's only a matter of time.
Talents
Skills
Incredible Pyromancy ability - The man is strong enough to summon flames so hot that he could melt the legendary Adamant steel of the dwarves with ease. He can pull flames out of the air like a street magician can pull rabbits out of a hat.
A myriad of minor magical ability. Such as healing, alteration, conjuration and a smattering of summoning magic.
Powers
The Inferno - A spell he created, that he channels through his burnt and warped broadsword. Creating a wall of flames white hot in nature.
Plume of Fire - One of his simplest and most effective spells, a simple blast of fire and heat.
Magic "Missile" - A staple of mages everywhere. But in Ricon's case it's fire themed. And he tends to make it so it tracks his targets.
Most of Ricon's Magic in general will tend towards fire enhanced. Even a simple Magical Hand will be wreathed in fire.
Flame Familiar - Those small little fire spirits that will flit and fly about, little bubbly and cute giggles can be heard from them, and they can swell and flare up, or can be used to spark any number of his fire spells.
Training
Thieves Training - Picking Pockets, Sneak Thievery, Lock Picking and general larceny. Often enough he can recognize another thief with ease. He learned how to fight dirty as a thief. Handful of sand, low blows that kind of thing.
Infantry training - It lasted only a few days, but Ricon picked up the ability to reliably use a sword and a dagger in his time with the army. He learned how to fight efficiently with the army. Conservation of energy and all that.
College Education - He picked up how to read and write at the College of the arcane. He can do his numbers too. So now he knows how much he has stolen. And it's value.
Flaws
Ice and Water - Anathema to his fire magic, a good well placed water or ice spell can cancel out all but his most powerful spells.
Thalassophobia - The fear of what lurks under deep and unknown waters. Pairs well with the Ice and Water flaw. Fire and deep water don't mix. One of the Arch Mages used the illusion of a deep dark underwater scene to slow Ricon at Yargo Pass.
Equipment
Linen and leather out fit, his casual outfit, a backpack where he had stored all his belongings during his rogue days. A grimoire, the Archmages tried to take it, as Ricon had written all his Pyromancy knowledge in it, but the King ordered it taken by the Warden instead. And lastly, his Sword, which he would name Embershard, because of it's warped and blackened state after the many focusing of Inferno through it.
Miscellaneous
Ricon is endlessly denied anything he can set alight, for fear that he will use it to conjure one of his spells.
No less then six guards as assigned to him when he's let out of his cell. And two must always be in his blindspot to make it harder for him to get them all in a Blaze. And one must have a magical bottle of ice or water to stop him from starting too many flames.
Ricon if allowed too will always have atleast three of his small flame familiars flitting about him. But if more then three appear he's usually doused immediately to put them out.
This young man is in his late 20's, and has striking eyes, one a piercing green and one an empty gaping eye socket. His black-and-white hair is cut short and unkempt. He is tall and pale from his banishment, but almost half of his body is heavily scarred, pitted, and discolored a greenish gray, all the way up to the left side of his face. He wears dark robes as a warning to others, and a half-face mask which covers his 'regular' skin and leaves his plagued side exposed for all to see. He often walks using a cane.
Personality
Brorin is standoffish, but not in a shy or reluctant manner. He stands fast and has fully accepted his monstrous appearance, and uses it without remorse to intimidate and keep others at bay. He chooses to mostly associate himself with people that are like him - different, downtrodden, diseased. He views the world through one core principle: that everything has an equal and opposite reaction. Everything that lives, dies. Everything that thrives, withers. Everything that is beautiful, will become disfigured. And he has no qualms helping this along when it suits him, though he does have a strange sense of etiquette about this. Still, every now and again he has outbursts in which he seems... not fully himself. After these, he often scourges himself, but whether this is truly for penitance, even he himself hasn't figured out yet.
Background
Brorin is a Plagueborn, a human born to parents during a time of great plagues. Brorin survived, but with one side of his body permanently scarred, and with a ragged, impotent breath. He doesn't know what happened to his parents, all he knows is that they gave him up to the mercy of the church. There he learnt The Holy Law via the whip's teachings, and was put on tasks befitting to one of his nature: corpse cleaner, grave digger, rat catcher. He met other Plagued on the streets during this time, and offered them the Law's solace, according to his own interpretation. In time, he got to know most of them, and knew he could count on them whenever he needed help. The other church-wards quickly awarded him the surname he lacked before: Brorin "Foul". Their whispers, the condescension in the priests' voices, the envy of their normalcy stirred parts of his heart he'd try to bury, but strange whispers started calling in his sleep. Swarming voices that spoke to his insecurities, his jealousy, his grudges. And one day he gave in. Even to this day he doesn't know exactly what came over him besides the short flashes of remembrance he has every now and again, but he does know that when it was done, the church had gone up in flames. He was cuffed before long and cast into the banishment of the Maw to suffer his own chosen path. Though life in the Maw proved hard and filled with suffering, he was quickly welcomed by others like him, others who somehow knew of his title. The Foul Gang was born, and though small, they managed to carve out a small territory for themselves which they held with a fierce, some would say ruthless, devotion.
Talents
Brorin has a high resistance to poison and illness due to his Plagueborn nature, as well as a high pain tolerance, to the point of near-feelinglessness on his plague-affected side. He and other Plagueborn often share an immediate solidarity, a stark contrast between non-Plagueborn, who are quick to shun and avoid him due to his monstrous intimidating appearance. He has an intimate knowledge of the Book of The Holy Law, as well as knowledge of alchemy and medicine from his tutelage in the church. These he has adapted to create various types of bombs (such as acid, freezing, and smoke bombs), as well as mutagenic substances which, when injected, can temporarily alter his Plagueborn's tissues into things truly horrifying (such as claws with paralyzing venom, quickly healing chitinous armor, or a hive structure housing insect-like minions).
Flaws
Due to his lacking breath and constitution, he is bad at tasks requiring very high amounts of stamina or strength without taking a mutagen. He is quick to judge others, and has a habit of isolating himself. Every now and again he has strange outbursts in which he seems not fully himself.
Equipment
Brorin owns a horn-carved cane which doubles as a bomb-throwing lever, and as a scourging whip. He also has a satchel with inside it a ragged copy of the Book of the Holy Law and some simple alchemy tools. He wears a simple leather vest underneath a dark hooded robe, and a half-face mask.
Short and unassuming even when compared to his kin, Wraith is easy to miss in a crowd — and that is by design. Standing a few inches short of three feet, he comes across as little more than a mobile pile of tattered clothes, scurrying from shadow to shadow. Even when standing still, his posture is poor and stance wary, as if the slightest sound could spur him into a run — a stark contrast to his face, which seems to be stuck on an indifferent scowl if you do happen to see it, and his voice, a monotone mumble. As a whole, he is quite unremarkable, and not many consider him a threat. That's their first and last mistake.
Cloaked in a hood and hidden by a mask, few are those who have actually caught a proper glimpse of the halfling's face — but those who have, will likely remember it, a fact Wraith loathes. A past magical injury has branded him, carving blue veins into the skin below his eyes. They ripple as if made of liquid, an occasional shimmer giving them an eerie hue. Their shade is a turquoise similar to his eyes; sharp, unnatural, unnerving.
Though Wraith comes across as unarmed at a glance, no self-respecting warrior truly assumes him to be such. His kind always carry blades, the smart ones two, and the ones that live the longest as many as they can. Wraith intends to live long.
Personality:
Having long since learnt that knowledge is power, Wraith lets slip very little of himself or his intentions. Some things, however, can be surmised easily enough. For one, Wraith is reserved, keeping to himself in every sense of the word; he abhors physical proximity as much as emotional, and is at his most comfortable (which is to say, not very) when at an arm's length away from others. What he isn't is shy; when he does decide to talk, he does so with deadpan confidence and the boldness of someone who never quite learnt how and when to stay his tongue. In a similar vein, insults from most others don't seem to bother him either, and though he can certainly display frustration, he doesn't anger easily.
Curiosity is a vice Wraith has suffered from for the longest while, and try as he might, he cannot keep it completely under wraps. Some say his cowardice is another, perhaps even worse vice, though Wraith considers it his greatest asset. It's his alertness and willingness to drop whoever might slow him down that has gotten him this far — and he isn't about to stop anytime soon. If you can trust anything about this halfling, it's his determination to see the morrow.
Background:
Little is known of Wraith's past, including his birth name, and he'd very much prefer to keep it that way. But to paint a proper picture, it's important to know that where he came from, halflings were not considered a jolly, merry lot with big smiles and bigger yet bellies; they were known as conniving, cunning thieves, likely to steal your coin the second you looked away. As such, Wraith wasn't exactly dealt the best of hands at birth. Living on the streets of a grandiose city known for its magical academy, he got by stealing scraps from mage apprentices and scribes.
That was, until he was caught — and instead of having his hands chopped or being sent to the gallows, he was offered an opportunity. The academy was looking for a few volunteers to help with a few of their experiments. He was promised an easy job even a kid like him could do, a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, and all the food he'd ever need. Even as a child, Wraith wasn't trusting, and knew there was no such thing as free dinner. But desperate and hungry, he agreed. Whatever they had in store for him, surely it couldn't be worse than his life now?
A decade or so later, as the research wing of the Grand Academia of Magic was burning to the ground behind him, Wraith thought back on that thought and laughed. Since, he returned to his old ways, putting to use the magic carved into his very body by the experimentation he was subjected to. Only this time, he stole lives instead of coppers. Turned out it was far more lucrative.
Talents:
🗡 Universal key // Give him a lock, any lock, and he will have it open before you can so much as blink. The same goes for disarming — and indeed setting — traps, whether magical or mundane. 🗡 Coward's weapon // While it might not sound like much compared to magic, Wraith is very knowledgeable about poisons, able to brew his own. 🗡 Never here // If you're able to see Wraith, it's likely because he's allowing you to see him. He's a master of disappearing at will, partly thanks to his magic, which can render him invisible and undetectable, as well as allow him to jump from shadow to shadow. However, as someone who's specialized in tearing magic away from their wielders, he is quite capable of hiding even without any magical aids. He's inhumanely nimble, and also able to run on walls and other such surfaces. 🗡 Mageslayer // Escaping from the academy was no easy feat, but during his preparations for it, Wraith became quite adept at killing magic wielders in particular. Thanks to the experiments he featured in, his body is highly resistant to magic, allowing him to shrug off spells that would down a regular person. He is not completely immune however, and the more magical harm comes upon him, the longer a breather he has to take to "recharge", so to speak.
Flaws:
🗡 Paranoia // Distrustful to a fault, Wraith's own paranoia prevents him from truly being able to make use of teamwork, and often has him run away even from his own if he suspects them to be after his life. 🗡 Shortstuff // While his short stature has its advantages, Wraith cannot deny the disadvantages either. Simply put, he's physically weak, unable to lift or carry heavy things or withstand nearly as many physical blows as magical. He's light, too, and one of his worst enemies so far has been a particularly strong wind. No, really. 🗡 Magical infliction // While the magic coursing within him offers him many a benefit, it is also unpredictable, the result of curious, not genius, minds. This can cause his magic to backfire at times, causing unpredictable results. 🗡 Curiosity killed the // Curious and greedy to such a degree that it sometimes supersedes his cowardice, Wraith cannot help but pocket every shiny, potential dangerous thing he comes across — or at least, have someone else do it for him. That was, ironically, how he ended up caught by the magical scholars in the first place.
Equipment:
🗡 Serrated dagger, with runes running along the length of the blade. Those in the know call it the Essence Reaver. Wraith calls it a dagger. Its blade never seems to dull, but its greatest strength is its uncanny ability to rend magic from its target. That is to say, a magic wielder injured with it will find themselves unable to properly channel their magic for a time. Weaker mages will lose their abilities altogether until their wounds have healed and their blood cleansed, while extremely powerful ones might experience recoil, or find it difficult to aim where they intended to. If taken from Wraith, the dagger's runes will fade and its special abilities cease to function until returned to his possession. 🗡 Tools of the trade; crowbar, ball bearings, lock picking set, small mirror, the usual things needed to get into places he isn't welcome in. 🗡 Vial of paralyzing poison. 🗡 Hooded cloak.
