Name: Khagor Gristleback
Age: 38
Race: Beastman
Mark: Khagor's mark appears on his right wrist, taking the form of a triangular shape, speared with a lightning bolt. The rest of his kind have some variation of the same sigil:
Profession: Chieftain of Clan Gristleback
Appearance:Khagor, on left, negotiating with an underling.
Bio:Khagor and his men weren't always the rodent-men they are today. Years ago, prior to Veiron's sundering, they were but wandering vigilantes, keeping the roads safe and solving problems for small fees. Khagor himself was just a young man at the time, and the warband itself was under the leadership of a hardened veteran by the name of Felix Hawthorne. Khagor's father had been felled in a skirmish against a tribe of orcs during his youth, leaving his mother to care for him on her own. To make things easier on her, he decided as a young adult to join Felix's band. Most members of Felix's troupe were war veterans, down on their luck without family or money. He offered a chance to willing adventurers to pick up their feet and serve the good of society for a living.This way, Khagor's mother could focus on taking care of herself and he could aid her by sending his earnings. Pre-Cataclysm, Felix's men had a particularly strong presence on the roads from Elois to Veiron, and were on their way to the capital mere days before the disaster.
When Felix's men emerged from the forest road to the capital, they could see an otherworldly haze looming over the castle. The city was still miles from their position, and Felix ordered his men to double their pace. When at last they reached Veiron, they were met with a terrible reality. Unearthly creatures swooped and screamed across the battlements, and inside the walls they heard the din of fighting and screams of the dying. The air crackled with eldritch magics, and a foul musk lingered in the air. As was their duty, Felix led his men towards the capital in attempt to relieve the defenders. As they charged under the broken gates, the hellish abominations fled from the scene, content in the suffering they had wrought to the city. Wrought with grief, Felix led them from the wrecked capital, frustrated they had not made it in time to protect it. The vigilante band returned to its camp in the foothills around the Moors, and its men pondered what would become of the kingdom, now that its capital had been ruined. Upon reaching the camp, they started to notice marks on their bodies that had not been there before. Most of these took the forms of small triangular sigils on the hands and arms.
Years passed, and over time, Felix's vigilantes became more of scavengers than problem-solvers. They mostly stuck to the outskirts of society, refusing to fully reconnect with their former people. They took on a role in the background, mopping up bands of orc tribes that harassed the farther fringes of the kingdom. One such operation would forever change them, and warp them into the beings they are today. In the dark of night, south of Contia, a herd of Orcs gathered around a primitive shrine, presumably to worship their Demonic gods before a great raid. Felix had caught wind of the vigil and set up his men around the site in an ambush earlier in the day. When the Orcs had performed their ceremony and fallen into a drunken stupor, the clan attacked, slaughtering them to the last. At the foot of the altar was a sword, with a blade black as obsidian, and pulsing green runes engraved in the surface. Felix retrieved the weapon, and noticing no ill effects, he claimed it as a trophy of war. It was then that the magic within the weapon took its terrible toll on him and his men. Sickly green clouds of fog engulfed them, seeping into the nooks and crannies of the ruins where the Orcs had made their dwelling. Within, hordes of rats burst forth, scampering frantically to the winds of magic. The sky pulsed an angry rhythm as the vigilantes voiced their anguish. Bones changed shape, fur sprouted from skin, minds warped. At long last, the magic dissipated, and on the Orcs' sacred ground stood Felix and his band, now a terrible blend of rodent and man.
The bodies of Felix's men had been transformed; parodies of man and beast. Their heads were that of a rodent's, and their lithe bodies covered in fur. Their backs sprouted naked tails and their metabolism shot up, causing them to act in quick bursts of energy. Their eyes glowed a deep crimson, betraying their former humanity. Yet Felix and his men were not wholly animal. Their intellect remained, albeit now more instinct-minded. They'd been possessed of a sharp cunning and unpredictability, much like the creatures they resembled. Felix himself was old, and nowadays it is speculated by his former men-at-arms that his aging frame could not take the mutation. He died where he stood, his transformation stopped short, and his body twisted, near-unrecognizable. Wrought with fear at what they had become, many of his men drove themselves mad, that is before Khagor intervened. Holding the sword that undid Felix, he called out to them, standing atop the Orcs' shrine. Slowly they ceased their whimpering and listened. Khagor seized leadership, reforming them as "Clan Gristleback," to remind them of the hardship bestowed on them, but also that they had endured. He reminded them they were still men, with a purpose and aspirations. He likened their new afflictions to a mixed blessing; yes, they were robbed of their physical humanity, but their new forms offered them ways to better fight the Orcs. If they chose to inspect themselves after becoming afflicted, they would notice their marks from the Cataclysm glow an emerald hue, although this significance was, and still is, unknown to them.
Khagor led his clan out from the hills and paraded in front of towns and settlements they had once protected. This was not a challenge, but a rally. In order to ensure the survival of the clan, Khagor needed more able bodies. Many had passed on, like their former master, and he wanted to forge a true warband to stand against the Demons and other undesirables. At first, they were shunned by most, seen as unnatural products of Demonic magic. Some responded violently, threatening to drive them away with city militia, which had largely taken on their past roles as protectors and servicemen. One such confrontation saw an overly-aggressive baron declare a state of war, and sallied the guard to engage Khagor's clan. Caught in a position they were unable to flee from, Khagor ordered his warband to stand its ground. Man fought former-man, in a battle that lasted for but an hour. The poorly-trained militia were unable to break Khagor's clan, and surrendered, much to the baron's chagrin. With the settlement under the mercy of Clan Gristleback, Khagor absorbed the defeated into his clan, strengthening his numbers. The city itself was left intact, its people unharmed, with the exception of the baron. With no soldiers left to keep order, Khagor assured the populace that his clan would maintain watch over the roads and surrounding areas. As such, they were still vigilantes of a sort.
The same pattern repeated itself over again around the more remote settlements. Khagor was assailed by self-righteous noblemen, only to defeat their men-at-arms and walk away all the stronger. Oddly, those men who joined his ranks found that they themselves, became as rodent-like as the original of their number with the passage of time. With no way to reverse the affliction, their only choice was to follow Khagor, lest be looked upon with disdain by much of normal society. Khagor's clan has grown so large, that rarely is it all gathered in a single place. Rather, his lieutenants operate in cells scattered around the fringes of civilization, working towards the common good of nearby people, whether they realize it or not. Most often, they do this by waging war against the Orc camps that dot the kingdom. At the same time, Khagor endeavors to find a way to fight back against the Demons, taking vengeance for the losses at Veiron, and maybe, reversing the clan's curse and learning of the significance of their marks.
Equipment: Khagor's material possessions are limited, and it is said that a clansman's only real possessions are those which he can carry on his back or grasp in his fists. He wears plates of blackened armor, fitted to his ratlike body and a cloak of bear fur. Fastened to his back is a trophy rack, where he mounts baubles, trinkets and even skulls, all of which belonged to former enemies. He fights with a circular shield and an enchanted falchion. This falchion, dubbed
Fellblade, came into Khagor's possession during the attack on an Orc holy site, where he and his men were transformed, and became Clan Gristleback. The falchion is exceptionally light, yet strong, and when it pierces flesh, the blade seems to simmer and rend its foe with unearthly magic. With enough force, it can cut through any material Khagor has had the opportunity to test thus far. Aside from his gear, Khagor travels on the back of a gigantic rat, mutated by some dark magic. He broke the creature when he encountered it deep in the forests of Wisprs, and since then it has been his vicious mount. Black plates of armor have been fastened to its body, and Khagor's personal rune daubed on them.
Other: Wherever the cells of Khagor's warband gather, swarms of rats are sure to be found scurrying underfoot. The reason for this attraction to the warband is unknown.
Beastmen of natural birth are unnerved by Khagor's ratmen, namely because there are no other "trueborn" ratmen to speak of, and pangs in their animalistic senses do not recognize them as natural beings. This often is a cause for concern among true beastmen, who will either distance themselves as much as possible from the ratfolk, or become prone to confrontation.
The angular marks born by the warband occasionally glow a faint green, and tingle, however no one has any idea why. Khagor's mark in particular does this on a regular basis, and glows perpetually so long as he is holding
Fellblade.
