@Username Khata Nyarlith, the Faceless One. Once again, well done - cool character with a well-written sheet. Accepted. Get in there and grant us some eyes.
My name is not 'Username' dear lizard wizard sir. But I'm assuming you simply don't have enough eyes to see~
that said, yes. I shall move them to the CS and start fleshing out some more details about her realm and the forsaken desert which it was built upon.
My name is not 'Username' dear lizard wizard sir. But I'm assuming you simply don't have enough eyes to see~
that said, yes. I shall move them to the CS and start fleshing out some more details about her realm and the forsaken desert which it was built upon.
Ack! That's what happens when you get interrupted by dogs every ten minutes when you're trying to post. My bad.
Please do - I intend to finish up my CS and then I'll make the locations tab - I hope none of you mind if I include some of the already-written descriptions of places (with credit, of course).
Name: Vortigern Titles: He of Whisper and Shadow [name] The Spiritbinder Grand Magus [name] (honorary, “postmortem”)
Three-word description: Dark Magic Spymaster
Appearance: He of Whisper and Shadow, contrary to what most of those who truly know of his existence believe, is not a formless spirit, jumping from one host body to the next. Vortigern, in fact, does possess a body. As a matter of fact, aside from its remarkably pale skin, Vortigern’s body is in good shape. Its eyes are dark, its hair is long and healthy, and its skin is actually quite smooth. To the more magically sensitive, he would appear surrounded by a thick pale mist. This is part of Vortigern’s true essence, which has transcended his mortal flesh, but still animates it.
On those rare occasions where Vortigern chooses to go out, he usually wears an old set of robes, well-maintained from his magic, of a style used by the Order of the Stars about a thousand years ago. They are largely black, but trimmed and patterned with gold thread, and belted with leather and steel. His hands and feet are covered by thick leather boots, dyed black. The palms of each glove are adorned with heavily stylized circles. He wears a hood and cowl, styled in the same vein as his robes, which obscures his face and hides his hair. In addition, he wears a similarly styled cloak for more decorative purposes.
Magic/Skills/Abilities:
Active Spellcasting: While never his specialty, Vortigern knows how to invoke more direct methods of using magic to inflict harm: fire, lighting, ice, kinetic force, clouds of toxic gas, and so on.
Illusionary Design: Technically a form of Active Spellcasting, but different in function than the rest. Vortigern can bend light to create false images, and distort the air to create false sounds and scents.
Summoning: Easily Vortigern’s greatest ability is to call upon spirits already in his service. Calling them requires very little effort, considering they are already bound to him, and is facilitated by the stylized circles inscribed into his gloves. In a fight, all but the weakest of the spirits under his command can disorient his opponents, and the strongest are capable of inflicting some serious mental harm. He prefers to use spirits over fighting directly.
Spirit Assault: How Vortigern prefers to go about fighting enemies directly. Using his knowledge of the human spirit and mind, he can seriously curtail a person’s ability to use their body. When attempted at a distance, this cannot be directed at a specific individual, and results in moderate sluggishness at worst. Direct physical contact allows for attacks that are far more devastating, including up to total paralysis and unconsciousness. To affect internal organs Vortigern must physically strike a part of the body that lines up with that organ—for example, to stop the heart Vortigern must strike in the middle of the chest. If a person survives being attacked in this method, they will recover from these attacks fully with sufficient time.
Domination: A specific technique related to spirit assault, Vortigern is able to twist a person’s body and mind to serve him. An unwilling subject is hollowed out entirely, rendered nothing more than an obedient husk. A complacent—willing or unconscious—subject retains their mental faculties and personality, but is unable to disobey Vortigern’s commands. Vortigern receives willing subjects either through coercion or through his cult (more on that in a bit). Vortigern can employ this technique to alter the mind and memory of a person who hasn’t been hollowed out.
Transcendence: Approximately eight hundred fifty years ago, Vortigern performed a ritual that altered the nature of his spirit, becoming He of Whisper and Shadow. As a result, his body does not physically age, and nothing short of total destruction will break his spirit’s connection to it. Even still, it is more likely that he will become a powerful spirit after that occurs, like those he controls now but far greater in scope, than it is that he will pass on.
Inventory/Holdings:
Objects:
The Staff of the Spiritbinder. Vortigern’s staff from before he became He of Whisper and Shadow. It is a long piece of an uncertain dark wood, crowned by a crow perched inside of a circle. As per instructions he gave to close associates before his transcendence, it was buried on the grounds of the Order of the Stars eight hundred fifty years ago. Some fifty years ago, it was disturbed and dug up. The leader of the Order took to using it as a symbol of his office. When Vortigern learned of this, he snuck in to the transgressor’s bedchambers, turned the man into a drooling husk in his sleep, and took a number of magical artifacts, including the staff. The staff serves as a means to amplify his control over spirits, but the main reason he created was to serve a function during his transcendence.
Alkor’s Amulet. An amulet created by Alkor the Spellweaver, a founding member of the Order of the Stars, which Vortigern stole while retrieving his staff. It’s consists only of a sphere of brass threaded on a course string. The amulet amplifies the wearer’s magical ability.
Darkblood. A ceremonial dagger of unknown origin, which Vortigern stole while retrieving his staff. Its blade is an unknown black metal, and its hilt, handle, and pommel are made of gold. Purportedly, it alerts the bearer to the presence of demons, but precisely how has been forgotten. It is kept in an unadorned leather scabbard.
Followers:
Spirits. Vortigern has bound a veritable army of spirits into his service. The vast majorities of these are not particularly strong, but are eminently useful for matters of morale. A weak spirit can slip into an enemy encampment, and make all sorts of merry hell to ruin someone’s day—spoiling food, causing nightmares, whispering something in someone else’s voice to start a fight, and so on. Some of the more powerful spirits can whisper dark secrets into a sleeping person’s ear to drive them mad, or false secrets to cause mistakes, or even get a person to divulge their own secrets in their sleep. Some of the stronger spirits are capable of actually fighting, undergoing ethereal manifestation to fight someone as a gfigure identical to a risen ghost. All sorts of spirits are ideal scouts, being invisible. Spirits also serve as capable messengers.
Whispers. About three centuries ago, Vortigern used a handful of individuals he had coerced into letting him Dominate them to found a cult in his honor. Its membership includes every person to join the eight-person High Council that has governed the Republic of the Carnelian Coast for the past eight hundred fifty years, as well as several key figures of governance and trade throughout the Republic. In addition to the more mundane options of having the Republic declare war wherever he wishes—a gross misuse of it as a resource—he can alter the flow of goods as he, and has access to what passes for the Carnelian espionage network. His cult also acts, in part, as his own intelligence network, giving him eyes and ears in places that the Carnelian Coast cannot reach.
Shadows. An loose organization of assassins, thieves, and spies. Spread throughout the land, they provide information and blood to the highest bidder—but only if it is in Vortigern’s interest. Vortigern founded it personally three hundred years ago, and it is run through Vortigern has Dominated, who he taught to summon spirits He bound to himself, through which the servant communicates with their proxies, who distribute orders. Members of the Whispers are not permitted entry. All information its spies gather is recorded, and sometimes Vortigern will send them out on a personal mission (and simultaneously several dummy missions) of different types to achieve a personally desired end.
Personal Army. To top it all off, Vortigern has a vast number of trained soldiers under his employ. They man his hidden fortress (more on that in a second), and are led directly by officers who have willingly submitted to Domination. The only soldiers permitted to interact with Vortigern, namely as his personal guard must first willingly submit to Domination.
Holdings:
Mountain Fortress-Complex. Starting from the long-defunct gem-mines for which the Carnelian Coast was named for long ago, Vortigern has developed massive fortress under the earth, hidden from view. Going down several stories, manned by Vortigern’s personal army, this serves as the nerve center for all of his operations.
Myth:
There are many tales the destitute of the Carnelian Coast tell themselves. For the pleasure of scaring each other at night. To explain the world to themselves. And, sometimes, just for its own sake. One of these stories is of a young mage named Vortigern. Vortigern was the youngest son of Vallirand, then the most powerful and influential merchant of the Carnelian Coast. To oppose him, and take his profits for themselves, a cadre of individually lesser merchants banded together to found the Carnelian Consortium, a body of dozens of merchants that banded together to regulate trade on the Coast—being one of the most prominent centers of trade in the known world. Vallirand was not permitted entry. Vortigern had no care for business, only for his studies, and one day moving west and joining the Order of Stars. But as his father’s business was undercut by the Consortium, so was the funding for Vortigern’s endeavors.
And so, Vortigern had an idea: populism. If enough of the people of the Carnelian Coast could be rallied against the Consortium, and be convinced to not do business with the it, then it was guaranteed to collapse. So Vallirand and all of Vortigern’s brothers and uncles and cousins traveled the length of the Carnelian Coast, saying that the Consortium was taking away the power of individuals and states to do business as they pleased. There was a furor, and Vortigern’s plan almost succeeded, but for a brilliant response from the Consortium: the founding of a republic in the Carnelian Coast. Many of the people of the Coast were swayed, but many were not, and it looked like the region was to tear itself apart. And that was bad for business. Vallirand was admitted to the Consortium, and took up the cause of the Republic. Now there was only the matter of the extant states of the region.
All were city-states, and most armed only militias and city guards, which had now, effectively, defected. There were a few holdouts, but they surrendered quickly. One unfortunate casualty of the fighting, however, was Vortigern’s eldest brother, the only of his siblings he cared for, and the heir to Vallirand’s many enterprises. When all was done, the Consortium sat down to do business in their new capital, and one quarter of them promptly keeled over. This number was Vallirand, and all of his supporters. Only some of the deaths were due to means one could call assassination, not including Vallirand’s, but it was plain to see what had happened. But instead of marshalling their resources to oppose the monstrous injustice done against them, all of Vortigern’s brothers and cousins and uncles squabbled over who got what of their late kinsman’s bounty. All the family was gathered for this in a lavish palace-home than Vallirand had owned. It caught fire.
When the fire had been put out, it was discovered that the body-count was one short, and the vast fortune that Vallirand had kept there was gone. The only member of the family who could have escaped the fire and spirited away the wealth was the one mage: Vortigern. And there was no trace of him. Those living who knew the family said that Vortigern had no interest in business, and so it was concluded that he had taken what was technically his inheritance and gone to join the Order of Stars. Many were sad to see the wealth go—they had hoped to poach it from Vallirand’s successors—but they at least had his many enterprises to divide amongst themselves.
While it is true that Vortigern had no interest in business, he had every interest in revenge. In addition to escaping the blaze with his father’s fortune, he had used his magic to set the fire, and ensure that his family could not escape. He saw his family’s actions after Vallirand’s death as a betrayal of his father, and so he punished them. However, he was not, on his own, even with his magic and the wealth and resources of his father, a match for the remainder of the Consortium. So he left the Carnelian Coast, swearing there, in the darkness of that night, to return.
He journeyed west, as all had suspected, and became an apprentice to a member of the Order of the Stars. Vortigern proved to be an exceptional pupil, and was promoted to a full membership To this day, the name of Vortigern is still spoken, lauded for the advances made by his study of spirits leagues beyond what any one person was believed to be capable of accomplishing.
For most, all of this achievement would have made life satisfying. And it might have done so for Vortigern as well, had his father not been betrayed. His anger remained, and his rage festered like an open wound. It was not enough. He grew ever more detached from his friends and associates, eventually shutting them out entirely. One day, he vanished, never to return.
Some years after, the members of the Carnelian Consortium—which had been integrated into the leadership of the Republic of the Carnelian Coast—began to disappear as well. It began with the oldest members, who had been alive during the founding of the Republic, but once they were gone no person was safe. Soon, people were refusing appointments to the Consortium’s leadership, then the entirety of the Consortium. Then people began quitting their posts. Understaffed and overloaded, the Consortium collapsed, and nearly brought the Republic with it. Once the Consortium was gone, efforts of the Carnelian government ceased.
Still, Vortigern was not satisfied.
Wells were poisoned. Fortunes were stolen. Mansions burned. One-by-one, the entirety of the merchant class of the Carnelian Coast was unmade. Few died. Most were left to suffer.
As the region had always been a center of trade, the economic collapse of the Carnelian Coast rippled throughout the known world, causing the first great economic disaster in recorded history: the Carnelian Collapse. It was clear that it had been precipitated by some driving will, so efforts were made to find and eliminate it. It was a party of two that eventually found Vortigern: a great warrior, and a powerful mage. They battled. In the end, Vortigern cast them out of his domain, but was gravely wounded in the process. But he did not die. To this very day, he lurks up and down the coast, growing in power, his hunger for revenge unsated. He prepares to lash out against the very world, and tear it asunder.
There have been many great mages to pass in and out of the world. Most of them are known only to those mages who come after them. Being scholars by nature, those heirs remember them well—assuming the memories were true to begin with. This is the story, according to the Order of the Stars, of one mage who held some renown in his day, and for a short while after his untimely demise: Vortigern the Spiritbinder.
One day, some ninehundred years ago, in the pale light before dawn, a young man came to the city of Melaron driving a cart covered with thick, course cloth. When he came up to the gates, the posted guards asked him what was in the cart.
”My inheritance”
This was Vortigern.
They lifted the canvas covering the cart to find something they had not been expecting: gold and jewels. Vortigern had such a mass of wealth with him that the guards were utterly stunned. Had he arrived at any other time of day, when the entry to the city was thronged with merchants, farmers, pilgrims, and so forth, much of the fortune would have been lost to thieves before he could get inside the city gates. As it stood, he only lost two jewels and to pouches of coins, as gifts to the guards on duty to pre-emptively thank them for not spreading any rumors.
Vortigern made his way through the city and to hi8s destination: the Order of Stars. Some small handful of mages there were awake, and he was asked his business there.
”To join you.”
Naturally, his ability needed to be tested, and that done the matter of purchasing supplies—both for magic and general living. He proved more than able enough to become the apprentice of one of the Order’s members, and his vast fortune covered any expense he faced.
Ultimately, he was taken under the wing of one Calor Talloman, a mage of no especial ability for a member of the Order, but a skilled teacher. Vortigern thrived under his tutelage. Over the next fiveyears, he fostered a friendship with the apprentice of one of Calor’s associates, one Crutius Vallorn. Crutius would prove to be Vortigern’s dearest friend. Vortigern was hesitant to speak of his past, but opened up to these two. He told them of his father’s war, of his father’s murder, and of his family’s death.
”They were just… they wouldn’t stop fighting. Someone had just murdered my father, and they were arguing over money! I was so, so angry. And I hadn’t been trained yet, not yet—books don’t really count. I wouldn’t have chosen to do it, but I don’t miss them.”
Vortigern had, in a fit of rage, accidentally set fire to his family’s large home. He managed to escape. When the flames had died down, he snuck back in and spirited his father’s wealth out of the city before his father’s rivals could get their hands on it. Crutius would comment, years after Vortigern’s death, that he had struggled with anger over his father’s betrayal all of his life.
Those years spent, Vortigern found himself elevated from his apprenticeship. In truth, this came to pass sooner than was ordinary, but ability was of greater concern than age, and he was not so young as to raise eyebrows.
With his apprenticeship complete, Vortigern chose to study spirits, a subject of stark difference from his former master, and of deep concern to the Order. While the subject was not itself anathema, many people—mages included—connected it to necromancy. Their concerns, however, were unfounded. Some considerable oversight, to which Vortigern consented, showed that he did not stray towards the souls of the dead. If anything, the reports that were compiled showed that Vortigern actively disdained those practices.
After about a decade, he had gained notoriety within the Order. He knew more about the ways of spirits than anyone, and had been able to refine his methods somewhat since the day he banished the spirit summoning the horde. Offers of funding arose and steadily increased—wholly unnecessary, as his inheritance was still plentiful, but still appreciated.
By all accounts, time was a far less plentiful resource. As such, why exactly he chose this point to take on an apprentice is unclear. Maybe he thought they would be a useful assistant with his research, or perhaps he was feeling the pangs of his mortality and wanted some piece of himself to live on. Perhaps it was something else. Whatever was the case, he found an apprentice in an applicant by the name of Saida, a young elven girl who had recently been orphaned. Precisely what made her an orphan is in no surviving record.
Saida was Vortigern’s apprentice for eight years—slightly longer than normal—and remained involved in his work for seven years afterwards. During this time, Vortigern revolutionized how mages work with spirits. He rewrote how mages classify spirits, pinpointed the attributes that cause demonic manifestation—the ability of demons to create a physical body when summoned, long recognized as a key difference between them and ordinary spirits—and developed countless methods by which spirits could be summoned, bound, and banished. While some considerable advancement has been made since his death, the vast majority of modern methods are grounded largely in his developments, discoveries, and even some ideas he wrote down but never tested.
However, he eventually drifted into another subject of study: the human spirit. Once again, this caused concerns about necromancy to arise, but Vortigern’s reputation eased the minds of his superiors.
After another handful of years, it seemed that his research into the human spirit had come reached a breakthrough. But for it to continue, he would need to leave the city on a long journey. He left very specific instructions with Crutius and Saida.
“I need to do an experiment, and I cannot allow myself to perform that experiment on any person but myself. I need to go out into the wilds. There is a very specific cave, far to the east of Melaron. Two years from now—you see this journal? There’s a map in here, as well as the ritual. I need the both of you—and it needs to be two people, and I trust you both more than anyone else alive—to go out to that cave in about two years time. The exact date you need to check inside the cave is in the journal. Don’t look inside the cave before that—details are in the journal. If I’m just, you know, sitting there, it all worked out. If my dead body is there, then it didn’t, and I’ll need a burial. If you find my staff there—just my staff—that’s the worst case scenario. You need to seal off the cave with the ritual in the journal. Then, you need to come back here—and it has to be here—and bury the staff on the grounds, then seal it with the same ritual. Honestly, it isn’t something I even really want to think about, so just read the journal after I leave, okay?”
When Crutius and Saida checked the cave on the appointed date, they found Vortigern’s staff, buried on quarter of its length into solid stone. There was nothing else.
Whatever the truth of Vortigern’s life, whoever knows the truth, he proves a difficult individual to find. Yet the agent of Kil’threx found its way to him, hidden deep beneath crag and valley. And so, Vortigern shall answer the summons of the God of Evil.
Personality: Vortigern is pre-occupied with loyalty—those few of his personal servants who are not mindless husks are either physically incapable of betraying him (a group that includes both those he has Dominated and the spirits bound to his employ) or hysterical sycophants. Somewhat predictably, if someone in his organization betrays him, he responds swiftly and harshly, even when it might not be in his best interest to do so; he is preoccupied with revenge. By the same token, while he may be a distant master, he returns loyalty with loyalty. He will stand by his servants, however low they may be on the rung, as best he can without revealing his existence to the wider world. And when he enters into an agreement with someone, he keeps it, even if he could renege it with little to no consequence.
That is not to say Vortigern is kind. He habitually treats the people of the world poorly, with his actions ranging from distant hostility to outright cruelty. Despite this, he usually maintains an air of amicability. He could easily order someone dragged into the darkness, their screams muffled by cloth and leather, while sounding like he was just recommending a good book to a friend. Not that he has friends, of course; that time has passed.
When not scheming, deceiving, or otherwise active, Vortigern is given to pondering. On such occasions, he enters into a deep melancholy, and often waxes poetic.
There was no light here. He knew every inch of smooth, unbroken stone, and as such did not require torch or spell to make his way, nor did any of the guards or spirits monsters that lurked this far down. The same could not be said of his uninvited guests. Yes. Soon. At the far end of this long hall. That was where he stood. At first, it was designed as a trap for those intruders who made it this far down. Briefly, he used it to experiment with his old studies, and had been considering doing so again. More recently, he had been using it for storage, and it was lined with crates and barrels of fine food for his body, and fine crafts for his work. There wasn’t much he couldn’t take for himself, after all. There was the telltale sound of stone grinding on stone. Yes, that was it. That was them. The sound of crashing metal. A warrior had jumped down ahead of their compatriots. Leather scaping stone. A softer, more nimble landing. Are knights now sleeping with thieves? Has the world changed so much? Or perhaps they always were. It wasn’t the part of the world I lived in, even then. He didn’t hear the next collision, but he did hear something else, just before: the fluttering of cloth. Someone wearing clothes, not armor, had jumped down. Could they possibly…? A shining light broke on the other side of the hall, bright and piercing. So it is. Things may yet prove interesting. “Name yourself, cretin! Tell us what you’re doing down here!” The mage is a feisty one. Vortigern said nothing. “We don’t need to know a damn thing about him, Cully,” said the Warrior, a Dwarf, “We saw his damn army. We just need to stop him.” Vortigern smiled. A hooded figure—by process of elimination, the nimble, leather-shoed one—leaned over to the mage, and spoke in low tones. “Are his eyes glowing?” “Yes.” Vortigern’s voice was soft, and but it stretched throughout the room. “They only do that on special occasions.” “Okay, he’s got good hearing. Good to know.” If only you knew, little thief. “I,” said Vortigern, “am perfect of flesh, and beyond flesh.” “Alright!” The Warrior raised his axe over his shoulder, both hands gripping its handle. “Let’s get this over with.” He charged. “Durmak! Wait!” Vortigern raised his hand, the pale light in his eyes sparking at his fingertips, and almost in no time at all—though the process did seem to linger a while to Vortigern—it had spread down between his fingers to his palm. The air shook, and the Warrior fell forward, collapsing onto his knees, his axe sliding along the floor to Vortigern’s feet. Arrows flew through the air. Most missed. One planted itself firmly in Vortigern’s neck. He did not falter. “Ancull, why isn’t he falling over? I hit him.” The thief who shot the arrows asked the mage. “I don’t think I know, Misha.” The mage looked up to Vortigern, her face slowly twisting in anexpression of horror. Vortigern reached up to the arrow in his throat with his other hand. Slowly, he pulled on it. When it was free of his flesh, blood began to pour down from the hole, staining his robes. The thief began to shake. “I think we may have stepped in it this time, Ancull.” Vortigern’s smile grew. The light in his eyes and hand darkened, turning a violent purple. A light shined from the back of the hall. The mage, Ancull, turned her head to see it. The light was creeping along the walls, the roof, the floor. Creeper to her. Past her. Past Misha. Past Durmak, the Warrior. Past Vortigern, onto the wall behind him. The light flowed into a complex pattern of circles, glyphs and spirals, eventually meeting in the center. Vortigern’s soft voice echoed through the hall again. “Yes, children, you have.” Pale clouds flowed out of the circle’s center. They floated around Vortigern. He heard them whisper to him, but he already knew their secrets. He curled the fingers of his outstretched hand into a fist, save one, pointing in the intruders’ direction. The spirits responded to the command. They rushed down the hall, taking the shapes of beasts and gaunt men, as the flow from the circle grew to a river of pale light. As the came upon Durmak, his armor began to glow; runes etched into his plates hummed with golden light, and the spirits flowed over him. The mage Ancull erected a barrier, a pale blue sphere, and the spirits flowed over it as well. They teared and the barrier, and gnawed upon it, but it held. Feisty, and of some considerable ability. Who taught her? Durmak stood. The symbols on his armor hummed with power, and the spirits jumped away from him. Vortigern lowered his hand. “So, you children know the game.” Vortigern kicked the axe at his feet over to Durmak. “Come, Warrior. Entertain me.” Taking his axe into his hands, Durmak charged. Vortigern sidestepped his down-swing and took hold of his arm. Half a second later, Durmak held his axe in his off hand, and his other hung limply at his side. Another strike, this time a side-swipe. Foolish, but determined. This time, Vortigern aimed lower, and Durmak found one of his legs giving out under him. “Damn.” Vortigern walked around him, slowly. “Is this how you imagined dying, Dwarf? A casualty of your own foolish design?” “Go suck a thousand cocks.” Vortigern kicked him in the side, rolling him over onto his back. “Durmak!” Vortigern looked up. The pale blue light of the mage Ancull’s shield could still be seen under the growing onslaught of spirits. It suddenly flashed. The room was filled with shrieking and keening as the spirits recoiled, recoiling from the shield. Ancull came running, with the thief Misha close behind her. Vortigern placed his boot on Durmak’s chest and faced them. “You three would have been better off not coming here.” The blood flowing from the hole in his neck began fall onto Durmak’s armor, where it sizzled and flashed in his golden runes. “I know what you are. My Mistress told me about it. The ritual designed by the Spiritbinder himself.” For the first time since the fight began, Vortigern’s smile faltered, then vanished utterly. “Who are you, child?” The fell light in his eyes and hand flickered. “I am Ancull of Ardanos.” “I’ve never heard of Ardanos. Is it some village in the middle of nowhere?” “It is my home. My Mistress found me there.” Mistress. That’s the second time she said it. And she knew about the ritual. “Saida.” Ancull growled at him. “That means nothing. You are not strong enough to defeat me.” Vortigern smiled. “Especially since she never taught you to watch your back.” The spirits surged over them from behind. Shieldless, Ancull and Misha were torn away, back into the vengeful cloud of angry spirits.
Vortigern knelt down next to Durmak, whose head was turned away, towards where his friends had gone. Vortigern placed his hand, still glowing, on Durmak’s chest. “Worry not, child. You will not be away from them for long.” Vortigern slid his hand down to the felled Warrior’s stomach, and removed it. “There. If you’re lungs somehow start working, your heart or liver will see you dead. You’ll be with them again soon, child.”
I have actually included a slight reference to Kil’threx in the Elder's reprise. The elder is telling the story to the emissary of Kil'threx who seeks audience with Zhystkrexas.
I'd imagine Kil'threx and Zhystkrexas may have some history together, thus I have staved off a direct interaction between both as they would seem to naturally work together. One embodies evil, the other embodies hunger. One is a creation of morality, the other of nature. But each feeds into the other as I see it. Hunger in itself is natural, but to go beyond desire into gluttony? Perhaps it was Kil'threx that had corrupted Zhystkrexas. And perhaps Zhystkrexas which has corrupted Kil'threx in turn to desire the pure destruction of the world.
That being said, until we explore the possible connection between Evil and the demon that breeds it, I would prefer to leave a direct interaction between Kil'threx and Zhystkrexas at the table if it is alright with you. Since after all Zhystkrexas is less of a god and more of a demon. Maybe rumored to be one of the first creations of Kil'threx or an entity that had aligned itself with Kil'threx long ago.
Although in all honesty I'm imaging them as primordials in a cosmic bar that get drinks together every now and then to discuss old times. Neither quite sure who came first, Evil or Hunger.
I would also posit that Trenton Baker would also have some connection with Zhystkrexas given both use souls as a source of power. Perhaps the good captain cares to raid Zhystkrexas' vault, and the Demon would love to capture Baker's soul and end his curious case of unlife. Else they can be on good terms and trade souls like collectable trading cards (as a bit of black comedy). I imagine they live/unlive in rather opposite geographies.
And strange coincidence, I used to roleplay with a Ex-Ex-pirate-Ex-ex-Necromancer (an undead pirate who was a necromancer prior to taking up a life of piracy but has since returned to being a necromancer after raising himself from the dead). Rather fun chap to play as, he stored the souls of the dead in bottles of rum littered about his captain's quarters, and had the penchant to drink his spirits. Supposedly his phylactery is held by his own resurrected left hand which holds a bottle of rum so foul as his soul manifests in it. And said hand and bottle is implanted into the flesh of some terrible sea creature, rendering him nigh immortal as they would have to first find the sea creature, kill it, retrieve the phylactery, destroy it and his hand, then destroy him.
I hope this bloke is reasonable, Marquis Lucien Dowling.
Name: Lucien Gerald Dowling Title: The Marquis (His formal title), The Executioner of Erast, The Slaughterer of Stratham, the Butcher of Bleakburn and the Plague of Pitmerden.
Three-word description: The Corrupt Marquess
Appearance: The Picture:
The Marquis here is a man who would best be summed up as the physical representation of the word grounded, he often looks confident and sure of his step when he's walking, he is quite unmistakable because his general attitude is confident and bold to some extent, he is unscathed from his life of encounters and conflicts during his life which is quite incredible, and he looks every bit his 65 years.
His build isn't too special really, he's reasonably thin and 1.82 metres high, his normal set of clothes are pictured on someone else below and the picture of him is normally what he wears inside; two dressing gowns on a white pair of trousers and a white shirt, or just a normal pair of trousers and another white shirt, he basically dresses plainly if he is inside Bleakburn castle or any other properties he owns for a while.
Or
What do you look like? 1-3 paragraphs. Feel free to use a picture, but even if you do, please provide a written description as well.
Magic/Skills/Abilities: The Marquis is masterful with almost anything with a blade on it, from a sharpened needle to a greatsword the Marquis will perform admirably with the weapon.
He is also a reasonably sneaky man, he could hide decently in a crowd, or hide well enough behind a curtain.
Inventory/Holdings: The Marquis here is most powerful with his holdings, not with his individual powers like others, here is a list of the lands he controls: He rules over Erast, Stratham, Bleakburn, Pitmerden and his his home county of Linesteel.
Erast is an island of farmland off to the West of the central continent, the island was once owned by a pirate lord of some sort the Marquis is torturing to this day, nothing much has changed on the island except for the fact that the farmers have better tools and the Marquis' men owns the island.
One of the many farming hamlets on Erast.
Old Stratham was once a populous city of crime and filth under the control of multiple united bandit groups, the said union managed to annex the coastal city, it's freedom from Melaron lasted for a weekend before the Marquis supposedly volunteered to retake it for Melaron and for his uncle, King Dowling. Nowadays the land the city was once on is home to a different city the Marquis rebuilt after he burnt the old one down to defeat the force owning it which is called New Stratham... The Marquis claims that the bandits killed the majority of their hostages, and in righteous vengeance the Marquis personally started burning the graveyard. For some odd reason the bandits didn't realize there was an ocean behind them.
New Stratham
Bleakburn was a large castle surrounded by a town belonging to a barbarian of some sort way off to the north, the Marquis being the good man he is volunteered to defeat the barbarian bloke and take the castle, which is what the Marquis did for the reason that there was an old armoury of supposedly rare and magical weaponry in the castle's hidden armoury. Nowadays the Marquis lives in the castle and the interesting old weaponry is nicely displayed in the castle, and his favorite trophies are in the armoury. The village only exists as the castle's surplus arrows as well. Bleakburn Castle
Pitmerden is a dwarven fortress the Marquis conquered after it launched an attack on city of Melaron for political reasons, the Marquis now uses the dwarves within as slave labour to mine out everything he can plunder, the location of the fortress is something of a secret kept by the Marquis and his soldiers, all most people know is that it's somewhere east of Bleakburn.
There are multiple luxuries and bladed weapons the Marquis owns, as well as a completely normal suit of armour and a large amount of Melaron's currency because of his relationship to the king and his deeds done to Melaron. The Marquis is also in benevolent command of many workers and soldiers, he does rule multiple areas after all.
Myth: The Plague of Pitmerden is probably the most notorious tale of the Marquis the dwarves know and the most recent to date, a proud and fierce dwarven line was wiped out in one attack, one cruel and cold assault that led to the capture and enslavement of over five thousand dwarven warriors and miners by eight hundred and one men. The numbers aren't too accurate unfortunately but the dwarves did heavily outnumber the Plague and the numbers didn't stop it surging through. One figure took on a good number of dwarves on the way to the head of the line's chambers... The figure survived that chamber catastrophe.
Bleakburn was documented a little more publicly then Pitmerden. The Marquis himself managed to challenge the ruler of the barbarians inhabiting the castle. In the throne room of the castle the two men fought for what was supposedly five hours with one break. Again the Marquis came out alive to see his soldiers parading towards the castle, it managed to scare the barbarians enough to make them flee very quickly, the documentation wasn't as detailed because an illiterate barbarian was documenting the event.
Stratham was the Marquis' first victory, he was a youthful baron at the time and was promised the title of Viscount if he was to recover the land Stratham was on, which after a week-long siege and a horrific fire was what Lucien managed to accomplish, the siege wasn't documented too well because the writers were caught inside the city during the fire, and they died horribly.
Erast, oh Erast was terrifying, the Marquis decided to use a powerful magical weapon he was granted during the invasion, the said weapon caused horrific events, from soldiers burning from the inside alive to the children being eaten by the ground temporarily the island became a horror story come alive, once the Marquis actually arrived after breaking the weapon the Pirate leader surrendered immediately with an eyeball falling out... The documentations about the event are more detailed.
Personality: The Marquis is surprisingly a kind man to his employees, he puts a lot of effort into ensuring they are safe most of the time and that they're comfortable, the Marquis' castle is the home to the Marquis' best workers no matter who they are which is the Marquis' way of encouraging his beloved workers to work as well as they can with the level of luxury the Marquis is at, which is something that the majority of his employers are surprised when they are first employed. He treats others reasonably well if they are just other people who aren't a friend or a foe and just an ordinary person, they deserve relative kindness.
The Marquis puts a lot of effort into hiding some of his more horrible deeds from as many people as he can, Lucien wants to keep the public image of a man who is a good and noble kinsman of the King himself, and he does promote every good deed he can to improve the image's authenticity. He hates any idea that he is evil from most people.
Within a beautiful lounge with luxurious furniture from armchairs with rare wooden frames to gorgeous tapestry complimenting the reasonably large room a young and fit gentleman is looking on to a seemingly bottomless cliff face on a balcony adorning the mildly imposing room, the serenity of the lounging room is interrupted with a door opening, and a greying old man entering the surprisingly warm room with a hidden dagger. "Allow me to guess good uncle the news is good?" The young man queries while picking up a goblet filled with some form of Amontillado. "Dwarves shall not be bothering us for a long time now good cousin." the old man in two dressing gowns and white clothes responds as he picks up an apple from a fruit bowl on a side table beside an armchair. "I am glad to hear you have saved this beautiful landscape dear uncle, that is what we all fight to protect and preserve, the dwarves would have threatened it's continued survival." The young cousin of the Marquis declares, the stated view is seen in it's beauty by the Marquis as he edges ever closer to the view of a wide field standing in front of a castle surrounded by a city in midnight's glare.
A grunt reveals the seconds for the Marquis' cousin close down on the unfortunate soul. "My boy, you do not send me off on errands!" The Marquis violently hollers as he struggles for a moment with taking the ornate dagger from it's lively sheath, and with a kick the cousin flies over the balcony railing to a fatal fall, as insurance in case stabbing a relative in the back wouldn't do, as the doomed individual fall to their demise the uncle of the eventually late cousin gleefully watches, drinking from the goblet he managed to preserve from spilling. "Hope something gets a nice meal out of him... then again his corpse would be feeding the vegetation, it'd be more then he ever gave in his life." The Marquis speaks aloud before he finishes off the goblet of amontillado and absconds from the scene.
After around an old man spots a haggard old man in a dense black fog. "Are you lost my fellow subject? This fog is insidious isn't it?" Lucien questions as he slows his stolen horse down to talk with the man in the fog. "He seeks you sire, he seeks his most faithful." A ghostly whisper of an old man claims, yet the man in the fog doesn't move his mouth. "What Bobbob the second? I'm not a Bob Cobbler! That's my brother Marvin!" Lucien states in confusion, thinking that the foggy man mistook him for his insane brother Viscount Marvin. "I speak not of the afflicted, I am a prophet of Kil'threx, God of Evil. You are one of the faithful. He seeks you across the seas to his first beauty my lord, he awaits Marquis Dowling at the birth of evil." The old man of the fog splutters before he collapses, fading away into red dust. "The birth of evil? His first creation is the birth of evil? An old table with magic around it is considered beauty? Depends on the woodwork really." Lucien recalls aloud before riding off to New Stratham, and from there to Bleakburn.
@The Grey Dust So you did. In hindsight, I probably should have specified a specific place to include the contact with Kil'threx - I feel like I keep missing it because I don't know where to expect it. And I'm inclined to agree with your notions about Zhystkrexas and Kil'threx; Zhyst is probably just as old as Kil'threx, though not as powerful, and I imagine his role as Harbinger will be less 'servant' and more, like, 'independent contractor'. I don't hate the idea that maybe Kil'threx's influence long, long ago had some role in Zhystkrexas becoming as dark as he is now, but that's of course up to you. In any case, you're good to post him in the characters tab.
And I think there's definitely room for Zhystkrexas and Trenton to be acquainted, especially because Trenton is well familiar with hedonism and hunger. They could have met once or twice, perhaps when Trenton made a trip to I'Zhystana - it certainly seems like the kind of place that he'd want to at least visit, even though he doesn't usually stray too far from the ocean. In that case he'd almost certainly have heard of Zhystkrexas and had an audience with him. It's just a thought - I'll let you read Trenton's full CS and get back to me, but I imagine they would have parted ways rather quickly when they realized that they had very little to gain from each other (as what remains of Trenton's soul is probably way too warped and twisted to be of any use to Zhystrexas, or maybe that would make him even more interested? Up to you).
@Orlan@MauveMarauder@Zendrelax Imma read these tonight and hopefully get back to you tonight, but if not I will tomorrow. We're nearing our eight character limit, and while so many of you are doing really good work, I don't think I'm gonna stretch that any further so that the RP doesn't get too ponderous and bloated. I really do appreciate all the interest and all the creativity that y'all are putting in, whether or not you get one of the three slots remaining.
Not a problem. I do like to throw in small things peppered into the story. Hence if it was well hidden, I have accomplished my task :)
And "Independent Contractor" indeed. Both certainly aspire to see an end of the world. Although Zhystkrexas prefers the long, slow, game. I mean as something he would say "I have hungered for eons. I can wait a few millennia for a feast." That being said, I'm sure they have a mutual agreement to get on with it, and Kil'Threx can contract Zhystkrexas' support in return for the right to devour everything and anything that falls to sate his insatiable hunger or something of that nature. That said, perhaps Zhystkrexas began as merely a motive force, that is, how hunger and desire were primal instincts that drove the universe (consider the atoms seeking to find a more stable electron configuration, etc). Then Kil'Threx somehow managed to warp the entity into something darker with his creations. Creating evil, and thus introducing hunger beyond satiation. Thus in a way I suppose Kil'Threx has "created" Zhystkrexas.
And of course Zhystkrexas would be interested in Trenton's soul. A powerful soul empowers him even more. Trenton after all, seems to be a man after Zhystkrexas' own heart. Another hedonistic rake who drinks when thirsty, eats when hungry, but for all the joys it can give him, he is still empty, and hungers for more. And Zhystkrexas, being the generous malevolence that he is, would give Trenton what he wants to indulge his friend's every wanting desire. All done such that he may get Trenton to agree, that in the unlikely event of the Pirate's death, his soul would be surrendered to Zhystkrexas, and unlike most souls trapped within his collection, be allowed to sail the seas as a collector of souls for Zhystkrexas (i.e. a Davey Jones from PotC). It's a win-win for both parties right? Zhystkrexas would offer him such an "insurance policy."
After all, Zhyst isn't a fighter but a crafty politican, a shrewd businessman, and cunning negotiator. And Good help is so hard to find these days.
So yeah...like Lizard Boss said, how do our characters all know each other again?
Maybe we all shop at EvilCo?
EvilCo. For all your Villainous needs. Join now and get a free upgrade to blacker card. We will even throw in 3 competent* henchmen and a basic Lair**
*subject to subjectivity. These henchmen have been tested in groups of hundreds through rigorous product testing. They are 98% more competent than your average henchmen, and have lifespans 50% longer to maximize utility. However EvilCo does not guarantee the competence of each individual henchmen when not placed in the presence of at least 97 incompetent henchmen as we test our products in groups of 100.
** subject to availability. Not all lairs are of equal value, and not all lairs are guaranteed to be free of any remaining artefacts from the last inhabitant of said lair. No substitutions or other offers available if member is unsatisfied with selected lair.
Name: Aborath Title: The Bloody King, The Legacy of Cain, Dread from the South, The Grave Knight
Three-word description: Elder Vampire King Appearance: Aborath will rarely reveal his physical form. But he does have one. He stands a respectable 1.80m off the ground. His skin is pale like alabaster, but with long black hair adorning his head. Many, upon first meeting Aborath, often assume he is a horrible monster. While in reality, he looks quite stunning. With alluring red eyes. Aborath's common attire is a simple black robe trimmed with red. Though he still wears a simple, black-iron crown. Showing that he is still royalty.
"Go, my brave son. But know that I will prepare your funeral the moment you pass my threshold. Know that your mother will start weeping, that I start grieving and your sibblings start missing. Go and face your quest. Only a grave awaits you here." - Last words of Turhael to his oldest son, Ysavor. Slain by the Grave Knight.
Aborath's form of a fighter is very much unlike him as he usually is. He wields two swords, fearing no wound or harm. His black armor does not hamper his movement, yet protects him fully. It is adorned with complex motives serving no more purpose other than to show that he can spent money on decorating an armor of battle. From his back, four leathered wings can spread. With talons at the joints and tips. Allowing Aborath to kill even faster than with just two swords.
Magic/Skills/Abilities: Vampire Elder - The legacy of Cain. From him, all the vampire clans have spawned. Each of his "child" was gifted with a unique set of abilities. But that means that Aborath had those abilities in the first place. As vampire elder AND heir to Cain's power himself, he can use all the Vampiric arts. These powers range from shapeshifting into a dire wolf pack or fellbat cloud, mistwalking, flying (leather wings) and blood magic. Which is one of the foulest forms of magic. Corrupting the enemy's very flesh and blood. Poisoning them from within. Blood magic often leaves one tainted or crippled for the rest of their lives if not treated with immediate care.
Soul magic - Nobody's soul is safe from Aborath. With an outstretched arm he can grasp forth towards your very being and rip it asunder. Of course, those stronger of will are harder to destroy than those who are simple of mind and idea. Death magic can also grip the heart of any creature capable of fearing. He can enhance his own allies with a terrible glow of dread, instilling terror on the nearby enemies. With Death Magic, you either die while you feel the very life force drawn from you or you flee shitting your breeches.
Immortal bladestorm - There is little doubt. Aborath has lived for many centuries. Maybe even millennia! All the while he has had different, mortal, masters. Each teaching him their unique way of how to wield a blade. The result of years of training and whole decades or refining every technique is Aborath's unrivaled skill with the blade. Humans stand no chance and even the oldest of Elven swordmasters must concede defeat at the hands of the Elder Vampire.
Inventory and holdings Grave Knight Armor - Armor crafted in the soul forge of a thousand screaming mortals. Their pain burns in the fires, their screams bellow the flames. Their eternal torment was forged in the black armor of the Grave Knight. Metal tempered in the blood of a thousand innocent victims. Aborath's armor is a manifestation of how far he's willing to go for power. Normal blades often shatter apart on it, dwarven expert forging simply bounces off. A hail of arrows feels like but drops of rain. Even magically enhanced elven swords cannot penetrate the armor. It is bloodbound to the Grave Knight. In this case, that is Aborath.
Ysavor & Saren - The Dread King acknowledges those with great skill in both magic and the sword. When he has beaten them, he drains their bodies of their souls. With their souls infused in the metal, he orders his elven and dwarven slaves to forge a new weapon. Ysavor was an elven prince daring to stand before Aborath. He put up a good fight. In fact, Aborath hadn't felt such a thrill for decades! When the battle was finally over he forged Ysavor's soul into a blade. Ysavor now hungers for souls. He prefers elven souls, though human souls may sate his appetite for a moment too. The more souls the blade consumes in a battle, the bright its runes burn and the more dangerous a wound from it comes. To the point that but if the blade so much as scratches you, the enchantment will tear open the wound into a bloody mess.
Saren was an exceptionally brave, human mage. He had a talent for light and fire magic. He too dared challenge the Grave Knight. But in a magical duel. The balls of fire thrown by Saren destroyed great parts of the palace complex. His light pierced the dark clouds over the Southern Realm and burned many vampires to their dead. Still, he was beaten down after a whole day of fighting. Now fused in his second blade, Saren's soul hungers for magical power. It seeks for mages and the forces they wield. Drawing it from the very air around him. Those who have cast spells before and get hit by Saren the very mystical energies you harness will start burning you dow. The souls of these mages, upon death by Saren, are converted in pure magical power to be utilized by Aborath. Sealed within the magebane blade.
Heidan - A once mighty dragon descended upon Aborath during his travels. After a week long of fighting, the dragon finally fell to one of the many blades of the Grave Knight. For the first and only time, Aborath was exhausted. And had no time to draw the soul from the dragon's husk. When he had regained enough power, the dragon's soul was gone. But it left a nest in its wake. Aborath took an egg and corrupted it with his Soul Magic. The dragon that spawned was black as the night. It couldn't breathe flames and still can't. Yet some say that, if you stand too close to it, the dragon's rage begins to pull at your very soul. Making you sluggish and tired and consuming it should your perish. Heidan is now the mount of Aborath. Who often rides his Black Dragon into battle.
Vierna - The city of Vierna is the capital of the vampire kingdom (or, alternatively named, the Southern Realm). Vierna is a complex and big city. Entirely self-sufficient. It was once an elven city at the edge of their great forest. But has long since been corrupted by Aborath. Vierna is the home of the Dark Court. Vierna, the city of Death is a large city with snake-like streets, large towers and gigantic estates. It is the only city protected by forces drawn from every Coven, under the command of the Dread King himself. The Dark Court is simply a council of the many different covens of Aborath. Whom all swear fealty to him. Each coven has a speciality tied to their bloodline. Within Vierna's Courtroom there are 11 different thrones. One is the black throne of Aborath. Though this one is even less used than the throne room one. Then there are 2 empty ones. Yet still stained with blood. Two ancient covens once tried to rebel against Aborath. They were swiftly put to the sword.
Sons of Aborath - Children specifically chosen by Aborath. While they aren't Coven grandmasters, the Sons of Aborath are among the strongest vampires in existence. Each possessing one gift or another. The sons of Aborath are an elite fighting force capable of cutting down even the most trained human fighters and weathered elven rangers. Often centuries old, sons of Aborath are chosen from among the living that show exceptional talent, loyalty and hunger for power. The sons of Aborath often ride to battle on bloodied steeds with black and red armor. Their blades can sometimes be heard screaming for blood.
Myth They say that long ago there was a great darkness. Cain, a young, foolish warrior, desired immortality so he could feel the heat of battle forever. The god of Death had witnessed his pleas so often while he took away the souls from the battlefield, that upon a very faithful day he gave Cain his wish. But at the same time he cooled his sense for battle. Suddenly it did not matter if he was fighting an honorable battle or slaughtering an entire village of women and children. The only thing that gave him any sense was the cold touch of death. So he caused as much of it as possible. Aborath was a great and noble warrior of the Order of the Sun. He rode out alone to stand against Cain. Some say that Cain defeated him, but with a bite and thus created his first and only child. Others say that Aborath and Cain struck a deal. A few would even claim that Aborath IS in fact Cain. No-one knows.
Cain had vanished. In his place now stood Aborath. Who was not as consumed with death as his master, but still felt the need to cause it greatly. He learned that the cry for murdered hid the hunger for souls. So he began to develop a form of magic that drew out the hunger for souls and manifested it in spells. Some say that during his research into Soul Magic he met the god of the death. Others say that the death god simply granted him a boon for his long travels through the known and unknown world. Whatever it was, Aborath came back from his research with both Void Magic and Soul Magic. He entered a southern kingdom of elven and began to corrupt them. Battle after battle, night after night the covens of Aborath took over more ground from the elven kingdom. Every day more joined the immortal's ranks. Either out of fear or hunger for power. Disloyalty was punished harsh and painful, while loyalty within the army was greatly rewarded. The elven, realizing that they were fighting a losing battle, began an attempt to cast a barrier to contain such evil. They already assumed that their kingdom would inevitably fail. So they were going to bind the vampires to the land. Should they dare corss the borders the barrier would kill them. Accounts are rather difficult to retrace from here. Some say that they used a drop of Aborath's blood. Others say they used one of his children. Directly linked to him. Whatever it was, it was a mistake. When Aborath sensed the spell being cast, he sped up his efforts. His army marched towards the elven capital of Vierna. The siege itself was, by all accounts, one of the bloodiest battles in the south. When the mages neared the end of their incantations Aborath managed to breach their room. Half the elven mages were killed on sight. Their blood devoured by the sons of Aborath. The other half tried to fight back, but to no avail. They were captured, and Aborath finished what they started. But instead of making the vampiric blood the mark of those who could not leave, he made it the key of the barrier. Only those with vampire blood within them could ever leave the Southern Kingdom. Thuse he chained the surviving population to his will.
Since his victory over the elven kingdom, Aborath had remained there. Watching over his kingdom from anywhere but his throne room. But should a worthy warrior or mage dare enter his throne room and challenge the empty throne, he will appear on it in a moment's notice. Holding Saren & Ysavor.
Personality: Aborath hates everything except for his own children. The vampires. Killing one, and you will suffer the wrath of the Grave Knight. He sees humans and elves as life-stock. Cattle that should be kept in pens and fed every now and then so they can continue to feed the vampires. It is their only reason to live, so he sees elven and human kingdoms as stupid little squablers who sitll resist their fate.
But then what is the fate of the vampire? To fight and cause as much death as possible. Maybe a genocide. But there must always be death. You cannot go and kill the entire city because then nobody would die after you pretty much killed everyone. So why not chain them? Hold them and every year you sacrifice a hundred of their children. The souls and blood over the years heap up and up. Over a hundred years you've caused more death than any genocide could achieve. This is what he believes in. Those who succeed to both conquer with great slaughter but govern with a steady flow of souls and corpses earn the favor Aborath. Those who resist their fate and destiny in any way are sure to have angered him. He has no use for material wealth, as for a thousands-years-old vampire he has had it all, lost it all and had it again.
"I come for you! I have come, King of blood! Show yourself!" the cocky elven prince yelled as he threw open the great, oaken doors of the empty throne room. At the other side stood Aborath's throne. A vile chair adorned with screaming visages and skulls. "Show yourself, demon!" the enraged prince yelled. It drew the members of the Dark Court from their slumber, as they began to walk the corridors. Like blood traveling in veins around a beating heart so did the Dark Court travel towards the heart of all corridors: the balcony within the throne room. Another fool had called out their master. It had been so long since one worthy tried to summon him. But this elven prince held promise. With red, peering eyes they gazed down at the unafraid prince.
With an explosion of smoke, Aborath appeared on his throne. Holding Saren in his right hand. "What... do you want." he asked. He wasn't wearing his Grave Knight armor yet. Those of the Court knew he would summon the second he deemed the elven prince worthy. "I have come to challenge evil itself!" the noble elven prince raised his sword, pointing at Aborath. "You, vile thing! I heard stories that will fight anyone who dares challenge you. I challenge you!" Aborath rose from his throne. With every step the black armor began to form around him. Out of thin air apparently. He went from a simple king, dressed in robes to a might dreadknight ready for battle. "You... are worthy."
The battle was long yet not a moment passed when the Court was not amused. Servants were passed along, getting bitten to drain them from their blood. While below a champion of good clashed with the powers of evil. The elf had come prepared. With an enchanted sword, several spells and potions. His wounds healed instantly with every touch from Saren. Despite the Grave Knight's enchantment upon his blade, he could not burn away the magical power of the elf. But eventually, after long hours, Saren found Ysavor's heart. With a gasp the elven prince let out his final breath and perished. The bloody red blade's promise to devour Ysavor's soul was stopped by Aborath. Who, instead, pulled a crystal phylactery and let it drain the soul of Ysavor. Thuse his second blade was to be formed.
Days passed in the undead their kingdom. It has been a few years now, since last Ysavor entered the dread palace of Vierna. The throne room hasn’t echoed with blades clashing for a while now, and the Dark Court had entered a slumber. Days, weeks, months. For immortals, time could go so slow sometimes. With no haste or time running out, daily things became either a ritual, but far more often a boring obligation. Until the heave, black-oaken doors cracked open again. The sudden surge of power woke up even those deepest in their torpor. A figure in black robes, hooded and holding a gnarled staff in his right hand marched within the throne room. Once more like blood the Dark Court poured into the balcony. Such power, they were intrigued, they hungered for it. But at the same time, it instilled their hearts with a once distant sensation: fear. What could harness such power!? Even worse, would it be capable of striking down their lord?
“I summon the King of Blood.” The hooded figured said. Before the black, empty throne. Once more did Aborath appeared. Dressed in his royal robes and circlet-crown. But without his blades at his side. “A power marches into my hall. State your business, wraith.” The words were cautious, but not disrespectful. “I am but a messenger, Grave Knight.” The creature said, with a hoarse throat. He pulled a scroll from his robes and held it out. From the high up canopy of the hall a fellbat swooped down and grabbed the scroll. Flying straight at its master with it and handing it over before it flew up again. Back to its stupor. Silently Aborath read the message. It was written in a language Aborath barely even remembered. The letters were written in a tongue even ancient back in his human days. But he could read it, and the use of that language added to the legitimacy of the scroll’s acclaimed writer. When he was done, he walked up to a nearby hearth and threw the scroll in it. Making sure it burned all the way down to ashes. He then turned to the strange messenger. “Tell your master I will attend his meeting.”
Alright, so, I've reviewed all the CS submissions I've gotten so far, and I've made my decision about which three are going to be accepted. This doesn't necessarily mean that these were the best or that the ones I'm not taking aren't as good, but I think these three fit the theme of the RP the best and will be the most interesting to play with. I do appreciate all the good work that everyone else put in, and I hope you'll continue to look for a home for your villainous urges.
Anyway, the three I'm taking are @Zendrelax, @Legion02, and @FrozenPhoenix (who submitted his CS via PM). I think these characters fit the world and the themes of the RP the best, and I was pretty impressed by the level of detail these guys went into, so... y'all are in. I have completely run out of steam for this 'secret part of the CS hidden in the rules' business, so just make sure a mention of how Kil'threx contacted your character is somewhere in the sheet before you post it in the characters tab (if it already is, cool, go ahead).
So here's what's gonna happen now: I'm gonna have lunch and then make the Locations tab, where I'll start by pasting the descriptions of places we already have and then we can add more in the future. After that, I'll make the first post in the IC, which will be about my character arriving at the meeting place Kil'threx specified to them (a ruined cottage in the middle of the woods in the outskirts of Melaron). After everyone else makes an introductory post, we'll proceed and the story will begin.
To answer your question, @TheWindel, most of our characters will be meeting each other for the first time there - but if anyone thinks that their character might have history with another (like Trenton and Zyrthrexas), then that could be fun to work out. Oh, also, @The Grey Dust; I like that idea. I like it very much.
Alright, get excited folks, we're in the final countdown to evil kickoff!
When not adorned with his spectral armor Deos often takes the appearance of a human, clad often in dark colored dress clothes, favoring blacks and reds above all else. His hair is often unkempt and generally messy with the color changing between black and red depending on what shade he feels like wearing. His eyes are one very curious part about him that shows the world he is no human as they are pure black with nothing but a red iris to denote any change in color. That however is not the strangest thing that sets him apart from mortal men. The strangest is the cut on his neck from when he was beheaded ages ago, healed by foul magic and wicked ways, but still containing the black stitching that once held the two together.
For his frame he holds a rather lithe and toned body, despite his supernatural strength. His skin is a rather tan hue and with a well-kept complexion again despite his rather dark or aggressive life. Particularly interesting about that same bit of information is that his body is near devoid of scars or blemishes despite his beheading mark, again despite his incredibly violent life. Not because he doesn’t take injury but because he heals himself from any harm his foes deal him, even going so far as to take away the scarring as he doesn’t particularly like the blemishing of his body. The only reason he keeps the neck scar is because he believes it gives him some character and wears it almost as a morbid necklace. Finally are his oversized demon wings that stretch out of his back. Bat wings with black bone structure with red internal membranes they clearly show that he is no angel. Even with their size he has incredible control over them, allowing him to almost use them as hands herding and wrapping his large wingspan around things or people.
When dressed in his “normal” clothing his entire look drastically changes. Clad in dark armored plates that envelope his entire frame with skulls, chains, and horns placed all around the set. His visage of burning armor that spills forth Hellfire from joints, eyes, and creases spins a daunting image for any foe to face. Spaces in the back make room for his massive wings to unfurl and grow to allow him to move swiftly as well as take to the skies despite the armor. His armor is equipped with long claws at the end of each finger that he uses to rend and tear at foes as well as claw and break apart obstacles.
Being the Sovereign of battle, bloodshed, and war Deos ‘ powers revolve around fire and strength. His body is capable of withstanding incredible amounts of trauma having his frame be naturally durable under his magical and powerful armor. His strength is something to be feared, striking with a force though cleaves through bodies and fortifications much as a siege engine would. Letting him lay waste to man, defense, and ground before him. His magic is incredible powerful but just as powerful as it is, it is also focused. His repertoire of spells is low leaving him with the domain of casting powerful blasts and rays of fire that surge from his body.
Similarly for his destructive fire he has to ability to make a vicious transformation into a malicious and incredible powerful Demon Lord. Taking the shape of a burning beast that sheds his wings for another pair of arms, augmenting his strength and magical power in exchange for his speed and ability to fly.
He also contains within him the power of rapid regeneration allowing him to survive and continue to wage war despite taking on grieves wounds and savage injuries. On the topic of healing he is also immortal having very little that can keep him down. Whenever he takes enough damage that would warrant him to “die” he is taken back to his realm of Hell to recover over a span of time.
To reach his realm he has to ability to strike the air before him to rip open portals to and from his lands to not only get himself home, but also take others and bring forth his armies to lay siege. The range of scale of these portals require more time depending on the size, making small single person portals have an instantaneous cast, while large army sized ones can take up to several hours to bring forth.
His final power is that of war domain. His armies and monsters of war all share a large link that he creates to feed them instruction from no matter where he is. He can also use this power to augment a soldier or beast of his with his own strength to assume control over them and fight through them. That particular part only works for those of whom he has domain over however. To assert his domain he can twist and bend any captured prisoners of war or beast to understand the beauty of battle and the pleasure of war.
Items and Equipment:
His sword Omen. This powerful demonic blade is crafted from the nearly indestructible metals taken from his domain and forged in searing Hellfires that temper the blade to be a force of absolute devastation. One key feature of his blade is that he can summon and banish it at will, letting him take arms at the mere flick of a wrist.
His armor is also forged in the same fashion as his sword and much like his sword he can summon and banish it letting the metal seep around him to encase him in his garb and raise him from his usual height of 6 feet to a standing height of 11 feet.
Estates and Realms:
His realm of Yirathlx is a land of war... Battle can always be heard echoing around the streets and fields of the realm, though instead of war and conflict it's training and practice for both current and future battles. All around are fires and pyres burning brightly into the eternal night that envelopes the sky. The obsidian and stone of the city glistens from the dancing light and glint of steel. To many this would be a picture of horror and fuel for nightmares, but for Deos it is a beauty that must be brought to the world so they too may enjoy the splendor of war.
Deos' home and castle in the centre of his space of battle is the great Hall of Conflict. Surging up high into the sky he has the view to watch over his entire domain and collect all of his spoils and pleasures of war. Keeping his personal quarters as well as his treasure halls filled fit to burst with gold, silver, gems, and other things he values as trophies. Inside the castle is immaculate, showing off a vain side of him that clearly depicts his love of beauty in greed as well as warm with tapestries of past battles and standing armors of countless nations and ages all lines up down the long hallways.
Servants and Beasts:
Among the realm and armies of Deos are hundreds of thousands of dedicated soldiers from many races that he has collected from over the ages. Many are human but some are abnormal... Some standing 8 feet tall with horns and sharp fangs, others with wings and a regal air. All of them having one thing in common, an undying loyalty to their lord of mayhem.
To augment his armies of men are his beasts of war, ranging from living tanks with grafted catapults on their backs, to massive siege beasts that lay waste to walls and armies alike with their massive arms, large goring tusks, and hungry bloodlust. Yet still to take the skies he was winged creatures that range from human sized bats to large airborne monsters that threaten to lift buildings off the ground with their many rending claws and lashing tendrils.
Stories are told of a man who a long time ago dedicated his life to war. Growing up as a knight who cared not for any code of honor or fair maiden to rescue. Instead he drew pleasure from slaughter and joy from carnage. Seeing his foes lay in bloody heaps before him were the only sight he wished for...
Through his lust for battle he commit atrocity after atrocity and battle after battle, until he met his match. The kingdom of Mirath was glorious nation that stood against his home of Nyiara. Only it wasn't as things seemed. Nyiara's army governed by their queen, Lady Amsel grew to distrust and see the monster that Deos was. It was then they sent him away to meet his end in one final battle with an enemy he would all to happily fight. Leading his contingent into a fight that he could never win. Outnumbered beyond count and surrounded he refused to relent, fighting till his body couldn't handle it any longer and he was taken prisoner. Set to be executed the day of his defeat he was met with the axe. Though instead of admitting defeat and relenting he laughed at his accusers and spoke the fateful words, "You have not seen the last of war." Only to be stroke down with a single blow, making his head roll away from his frame.
His words however spoke true as when he was cast away from the living world he found... something. A voice in the darkness that guide him, taking his soul to a long forgotten realm that he named Yirathlx. Finding a home in this desolate land away from the afterlife he fought against the clawing forces of insanity and the boring existence of a life without battle. He recovered and found his form, growing to return back to the world that cut him down and cast him out. However he was not a mortal man anymore...
Bursting forth in a flush of Hellfire and black smoke the monster that Deos Risleth had become surged back from the pits of Hell to slaughter and kill once again, taking in followers, prisoners, and slaves for his own benefit and pleasure. He was unstoppable, and upon finding both Mirath and Nyiara allied after the fall of the monster, he flew into a new war against his former home and enemy, laying waste to them with his supernatural strength and power. Taking as many as he could manage prisoner to corrupt them into his loyal soldiers, bringing them back to a force that was finally directed to the truth... glorious, neverending war.
Deos is the lord of conflict so it's safe to assume he enjoys the pleasure of a sword in hand, but it's not all he is of. War also generates spoils and treasures that he also embodies and enjoys. So more often than not he can be seen with slaves, women, gold, and silver within arms reach.
This has given him a almost conflicting personality that changes depending on if his armor is on or not. When not garbed in plate he takes on a cocky and lighthearted air that cares more for pleasure and drink than blood and metal. However, on the other end of the spectrum he can switch to wanting nothing more than to hear the screams of tortured souls and the clang of sword on sword. Some times this can be almost bipolar in nature having him at a drop of a hat go from enjoying a drink with some of his slaves or consorts to breaking the bottle on the table and goring one. This in turn has given him a rather unstable and crazy reputation.
Burning fires and screams were all that couldn't be heard from down below. Deos had found another bastion of human life, erected to show the world that they had grown to a position of power and progress. However, that wasn't a good thing. They built their world on peace and negotiation which was disgusting and a true atrocity that had to be purged from the world...
In his hand was their king, Lord Bertrand, desperately clutching at the metal hand holding him on his knees, making him look out over the balcony of his own palace to see the slaughter before him, "Isn't it beautiful..." Deos started to say, letting the reverberation from his head radiate out, "All the blood, all the swords, all the warriors creating their art and preforming their dance. It's a wonder and a fleeting pleasure."
Just as he finished a massive tusked war beast, trampled through a collection of Haran warriors who were desperately trying to protect a makeshift barricade. The beast used his tusks to gut and smash several of them letting their strikes glance and barely scratch it's thick hide.
Nearby another barricade was holding out against the soldiers of Deos' army, slashing and thrusting at them with swords and spears. It seemed as though they were winning as no Haranian was getting hurt from behind their tipped carts and falling beams. "You will pay for this you monster!" Lord Bertrand said to the armored man behind him. However his words only brought the sword closer to his neck.
"You call me a monster. I disagree. I am but a humble man, bringing joy to the lives of mortals." He said, watching as the Haranians continued to to repel his soldiers. "Look and see my work, the joy they feel for working together and fighting against their foes." He continued and just a few moments later they started to crumble. Several brutes of Deos' approached the barricade and struck at it, letting their defense start to crumble to let the soldiers advance, turning the tide in an instant. "They had the pleasure of dying happy. Won't you let yourself have the same joy?" He finished looking down to the lord.
"Fuck yo..." Was all he managed before a squelching sound could be hear as Deos clenched his fist, crushing his head like an overripe grape, letting Bertrand's hot blood wash over his fingers. Watching his body slump to the ground he smiled under his helm watching the Siege of Haran come to a bloody close.
It was another day in Yirathlx and particularly in the Hall of Conflict. Deos was doing nothing particularly important, merely watching his wine swirl in his ornate, golden cup. Off to each side was a consort that he had chosen for the day and before him was a series of prisoners being brought through for him to pass judgement on. For each new soul he cast out his free hand and warped them to suit his needs, giving them the gifts of war and the joys that follow. Though the process wasn't gentle the end result made each and every man or woman leave with a wicked smile on their now twisted face.
The next was a young woman, tall and strong, raised right from whatever military she served in before her fateful battle against Deos' hordes. Bound in chains and forced forward at spear point by two of his Court Guard. Deos looked at her with blank eyes, gauging where she would be most useful, but seeing what she was and where she came from would make turning her into a consort of slave a waste of her talent. Instead he raised his hand to turn her into a loyal soldier, but something happened...
There was a call that rang in Deos' mind, a familiar force he hadn't felt in a very long time. Pausing in his ceremony his eyes began to glaze over, entering a sort of trance that confused all present in his Burning Court. His consorts looks to him and pressed their bodies against his thinking something was wrong, while his Court Guards pressed their spears into the prisoner in the event she was the cause of their master's distress. When in his trance, he left his court mentally to peer into the void from which the call came and everything was foreign once more, but deep down it felt familiar, as though he'd been there before.
Nothing was clear, save one thing. That voice. Standing before something so overwhelming was a strange feeling but one that Deos reveled in, such power, such glory, it was beautiful... Hearing the force speak brought chills to him and while the words made no sense to him, in his mind the meaning and drive was made clear. A reason, location, and time was given to his mind and upon the end of the event he returned to his Burning Court. Eyes returning and coming back filled with drive he pushed away both of the consorts and stood up quickly. "Take care of the rest of the prisoners." He said in a curt and almost excited manner. Putting his ornate cup to his lips to took one last big gulp before tossing it to the side, spilling his wine on the searing obsidian that made up the floor beneath his grand throne of Hell-Steel, gold, silver, and fire, making the liquid fizzle and steam away in moments. He was quick to leave, walking with a purpose out of the court to get ready for this meeting of minds that he was promised.
So I noticed that you have the Locations segment up and running on the OP. I feel like I should probably get to writing some stuff for Aesir's realm now.
Edit: Or are you just pulling descriptions from what we've already written in our CSs?
2x Laugh
