Name: Vasan Greyward
Titles: Stripped of title as Count
Aliases: Falk
Age: 30 at time of death
Race/Ethnicity: Former human, current skeleton
Continent of Origin: Vicelles
Gender: Male
Class/Subclass: Monster Hunter
Strength: 11
Dexterity: 14
Constitution: 20
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom: 14
Charisma: 4
Height: 6’0
Weight: 31.5 lbs
Appearance Description: Once a handsome roguish royal, Falk has since taken a turn for the worse. His charismatic smile is now locked in a harsh rictus grin, but his teeth are still as white and straight as ever. Falk’s flowing locks of blonde hair have fallen out, exposing an unnaturally shiny scalp free of wrinkles, save for a few curious cracks. The hunter's eyes, admittedly dark and brooding, have taken on a more lifeless and empty quality as of late. Falk once stood ramrod straight, but tends to hunch now, and lacks that youthful pride in his step; perhaps the result of his striking weight loss over the years. The most striking chance the disgraced royal has undergone is the complete loss of flesh and skin, his body stripped down to almost nothing. In short, Falk’s a skeleton. Clothes hang loosely off of him, he creaks and groans while moving, and has a lot of trouble with the ladies. His skeleton is cracked and chipped throughout, as if it had been broken and mended countless times.
Day To Day Attire: Falk doesn’t change clothes too often. Its hard enough to get his current outfit to sit snugly on his skeletal frame, as he stuffs them full of cloth and cotton to fill them out to resemble a human shape and muffle the noise his bones make. Falk typically wears sturdy, but simple leather and cloth clothes, with every inch of his body covered, complete with a flowing green cloak. Despite his best efforts, Falk's clothes still appear oversized and ill-fitting. His head gear is particularly interesting; Falk wraps his skull in cloth, wears a hood with a tri-corner cap, and has a curious steel mask strapped tightly to his face. The two eye slits are covered by a light black mesh, preventing those who come close from seeing his empty eye sockets.
Strengths: - Swordsman
- Well-Traveled
- Quick
Weaknesses:- Feared by animals
- Vulnerable to Magic
- Immune to healing spells and potions
- Bludgeoning weapons
- Ostracized by society
- Standoffish
* Sardonic * Bitter * Ascetic * Just *
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Falk is a shadow of the charming, boisterous man he once was, but some who had been on the wrong side of his blade might argue this change is for the best. The hunter once rejoiced in the company of others, but now takes comfort only in solitude, knowing that anyone who grows close to him will cast him out upon discovering his true nature. However, as much as he may deny it, Falk still craves intimacy and human contact, which is why he haunts taverns, city streets, and other crowded areas. Here, he is able to have some sort of normalcy where he can blend into a crowd, which is enough sometimes. Still, Falk craves a deeper connection, perhaps a friendship or romance, but knows the latter is utterly impossible. As a man who once based so much of his worth on his appearance, becoming a walking corpse has left him insecure of his body, and not nearly as confident as he once was, though his biting wit still emerges every once in a while. When he speaks, he is typically cynical, with a morbid sense of humor that few enjoy. His failure as a captain has also left him hesitant to take on any roles even remotely close to being a leader; he works under someone, but more often than not, he works alone.
Falk’s moral compass is rather broken. He recognizes his the err of his ways in the past, out of both self-reflection and in the hopes that it might lift his curse, but struggles with day-to-day morality. Senseless murder, thievery, and other harsh crimes he opposes, and will do his best to protect those affected by these. Whether it is out of the goodness of his non-existent heart, guilt from his past, or an attempt to lift the curse even he doesn’t know. However, he also resents people who indulge in excess, like drunkards and those of a promiscuous proclivity. He despises them not out of any moral superiority, but from sheer jealousy. Falk once lived for these base pleasures, but now they are denied to him. Still, he loves gambling, and frequently wins or loses his whole coin purse at a tavern table. Other little pleasures, like whittling, music, and his raven, Grey, help soothe his growing depression, but even these activities bring him a tinge of sorrow. His skeletal hands can no longer whittle as well, he cannot play his flute without lips, and the raven is one of the few animals that will approach him.
However, one thought is almost constantly on his mind, and that is restoring his body to the way it once was. Falk is terrified of the decay he has undergone, and fears that soon his mind may begin to rot as well. His free time is taken up reading any material he can on curses, investigating anyone from his past he wronged, and attempting to discover what infernal beast slayed him in Merry Mist. Ironically, Falk’s obsessive behavior threatens to drive him mad faster than the ravages of time.
Habits:- Clacking his jaw
- Connecting and disconnecting body parts
Hobbies: Whittling, reading, keeping a journal, flute-playing, fishing, dancing, card games, and falconry. Many of his hobbies have been made either difficult or impossible due to his now-skeletal form.
Fears: - Going mad
- Hags
- Meeting those he wronged
Likes: - Nature
- Solitude
- Music
- Poetry
- Reading
- Cold Weather
Dislikes: 6 minimal
- Excess
- Unneeded Violence
- Thievery
- Mages
- Royalty
- Alcohol
- A Bunch of Bones: Falk’s body is held together with nothing more than potent magic. He is able to connect and disconnect bits of bone at will and can control these body parts independently. Falk is also capable of “feigning death” by entirely collapsing his skeleton and appearing as nothing more than a pile of bones and cloth.
- Dark Vision: Though his eyes were long ago ripped from their sockets by his now-trusty avian companion, Falk is still able to see as well as any other human thanks to his curse. Unfortunately, he can no longer see color, only in black and white. Falk also has adequate night vision, able to see in complete darkness, albeit in shades of grey.
- Skeletal Swordplay: Once one of the greatest swordsmen in Vicelles, Falk’s skills with bladed weapons are now greatly reduced, but he remains a formidable opponent. He prefers large, two-handed swords like zweihanders to keep his opponents at a distance while he thrusts and swipes. Unfortunately, his greatly reduced stature sets him at a disadvantage with a large sword, and he now opts for a smaller sword, but Falk is still adapting to this drastic change.
- Filthy Friends: Though most animals, as well as humans, are repulsed by Falk’s undead presence, scavenger animals are unusually affectionate towards him. Creatures that feed off carrion, like vultures, flies, and even some mammals like opossum are drawn towards his dark aura like moths to a flame, and some might even defend him without prompt. He can also walk undetected among the undead, unless a necromancer has ordered their minions to kill anything on sight.
- Lightweight: Falk is nowhere near as strong as he once was, but he has found that his new body, no longer burdened by flesh and guts, is surprisingly light and quick; were it not for the incessant creaking his bones made, he would make an excellent thief. Falk can run faster, jump further, and dodge more swiftly than before.
- Magical Locomotion: As an undead, Falk is powered solely by the mysterious force that binds his bones together. He does not require, nor can he enjoy, food, drink, or rest. He does need to meditate four hours every 24 hours to refocus the magic which allows him to exist; if Falk fails to make time to rest, he will simply collapse and spend five hours in an inert state. Casting spells adds a heavy tax upon him depending on the strength of the magic, and the same applies for any spells cast at him. Being forcibly dismembered, crushed, or otherwise damaged also requires some meditation to restore the weakened bonds.
- Control Animal: Falk’s ability to control animals is limited to certain kinds, mostly smaller creatures that feed off carrion or are associated with dark magic and death; rats, flies, ravens, spiders, and vultures to give a few examples. However, he is able to control these nearby creatures for brief periods of time, and there is seemingly always one nearby him. Falk can either have the animal defend him, or use the controlled creature to examine his surroundings, and he is able to get a good sense of what the creature sees; people, significant land formations, temperatures, and other basic sensations an animal can sense. The latter spell is much more taxing, and takes longer to cast.
- Terrifying Visions: A quick-casting spell with little taxation on Falk, this illusion can fool weaker minds into believing they are being assailed by some horrible creatures or disease. Some might think their flesh is peeling off, while others imagine themselves covered in insects. The spell’s effect is very short.
- Corpse Chat: For a brief period, Falk is able to transfer some of the energy which binds him together to a recently deceased corpse to speak with it. The connection is incredibly frail, and the tortured soul is often too confused to say anything coherent, often shouting out their last words. Additionally, the spell is extremely taxing on Falk, making him very hesitant to ever use it.
Possessions Generally On Person: Clothing, coin purse, money, etc
- Coin Purse: A rough leather coin purse containing a little gold.
- Playing Cards: A standard deck of playing cards.
- Grey: An unusually large raven that perches itself on Falk’s shoulders. The bird is older, missing its left eye, and has a tendency to croak out random words. Falk has tried to shoo the bird off in the past, but it always returned.
Weapons:- Bastard Sword: Falk sold his elegant zweihander for this simple, hand-and-a-half sword, partly because it was unassuming, but also because his former weapon had become too unwieldly in his diminished form. The steel sword is 44 inches long, weighing 7 pounds with a v-shaped cross guard, but is also imbued with a streak of silver to give it some effectiveness against the undead. The weapon typically hangs from a black sheath at Falk’s belt.
- Dagger: A small dagger tucked into Falk’s boot.
- Crossbow: Falk carries this battered, medium-sized oak crossbow slung across his back. He isn’t the best shot with it, but he can load it without bracing the weapon against the ground, and quite quickly too. Falk carries a quiver with 15 steel bolts.
Armor: - Leather Coat: A heavy leather coat, once elegantly embroidered, now faded and patched together with Falk's awkward stitching. The coat is fashioned in the traditional military style of Vicelles, ending high on the elbows.
- Gauntlet: Two leather gloves with the left hand covered by a fully articulated steel gauntlet. It appears to be of Carthean origin, and likely once very expensive, though this one is is quite battered.
- Gorget: A thick steel piece of armor that protects Falk's collar bone and throat, typically mostly obscured by a scarf or cloak.
- Leather Boots: Heavy black boots. Good to protect against brambles and scratches, not much else.
Pack Contents: - Journal: A ragged leather-bound journal detailing all of Falk’s thoughts and travels. The book’s pages are almost all filled up, and there is a noticeable deterioration in the quality of handwriting and diagrams towards the end.
- Compass: A cheap brass compass that is beginning to turn green.
- Whetsone: A small stone used to sharpen blades upon.
- Family Sigil Ring: While he no longer wears the ring, Falk still carries it as a morbid memento. The ring is crafted from quality silver, and bears a flaming chalice backed with blue and red jewels.
- Flute: Once an ornately crafted wooden flute, this instrument has been battered and bruised. It still functions, but could use some varnish.
- Whittling Knife and Wood: A small block of basswood half-carved into a bullet shape, along with a small knife.
- Sewing Kit: A needle, thread, and a few patches of cloth Falk uses to repair his clothing when needed.
History:Vasan always had something of a chip on his shoulder. Born in the tumultuous kingdom Vicelles as the the third son of Dragan, Count of House Greyward, Vasan had little say in his fate from the moment he left the womb of his lifeless mother. His house practiced a strict law of inheritance, where the first son was groomed to become lord of the house, and all others expected expected to join the Shimmermist Knights at Fort Stag to combat the cursed mist which engulfed the land. His eldest brother, Samo, was a fair deal older, and was always too busy with lordly matters to attend to his younger siblings, much like their father. The second son, Yaron, was still seven years older than Vasan, but had a more playful, mischievous air about him. The young Vasan received a pampered upbringing, doted over by servants and nurses, though with his mother dead and father perpetually absent. Dragan, a second son who inherited the throne after the assassination of his older brother late in life, was a soldier through and through, and spent most of his time training with his oldest child; the Count did not have much stomach for the tomes his younger children were expected to read to become Shimmermist Knights. Unfortunately, Vasan showed little proclivity towards books and magic either, as he much preferred to watch his older brother train with sword and shield in the castle courtyard. In the night, Vasan would slip out of his room and clumsily swing the massive weapons around, hacking and slashing at imaginary fog monsters. When Yaron left to join the Shimmermist, Vasan's fantasies continued to soar about his future with the watchful hunters.
Vasan was only a 15 year old boy when he was sent to join his new comrades at Fort Stag; the child suspected his father sent him away as he’d grown tired of his pleads to become a soldier like his brother. His instructors drilled him with monster-hunting methods, spells, and training from the instant he set foot within the fort above the fog, though he was largely kept separate and treated much more favorably than his fellow recruits given his status, possibly thanks to his Yaron, who kept an eye on his brother. Gone was the charming youth Vasan once knew. Yaron was now more serious, brooding even, but he still cared deeply for his family. Vasan slowly learned the dark secrets of the new order he was inducted into. Forbidden blood magic, dark rituals, and even human sacrifices were regular occurrences in the fort. After only two years of modest training, the young noble was made squire to an amateur monster hunter named Rorik, a former peasant from house Driskell’s rule whose family was killed by hags. Rorik had completed his squire training, but hadn’t yet taken the ritual which inducted one as a Blood Warden, the official rank at which one entered the inner circle of the Shimmermist Knights. The two set off into the clouded countryside of Vicelles in search of monsters, and it was not long before they found one. A nearby village was being plagued by a fiendish hag who dwelled in the nearby swamp. The track was almost too easy to pick up, and the pair delved into the hag’s lair. Vasan watched in fright as Rorik fought the creature, joining in only too late as the hag mortally wounded the monster hunter as he swung the finishing blow. Vasan carted the two corpses back to Fort Stag, claiming the trophy as his own. Both Vasan and the hag’s body were taken to a part of the fort unknown to him, where he was told by Captain Lucien Driskell that they would conduct an ancient ritual that bound his flesh to that of the beast, so he could hunt them with ease. Already, Vasan was disillusioned by the life of a Shimmermist Knight. From what he’d seen, they lived short, brutish existences, with little glory or pleasure, but the thought of binding himself to that of a monster made him sick. Vasan escaped from Fort Stag, knowing he would be hunted by the order for the rest of his life, but refusing to take part in such debased rituals, the ones that so terribly changed his brother.
Vasan knew that he could not return home to Moonshire at the moment, but perhaps if he made a name for himself as a soldier, his father would accept him and the honor he brought to House Greyward. He travelled to the frozen lands of Viguard and found himself at the massive wooden gates of the Lanzknecht encampment. He’d read stories about the legendary mercenary group as a boy; they broke the siege at Redcliffe, lead the charge against Ashala Tylvus and her dragon at the Battle of Brittle Sands, and countless other daunting achievements in combat. If Vasan were to earn his father’s respect, no place would be better than among the ranks of the flamboyantly dressed Lanzknecht Company. The youth desperately wanted in, but the mercenaries apparently didn’t feel the scrawny boy was worthy. The guard at the gate turned him away without so much as a second glance. Having come so far, Vasan was not willing to take no for an answer. The nobleman stood before the gate for days, with no food and only the hard-packed snow as both a bed and drink. He was near freezing when the guard finally let him in, perhaps out of admiration for his grit, or maybe out of pity. Vasan’s lofy imagination had determined he would be handed a uniform and sword, but instead he was handed a mop and bucket. For six months the nobleman was degraded and humiliated, mopping floors and cleaning after the mercenaries before he was finally allowed to train with the other new recruits. He thought his noble lineage would earn him favor amongst the captains, but his title only gave him ridicule. One captain in particular, a dark, scarred man called Falk, rode Vasan harder than the others. He would spar with the youth every night, though it could hardly be called that; he would smack Vasan with the flat of his blade at every mistake he made in their fight, leaving him with more welts than any other recruit. Falk told him every day to go home and it would be over, back to his cushy castle in Vicelles, and some days Vasan considered simply returning the Moonshire, but he never did. After two grueling years, Vasan was finally inducted into the ranks of the Lanzknecht.
Vasan served under Captain Falk for two years, which he now cites as the happiest days of his life. In this relative peace time, there was not as much glory and coin to be found, but the battalion of mercenaries lacked neither, fighting in local skirmishes against bandits and warring states. He grew to love the adventuring life, carrying only your belongings on your back with little knowledge of what tomorrow will bring. Vasan rose through the ranks, but no faster than any other man; though Captain Falk had eased up on him, the scarred man still held him to a higher standard than any other soldier. Eventually, Vasan was promoted to Falk’s lieutenant, his second-in-command. He’d never been prouder in his life. Vasan commanded the respect of his men not through his title, but from his actions and deeds. The thought crossed his mind that he could return to his father, now a strong, rugged warrior, but he realized that the desire for Dragan’s approval was no longer there, as he had found in Captain Falk.
After a short year, the captain retired, bestowing command of the battalion to Vasan. He served with distinction, upholding the reputation of the elite Lanzknecht mercenaries, and perhaps for a time elevating it. Vasan led by example, be cutting down foes with his massive zweihander or drinking and bedding wenches at the local tavern. Unfortunately, only three years into his career as captain, work became increasingly scarce; that, or Vasan grew hungry for more coin. He lead the company down a different path, at first simply extorting money from passing caravans while travelling to a new job, but it soon became much more. Raiding villages, taking prisoners to ransom or sell into slavery, and killing any soldiers bold enough to try and stop them. Though bandits, the men lived like royalty, and crowned Vasan their king, The Grey Prince. For four years the Lanzknecht ran free through Ithea, but they always avoided Vicelles; perhaps out of respect, or maybe out of fear, Vasan had always kept them far away from the dark kingdom. However, as times grew lean, and the bounty on his head grew higher and higher, Vasan decided they would make a raiding excursion into his homeland.
The mist enveloped the battalion as they entered Vicelles, a welcoming hug for Vasan, but an ill omen for his men. They descended into the village of Merry Mist at dusk, cutting down anyone who would dare oppose them and rounding up prisoners to sell. In a moment of sheer cruelty, Vasan ordered the town’s chapel to Minerva burned. Vasan knew better than to traverse the fog-shrouded roads at night, so the men settled in to the villager’s homes, leaving the townspeople out in the cold. Night fell upon the town, and with it, something sinister. Vasan was roused from his sleep by screams, not of the villagers, but of familiar voices. He scrambled outside, half-dressed and wielding his sword, where he was greeted with his bandits scrambling for cover and bodies lining the streets. The fog was so thick Vasan almost choked on it, and he could barely see three feet before him. He felt a harsh blow to his chest and felt warm blood flow onto his shirt before he fell to the ground, the cobblestone streets fading black.
When Vasan awoke, almost a full day had passed, with the sun setting yet again, only now the village was dead silent. The bodies of his men were everywhere, not a soul in sight. He staggered to his feet, feeling surprisingly strong, and mourned for his fallen friends. His lanzknecht were everything to him, he was left with nothing. In a moment of weakness, Vasan decided to limp home. Perhaps his father would still accept him. The walk back to Moonshire was long, and he decided to avoid any settlements along the way in fear of being recognized, but Vasan made surprisingly quick work of the trek. He never felt tired, hungry, or thirsty, and aside from an obnoxious swarm of flies that seemed to follow him despite his swats, the journey went without a hitch. Upon entering Moonshire, Vasan demanded an audience with his father, and revealed his family ring, indicating he was without a doubt an heir of House Greyward. The bandit entered his father’s court and knelt before him, removing his helmet so his father could look upon him. The crowd gasped, and to Vasan’s surprise, so did his stoic father. Some fainted, and guards drew their swords as his father spoke.
“Assassins took my Samo. The damned Shimmermist took his dear brother Yaron. And now, my only son, before me, defiled.” Vasan caught a glimpse of himself in the silver shield that hung above his father’s throne, and hardly recognized the face he saw. Vasan looked like a dead man left to rot for a week, his face sunken, chunks of hair missing, skin mottled. Though Dragan didn’t have to kill what was left of his only son, he banished his monstrous heir from Vicelles forever.
Vasan roamed listlessly for years as his body continued to rot away, searching for the cause of his curse, and some way to reverse it. Twice he tried to kill himself, but found he simply could not die; at least not through the usual methods. Ravens, vultures, rats and flies picked away at his body until there was naught but bones left, but he marched on, taking the name of his former captain Falk so he wouldn’t be recognized by neither friend nor foe. He could no longer enjoy the pleasures of life, be it drink, food, or a lover’s company, and he turned bitter towards the world. Everywhere Falk turned, he elicited shrieks and fights, and for once, the disgraced noble understood the plight of the downtrodden. Now, the skeletal soldier walks the earth, looking for some way to free himself of the curse cast upon him.
Character Quote: "Trust me, you don't want to see this mug anyway."
"Evil is evil."
Theme Song: Danse MacabreI swear allegiance to whoever the hell will uncurse me.
