"The weak of this world perish so that the strong may have a better foundation on which to forge their fate."
Alias: The Butcher of Caelora.
Age: 220 years old, naught more than a young adult in the eyes of other Ta'vir.
Gender: Male.
Race: Elven. Ta'viri specifically.
Appearance: Standing at an average height of six feet tall, Faelyn cuts an imposing figure. From his height, he stares down upon those beneath him through his cold and arresting gaze, his icy blue eyes almost as pale as his skin and snow white hair, made thin and withered by the harsh northern wind. When clad in his full suit of fur lined plate armor, however, his appearance shifts into something outright draconian as he goes from looking like naught more than a grim wraith, to a herald of death itself. As for his armor, it's surface is covered in silver engravings and a crimson black cloak is woven into the upper back portion of the suit. It also sports a high collar designed to keep the wearers neck at least somewhat protected from enemy strikes, which rises up from between the shoulders.
Favored Alignment Major and Minor Focuses: Chaotic Evil. This does not mean he is a psychopath however. He is more than capable of using logic and reason, and will not needlessly backstab those to whom he is aligned unless it becomes imperative to do so.
Favored Class Archetype Major and Minor Focuses: Frontline Combatant/Divine Spellcaster.
Equipment
- A full suit of steel plate with fur lining.
- One cured leather travel pack containing some medicinal tinctures, whetstones, food, a sealed water skin, and supplies for camping such as a bedroll.
- A steel longsword kept in a sheath wrapped around his waist.
- An assortment of first aid supplies, stowed in a hardened leather case also strapped to his waist, such as sutures, bandages, thread, needles, and the like in case of injury. One cannot be strong with a failing body after all.
Signature Techniques
Xor'laths Fury: Calling upon the power of the demon within him, Faelyn channels its dark presence into his gauntlets, overlaying them with claws of burning shadow he can use to rip his foes limb from limb. He can only keep these in existence for a short time, however, as they loose integrity with each strike.
Xor'laths Bulwark: Drawing upon the dark powers of Xor'lath once more, he summons forth its essence through sheer force of will and converts it into an umbral dome that radiates outwards one foot in diameter, and blocks incoming projectiles. The shield can be worn down over time, and Faelyn cannot move whilst projecting it, as it requires concentration to maintain. This also means he cannot be distracted while using it either, as one break could cause it to drop.
Wrath of The Ta'viri: Digging deep, Faelyn taps into his inner rage and ambition to win, using his blade to pummel foes with a barrage of uncoordinated strikes. While powerful, this technique is far from accurate and leaves him wide open to counterattack.
Stance Shift: Faelyn readies himself to shift into one of three stances. Aggressive, defensive, or adaptive. The first, aggressive, is self explanatory. The second, defensive, is also easy to comprehend, though he uses his sword to deflect attacks rather than a shield. And the last, adaptive, is more of a 'wait and see' approach where he prepares to shift into either aggressive or defensive depending on the circumstance.
Battle Focus: Faelyn, having spent years surviving in the harsh hellscape that is his homeland, has figured out how to tap into a long forgotten technique once used by his peoples ancient warrior priest caste. By looking within and finding a mental void of sorts, they could effectively detach themselves from their physical forms, becoming apathetic towards their own bodies. This, while a great boon to combat, was extremely damaging towards their overall longevity as it would make it all too easy for them to be taken unawares by their foes, since they could no longer feel the bite of stone, iron, or steel on their skin.
Xor'laths Bulwark: Drawing upon the dark powers of Xor'lath once more, he summons forth its essence through sheer force of will and converts it into an umbral dome that radiates outwards one foot in diameter, and blocks incoming projectiles. The shield can be worn down over time, and Faelyn cannot move whilst projecting it, as it requires concentration to maintain. This also means he cannot be distracted while using it either, as one break could cause it to drop.
Wrath of The Ta'viri: Digging deep, Faelyn taps into his inner rage and ambition to win, using his blade to pummel foes with a barrage of uncoordinated strikes. While powerful, this technique is far from accurate and leaves him wide open to counterattack.
Stance Shift: Faelyn readies himself to shift into one of three stances. Aggressive, defensive, or adaptive. The first, aggressive, is self explanatory. The second, defensive, is also easy to comprehend, though he uses his sword to deflect attacks rather than a shield. And the last, adaptive, is more of a 'wait and see' approach where he prepares to shift into either aggressive or defensive depending on the circumstance.
Battle Focus: Faelyn, having spent years surviving in the harsh hellscape that is his homeland, has figured out how to tap into a long forgotten technique once used by his peoples ancient warrior priest caste. By looking within and finding a mental void of sorts, they could effectively detach themselves from their physical forms, becoming apathetic towards their own bodies. This, while a great boon to combat, was extremely damaging towards their overall longevity as it would make it all too easy for them to be taken unawares by their foes, since they could no longer feel the bite of stone, iron, or steel on their skin.
History: Born in the frozen expanse of Ayqar in the far north, Faelyn learned from an early age that to be weak was to accept death. So he took this lesson to heart and applied it in everything he did, although not in a way anyone from his hometown of Caelora had expected. First, he sought entry into the local guard regiment. It was far from easy, and there were many times when the most lax of their conditioning exercises almost killed the young Faelyn, but he managed to make it in. From there he served for at least one century, gradually working his way up the ranks to captain. While most would have thought him content with this position, anyone with a sharp enough eye would have recognized this achievement as nothing more than the first steps of an even grander plan. One that would take him far beyond the confines of his small mountain village. Taking command of his new contingent of men, along with some of the better equipment he now had access to as a regiment captain, he set out to face his greatest challenge yet.
He ventured forth into the wastes to slay the demon Xor'lath.
Or that's what he told everyone else anyway. In reality his plan was to find the demon, who had been tormenting the area for the last six hundred years by this point, and let it possess him. The plan was that he would offer it his physical form, as such creatures were driven by an insatiable urge to walk about in mortal flesh, and then capture its will in a mental vise as strong as iron so that he could use its powers to his own ends. So, with this insane plan secretly festering in the back of his mind, the newly minted commander and co set out, beginning a month long trek into the frozen tundra. Several died during this march, from starvation as the rations ran conspicuously low, or hypothermia as many of the supplies with which they set up camp were lost along the way. After a few more weeks, and several deaths later, the considerably smaller group finally arrived at the cave the demon was rumored to haunt, though for what reason or purpose no one knew.
Venturing inside, the group was quickly overcome by the overwhelming scent of burnt something, and darkness that was deeper than the ever present shroud of steel gray that blanketed the sky, hiding the suns glorious face from view for most-if not all-year round. Pushing past it, the remnants of Faelyns squad moved forward, as he had not come this far only to be deterred by mere smoke and shadow. Plunging in deeper, Faelyns men made a great deal of progress before being stopped, a wall of pure darkness blocking their way. Searching, but ultimately unable to find a way around the obstruction, they started to turn back when the barrier came to life. Surging toward them, it pierced their armored forms with seething umbral spires, before rushing up at Faelyn, who was unfazed by the whole ordeal.
Everything was going according to plan, after all.
As the wave approached, slamming into the tunnels walls as it writhed forward like some kind of seething beast, Faelyn held his arms out wide in a gesture of welcome to the foul evil as he prepared himself for the mental war that was about to ensue. It felt like an eternity before the mass hit him, but when it did, it felt as though he had been enveloped in a raging inferno. As though he had been cast down into the depths of the abyss itself. More terrifying than this, however, was the ominous presence he now felt lingering in his mind. The presence of Xor'lath. What happened next is hard to describe, and even harder for Faelyn himself to remember so great was the struggle, but it ended with him as the victor. Xor'lath had been defeated, his consciousness buried deep within Faelyns own mind, and his powers claimed. Striding forth from the cavernous depths, his skin still smelling strongly of sulfur and burnt stone, Faelyn emerged a new man. Setting out into the frozen wastes once again, Faelyn made his way back to Caelora.
Alone.
But this hardly mattered to him of course. He had gotten what he'd set out to find. No matter the reaction those he called kin had upon his arrival, it would not make his successes thus far any less sweet. When he finally made it back, he found the reactions of those who called the place home mixed. Some whispered he had led those men out there on purpose, perhaps to silence them for witnessing some secret act they were not meant to see, while others maintained his innocence, writing off the whole thing as a series of unfortunate events that had regrettably claimed the lives of several good men. One thing was unanimously recognized by the inhabitants of Caelora, however.
Faelyn had changed. Where once he was determined, dedicated to surviving no matter the cost, now he had become more lax. Overconfident. As though there was nothing in the world that could touch him. A foolish notion to be sure, one almost as moronic as the individuals that had thought it up. Faelyn was well aware of just how many things in this world could kill him, especially if he wasn't careful. No, he wasn't confident, he was acting. Executing yet another part of his intricate plan. For you see, as he had made his way back towards the village he ran into a party of exiles. Elves considered Ta'viri no longer, and thus elves who were no longer worthy of holding the name. Why they had been cast out he didn't bother to learn. Instead he made contact with their leader, and gave him an offer. In exchange for vengeance and spoils, he would help them destroy the village from whence he hailed, showing them the most efficient way of infiltrating its watch and slaughtering its people once night fell. His reasoning, while mercilessly paranoid and brutal, did make some modicum of sense however. If one were an insanely selfish madman that is.
You see Faelyn felt as though he should have no ties to his former life. Not only because those he had called friends and family would no doubt suspect his hand in deciding the fates of the lost guards, but also because he knew future enemies had a weak point to attack in the form of his parents and siblings. Something that he simply could not allow. So once he had secured the exiled leaders agreement, he had the entire warband follow him back to the town, where they then set up camp just behind one of the surrounding ridges. The perfect spot for an ambush as it allowed them easy access to the village below.
And so he committed the ultimate betrayal.
Once he had settled back in, he waited till midnight, and gave the signal for the exiled warband to attack. And so they did. Riding down, torches ablaze and weapons drawn, they charged down into the village in droves, slaughtering everyone they came across. Putting homes and other structures to the flame, and causing havoc in general. The local guard tried to fight back of course, but during one of his speeches Faelyn had held a vigil of sorts for the fallen, in which he had given his men a certain type of ceremonial bread that was laced with a potent-yet delayed-toxin that would induce seizures in the muscles approximately one hour after ingestion. This, combined with the suddenness of the assault itself, made any defense they could have mounted useless, as the guards found themselves overrun and slain.
When all was said and done, Faelyn and the exiles were the only ones left standing in the razed remnants of Caelora. Their business concluded, each party went their separate ways. The exiles back into the frozen wastes, and Faelyn to the south. To the great cities. Places he hoped would offer shelter from the wrath of the Ta'viri elders, for a time anyway.
Unfortunately for him, Faelyn would find himself unable to complete that journey. About two days into it he saw the lands around him warp and twist, as though one of the gods was having a bit of fun throwing their power around, before settling into a stable state once more. But when they did, he was not on the road heading south, but in another place entirely.
A dark, foreboding, land...
The land of Barovia.
Miscellaneous: The hostile northern conditions Ayqar, the land in which the Ta'viri live, has forced them to become an extremely tight-knit and communal society, something most clearly reflected in the way they name themselves and their offspring. Rather than giving them a familial surname that is passed down from generation to generation, changing slightly with each coupling, Ta'viri children are named after the clan itself. So an elf from their tribe by the name of Nuovis, would have the surname Ta'vir regardless of bloodline. This obviously causes a great deal of confusion amongst those not knowledgeable of their customs, and has led to them becoming the butt of many a joke, especially when two individuals of similar naming are involved.
Although they often fall to violence or exposure more often than old age, Ta'viri are capable of living upwards of a thousand years at least.
During combat, as he becomes more and more exhausted, Faelyn will find it harder to keep Xor'lath under control. This is the main reason he prefers to end fights sooner rather than later, and why he cannot wield the demons powers for longer periods of time.
Although the acts he has committed would see him labelled an exile and stripped of the right to call himself Ta'vir by the elders of the clan, Faelyn still chooses to use the surname. In his mind he did nothing wrong save for tying up a potential loose end-or that's what he's convinced himself of anyway-so why should the name be taken? It was not his fault, after all, that his family and friends had been too weak and trusting to take the prerogative and check into his story. To make sure the man they saw return was still the same one they saw leave. Other Ta'viri however, or at least those who have heard tales of his monstrous acts, have taken to calling him by a different name. The Butcher of Caelora. A name given so none would forget the stain he had left on that place, or the innocent blood he'd spilt.
