There’s a place where you really don’t want to be. A place where it’s cold and dark, and where no one can hear you scream. They call this place the Maw, because it swallows people whole and chews them up. Once you’ve checked in, you can never check out.
Unfortunetly, that’s where you are.
But it’s not like you didn’t do your best, or your worst, to get here. They don’t just feed anyone to the Maw. Only the worst of the worst are put here, and you’re worse than most. An enemy of the Kingdom, as it were. A proper blight on the land.
So why aren’t you dead?
It happens all the time, after all. People are killed for all manners of mischief, most of it far less terrible than what you’ve done. They’re hanged, beheaded, quartered and burned at the stake. So why keep you alive?
Because you’re useful, that’s why.
Your sort doesn’t come along every day. You’re smart, capable, powerful, and free of the moral inhibitions that keep the sheep from rising up. Talents like yours are hard to come by, so they have decided to save you for a rainy day.
Who are they, anyway?
They’re the King and all his men, or the tyrant and his cronies, depending on how you look at it. Rumor has it that he killed his brother and usurped his throne, and has been ruling with an iron fist ever since. No rebellion, coup or assassination has ever been able to topple his reign. Not that people haven’t tried. But he’s not the one who gives the orders. That’s the Warden.
She’s a piece of work, that one.
The Warden is scary, even to people like you. She’s… Different. Alien. She might look like a person, but she’s not. There’s something behind those dark eyes that makes your skin crawl and stomach churn with terror. She gets inside your head, somehow. Makes you do things you normally wouldn’t. No matter how much people try to avoid, cheat or kill her, they always end up doing what they’re told.
And now, it’s your turn.
You don’t know what it is, but they want something done, and you’ve been selected to do it. Could be a daring rescue. Could be a nefarious murder. What’s certain is, it’s probably going to get you killed. And in the unlikely event that you make it, the Maw will be waiting to swallow you up when you’re done…
…Unless you can do something about it.
Welcome to Blackguards!
This is the medieval fantasy version of Suicide Squad, in which a crew of colorful criminals get sent to their deaths trying to complete an impossible and sometimes (mostly) immoral mission, or quest, or thing. We will each take on the role of one of the inmates of the incredibly infamous prison the Maw, all terribly dangerous individuals, and portray their story as they do everything in their power to escape, survive, and possibly, but improbably, actually complete their mission.
Our motley crew of misfits will consist of the usual villainous archetypes; dark knights, heathen warlocks, deadly assassins, etc. You will have relatively free hands in creating your character but will have to abide by a few guidelines.
You will use and fill out the provided CS. You may tweak the formatting if you wish.
You will stick with fantasy races, either the usual ones or something more exotic. Nothing stupid, though.
You will create an anti-hero or likeable villain; chaotic evil monsters or full on psychopaths are not what I’m looking for.
Your character will be of a considerable power-level. Enough so that it poses a threat to the Kingdom if left unchecked, but nothing stupid. Could it take on a squad of the Kings finest? Without a problem. Could it solo a dragon? Not a chance.
A Little Lore
His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, alias the White Tiger, is the current ruler of the Westerlands. He is celebrated far and wide as a hero for having defeated his evil older brother, the Fallen King, who consorted with demons and preyed upon the populace. Under his reign, the people of the Westerlands have enjoyed peace and prosperity like never before throughout history. Together with the Temple of the Sun, he has ousted the old false gods of the heathens and unified the kingdom under one faith and tradition. Truly, there has never been a King like him.
If you believe the official story, that is.
Another, less tolerated, version claims that Tyronde conspired with the Heliarch of the Temple of the Sun to murder the old King and usurp his throne. In this version, the Westerlands used to be a diverse place of wonder where peoples of all creeds could live together in peace and harmony. The Tyrant and his Temple have demolished this society, forcing cohesion on the populace and banishing or outright slaughtering any and all who resist. Taxes are higher than ever, public executions are up, and children are sacrificed on massive pyres to the burning deity of the sun-worshipers.
The truth? Who knows. But you certainly know which version you subscribe to.
The Westerlands, or the Sunset Lands as they’re sometimes called, is a realm with a long and complicated history. The Kingdom, now unified under His Majesty King Tyronde of Vortigern, was once a sprawling mess of minor feuding territories where a multitude of races and cultures coexisted in an uneasy balance. Dragon riders kept watch from the snow capped peaks of the Boreal Mountains, elven druids danced in the moonlit groves of the Sylvan Forests, dwarves delved deep into the dark caverns of the Underworld, and giants roamed the rocky Highlands in search of fallen stars. A thousand gods and spirits, great and small, rivalled for worship in an unending cycle of conflict and peace. The chaos (or freedom, if you’re so inclined) ended with the death of the old King and the purging fires of the Unification Wars. Under the Sigil of the Sun, the King (by some referred to as the Tyrant) brought law and order (or death and destruction) to the Westerlands. They proclaimed One King, One God, and One Tradition, casting everything else aside. Today, remnants of the old ways linger in faraway corners of the world, hiding from the scorching light of the Holy Sun in the shade and the dark.
The land itself is still the same, with its rolling hills, high mountains, deep valleys, flowing rivers and calm lakes. The ruins of the old world linger, teeming with secrets and mysteries, and the old magic still permeates everything, no matter how hard the King and his Temple tries to smother it out. Civilization is spreading, however, one day at a time, threatening to overtake the wilderness as time goes by.
The Westerlands have always been a vast and diverse place, home to a plethora of more or less civilized races and peoples. The predominant race of the New Order under King Tyronde are the humans, who’s civilization previously ranked among the lesser ones of the land. They have expanded a lot in the decades since the White Tiger ascended the throne, and keep pushing the boundaries of other peoples territories.
Along with humans, the Westerlands are populated by elves, dwarves, orcs, and halflings, to name a few. These races are often divided into separate clans and peoples, derived from differances in culture and creed. Wood Elves, for instance, live in close connection with nature in the great forests of the world and see themselves as separate from the High Elves, who construct high towers and concern themselves with the skies and stars. Grey Dwarves, masters of stone and steel, have little in common with the Hill Dwarves practicing Runic Magic in the highlands. The Clan Orcs, who perfect the arts of martial prowess in secret fortified monasteries, want nothing to do with the Wild Orcs who pillage and burn along the coasts. The Hobbits, living in hidden close-knit communities in the wilds, can’t understand the nature of the Gnomes, solitary halflings who live as caretakers of mills, farmsteads and such in other peoples settlements.
There are other, less widespread races and peoples, too. The Naga of the Underworld waters, the Giants of the Highlands, the Fauns of the Forests, etc. Who knows what other beings are out there, among the forgotten places of the world?
This is an intriguing concept. I can't promise I'll join (I don't know how much time or energy I'll have) but I do have an idea for a powerful cleric-tyoe character sent to the maw for opposing the state religion. How does magic work in this RP?
Long, ashen blonde hair falls all the way to her mid back, which is usually held back from her face by a leather brace. Bright blue eyes that can pierce your soul and weaken any man. Trixiana is a rather short elf, standing at a meek 5'6. It helps her to blend in with the humans and makes her blend in with others as long as her pointed ears are covered. She has a marking of her tribe branded in the middle of her forehead and a tattoo along her left upper arm. Her clothes are usually made of leather. Her arm braces, leather pants, leather top. Anything she could make from animal hide.
Personality
Arrogant to a fault. She is good at what she does, and she is very aware of that. Trixiana can be sweet and considerate to those in need, but deadly and swift with those she believes needs to be taken care of. She has a bright laugh and loves to just chill out, despite her deadly aura. When in predator mode, danger spills from her veins and her ice turns cold. She doesn't care if her prey is a commoner or a royal. She will take on any job for the right amount of money.
Background
Having been raised by gentle parents, Trixiana had a great life growing up. She was the apple of her father's eye and was doted on by her mother. Then one day her parents went on an outing to the kingdom and never came back. Trixiana was convinced somebody had targeted them, and so her anger for the kingdom began. She had been on her own since the tender age of ten and had to learn how to fend for herself. That was when she had stolen a bow and some arrows from a market by the kingdom. She taught herself how to use the bow and arrow and was soon able to get her own food without having to steal it. It was when she was nineteen years old that she had been caught by one of the market guards. Instead of turning her in, he saw promise in her. Turned out he was against the kingdom as well. The guard took Trixiana in under his wing and taught her how to throw daggers. He then introduced her to the world of killing for a few coins. Ever since that day, she had been known to take out anyone for a baggie. Her reputation got to be huge around the kingdom, only going by the nickname of the Piercer. All of her prey had been left with a single pierced hole in their bodies. It wasn't until she took the wrong job one day. Guards had surrounded her and was convinced she didn't work alone, as she was too pretty looking and small to be considered deadly.
Talents
Archery, throwing daggers.
Flaws
Not very good at hand to hand combat due to her small nature. Can be quickly overpowered by someone larger than her.
Name: Rizx Race Gnome Gender Female Age 19 Appearance
This tiny goblin puts you in mind of a clockwork device. She has narrow brown eyes that are like two acorns. Her silky, straight, black hair is short and ragged, hidden partially under a ragged and faded brown cloth. She is short and has a wasp-waisted build. Her skin is olive drab. There are flogging scars on her back that can ache in cold weather, itch when it's muggy. Personality Angry, resentful, but wary, having had her trust betrayed a few times. However, once you’ve won her trust, she’s very true.
It isn't easy being a goblin. You find some isolated place to settle, do a little farming, a little hunting and gathering, make a little goblin ale (glah), some seed cake, and the next thing you know, the big people are storming the village. The survivors move on to some new place to hide, start to fill in their numbers, and the whole thing starts again. They did learn, however, that the big people had a strange fascination for chests and began leaving one in the center of the village. They'd then fill it with bits of armor, weapons, shiny rocks and what coins they manage to scrounge or loot from small venturing parties. It worked, more of the villagers escaped the raids as the distracted big people began digging through it.
The big people concerned Rizx. She searched out their huge sprawling villages and would creep around at night, watching and listening, hoping to find out why they would attack them. She learned enough of their language to speak to them, sometimes talking to the little big people, the children, becoming their "imaginary" friend - although she learned to stay away from the long ears, the tricky ones. However, it did little to tell her why the big people would raid their village.
Then, one day a strange town of tents appeared in a field, filled with strangely dressed big people, and even some who were more her size yet not goblins or children. This, she learned, was a circus. She managed to sneak into the tents and watch from under the stands as they did their acts. Rizx overheard some children talking about running away with the circus, and wondered if she could, too. When they left, she followed. It took some time, but the circus people began noticing how little things were being done, like mending the canvas, sorting out the ropes, but never touching their food supplies. It was hard to avoid their sharp eyes, but the long ears told the ring master about Rizx, and eventually she spoke to him, asking to join.
She became another of their acts in the side show, the Tamed Goblin, which made her laugh as it was the big people who needed tamed, she thought. She also worked with the roustabouts, doing minor repairs, helping with the rigging, and various jobs a circus needed her to do. Then, part-way through the season, a lord appeared with his troop of men, and ordered all the circus folk to line up and pass beside his wagon. He wasn’t interested in any of the men, flicking them away irritably, but his attention lingered over the women, even herself. The lord seemed particularly interested in the owner’s young daughter. Rizx noticed the owner’s son, who did this weird act where he and his sister would rapidly change places on the stage, was noticeably absent.
She thought it was all over with after the lord departed, but within the month the lord bought out all the outstanding debts the circus had and demanded payment. Or the owner’s daughter, as an indentured servant. It was a few nights later she saw the owner’s son, running across the fields, away from the circus. An hour later, the troops of the lord came, demanding payment or the owner’s daughter – who was nowhere to be found. They went through all the wagons, then began questioning everyone. When that didn’t work, the lord ordered them all arrested for conspiracy.
Sent to a rehabilitation mine for re-education, she escaped from that and has been traveling from town to town stealing what she can, until the night she tried a bottle of rum and woke up in chains. Probably should have waited until she escaped the house.
Brawler (mind the teeth) Climbing (free climbing or ropes) Cooking - very basic. Just don't ask where she got the meat, dislikes picky eaters. Can brew ale, Glah (fermented catch of the day, will make you gag), field tea, seed cake, scrab (don't ask what's in them), pemmican, jerky, biscuits, flapjacks. She can also make Glee, used as cement for composite bows, sealing holes, waterproofing roofs, and a poultice for wounds. (Smells a bit) Digging (she's like a tunnel rat. mind the teeth.) Hearing - can hear noises at higher range than humans, good at tracking by sound. Hiding in the shadows (Good at it except when it's the warden, what, does she have eyes at the top of her head or something?) Hunting (spear, composite bow, knife, snare, fishing line, tracking)
Can see in dim light for up to 60 feet as if it was day, can see in darkness up to 30 feet like it was dim light
Has some experience with rope and tackle, as well as the working of canvas.
can live off the land, not a picky eater (technically, not a cannibal since they're not gnomes. Mind the teeth.)
Streetwise Swimming (she's a piranha of the water. Mind the teeth) Theiving ability (pick pockets, pick locks, sleight of hand, some second story work)
Flaws
Fears/Vulnerabilities/Vices/Whatever Equipment
The Stuff your Character checked in with (Nothing Stupid) Miscellaneous
A high elf, touched by the slow beginnings of undeath, Sariel is said to have been cursed by her close association with the undead. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight, and her eyes seem almost to glow with a cold, baleful blue light. Hidden beneath a layer of fabric, her right arm is skeletal, and moves through arcane means.
The light of the elves has begun to fade from her being. Warm joy now turning to cool detachment. Sariel moves no longer with the effortless grace of her people, but with the ghostly agility of the undead. Her visage has become that of a fell apparition, conjured from the depths of some long forgotten tomb.
Personality
Sariel is a creature driven by her singular obsession with understanding the cosmic forces of life, death and undeath. Marked by her studies, her emotions have been tempered by the wisdom of the grave. She feels all that she once did, but she notes a growing detachment in her passions and a cold chill that has begun to envelope her soul.
Far from menacing in most situations, Sariel is polite, kind even, if permitted such graces by the situation or those she encounters. She knows that many fear her. She knows that many revile her. She holds little hope for reconciliation. The Maw is proof enough of the paltry mercy offered by the kingdom. Sariel does not deceive herself. She sees no advantage in such desperate deception. They will not free her, all know this to be true, but the dead council her to be patient, and Sariel intends to the heed the whispers of the dead.
Imprisonment has done little to dampen her confidence. However, Sariel remains far from reckless and the dark, damp cell in which they have left her has only sent her gaze further inwards. Even in the Maw there are dead to speak to. They can take her arcane components. They can take her possessions. And they can take her beloved grimoire. Sariel does not dispute this. Yet, a wizard, a necromancer, a true seeker of the truths that lie beyond death itself cannot be so easily dissuaded.
In happier times, Sariel was disagreeable only when faced with the ignorant and those quick to judge her for her vocation, reviled as it is across the land. For all her differences with her kin, she still possesses the storied charm of the elves, transformed as it has been into the dread presence of grave. She navigates social interactions in the Maw with unexpected ease for a wizard with a habit of engaging in lengthy conversations with the dead.
Uninterested in tradition wreathed in ceremonial judgment, Sariel is unconcerned with the social mores and taboos that would restrict her practice of necromancy. In turn, she would happily offer others the same freedom and keeps an open mind.
Background
Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together offering a quick prayer, before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure chained to the chair across from her. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.
"Your name, wizard."
"You know my name."
Uncomfortable silence followed and Tessele felt an unwelcome ember of anger growing in her bosom, "You are Sariel. Sariel Amastacia."
"Indeed, I am."
"So there you sit, chained, and left in the darkness."
"I have no need for light."
"They always say that."
"You waste my time."
"Your time is mine to waste."
"So you say."
"They say you summoned an army of undead and razed the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred souls, lost in a night."
"An accurate count."
"Do you regret nothing?"
"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My work was not theirs to sully."
"So you do not deny the charges?"
"What reason is there to lie?"
"You killed innocents. You killed the King’s men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."
"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."
"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"
"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous story. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I can hear their screams and I can hear the laughter of their countless victims ring out louder still."
"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."
"There is no mistake."
Tessele’s voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."
"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.
"Where did you go?"
"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out the masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages, the ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes and shielded from your violence."
"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"
"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."
"We had heard rumors that there was a necromancer residing in the shattered tombs scattered throughout the High Fells of Valandor."
"There I dwelled, until you and your new friends saw fit to interrupt my peaceful studies and my great works."
"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"
The woman leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tessele’s before the inquisitor had time to pull back.
"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."
"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, and pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm. "Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."
"I have changed only for the better."
"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"
"This?" the wizard scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."
Talents
Spell Caster with a Capital S - Sariel is no mere hedge wizard, no unstudied practitioner of magic, and no unrestrained spellcaster. No, she is a true wizard, a supreme magic-user who draws on the subtle weave of magic that permeates the cosmos to cast powerful spells.
Necromancer - Sariel is a necromancer, a feared and hated wizard concerned chiefly with mastering the school of necromancy magic. Her spells manipulate the power of death, unlife, and the life force that animates all living creatures.
* Animate Undead - By imbuing a pile of bones or corpse with arcane energy, Sariel can create an undead servant, raising the target as an undead creature in a foul mimicry of life. This is the first act of necromancy expected of any true necromancer. * Summon Undead - Calling forth an undead spirit, Sariel can manifest such a spirit into a corporeal form, creating an undead creature shaped according to her will. * Command Undead - By uttering dread words, Sariel can command those undead creatures unable to resist her demands. * Dark Mending - Channeling hateful necromantic energies, Sariel is able to heal the wounds of the undead and unexpectedly her own, suggesting a growing change in her person. * Deathless Vigor - Years of tireless study have infused Sariel's body with a deathless vigor and she has become something more akin to the undead she once freely kept in her cohort. * Dead Whispers - Searching for answers, Sariel has come to understand the whispers of the dead and is able to speak with them, provided they retain some level of sentience or sanity. * Thrall Boon - She has become acclimated to the undead, strengthening the bond she has with her undead thralls, offering these servants a powerful boon. * Undead Graft - Long before her capture, Sariel grafted a necrotic rune into her right arm, dissolving the flesh from her arm, and leaving behind a skeletal appendage. A mere touch from her right arm can siphon the life force of others, bolstering her own health, dealing necrotic damage, and even paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be trapped in her cold grip.
Arcane Scholar - Deeply concerned with the underlying mechanics and nature of magic, Sariel is an ardent student of the arcane. She seeks to uncover arcane secrets through extensive studies, even trapped as she currently is in the hellish pit of the Maw. Steeped in the writings of mages past and the cryptic advice of the undead, Sariel possesses an extensive knowledge of arcane lore and history of the realm.
Flaws
Necromancer's Stubborn Pride - Sariel is prideful, convinced of her own righteousness, how else could she wander a path that most perceive as leading only to inescapable damnation? Her pursuit of arcane knowledge has grown beyond mere obsession and Sariel is unwilling, perhaps unable, to consider the dangers inherent to such unwavering single-mindedness.
Undead Torpor - At times, Sariel appears to be wracked by the apathy often identified in the spirits of the dead. The concerns of the living no longer seem quite as important to her. The petty squabbles and bloody wars of the narrow-minded now seem beneath her enlightened mind. Even death has begun to feel like an old, familiar friend, rather than something she should be afraid of. Rousing Sariel from such musings and moods can require significant effort.
Still Human - Besides a skeletal arm and her slow transformation into something undead, Sariel remains distinctly mortal, a noticeable disadvantage when compared to some of the other prisoners in the Maw.
Equipment
Taken from her when they tossed her into the Maw, Sariel's arcane grimoire contains the culmination of her study of necromancy. It is no exaggeration to say that Sariel would do anything to recover her ancient tome. She can see the silver ruins inlaid into the black leather cover in her dreams.
Another of her prized possession lost to her jailers was a bag of holding containing a number of arcane components and small items of comfort.
Predictably, her guards also took away her ornate silver dagger, an enchanted blade that courses with the souls of more than one willing sacrifice.
Her final piece of confiscated property is a long robe, a gift from a patient demilich amused by her questions. An elegant garment made from exquisite black cloth, woven into the robe are protective magics far beyond mortal understanding.
@Abstract Proxy Good start! Looking forward to reading the whole thing when it's done!
@Expendable You've written an interesting character, but I fail to see how it makes Blackguard material. How would it present any threat to the kingdom? A common criminal or drunkard wouldn't end up in the Maw.
@Zapdos Cool idea! There's no real system for magic, but I imagine it could work a bit like it does in DnD. Is that in any way helpful?
Hi putting a sub on this thread. I love this concept, but I'm swamped with RPs right now. If one of them falls through I may have the energy to come here. If you're still accepting at the time anyway.
Already have this cool idea for a dwarven regicide.
Anyway I'll watch and wait for now.hope that's okay.
To all of you currently writing characters or contemplating doing so: Don't hold back on making your Blackguard dangerous. I'm looking for badasses who would pose a real challenge for any typical team of heroes. They might not be Big Bad material (yet), but would certainly make for luitenant material as henchmen. Also, try to incorporate what makes them unique; after all, they don't put just anyone into the Maw.
That said, good show this far! I'm really looking forward to seeing the finished Blackguards!
Name: Ciannait Duanei Race: Dark Elf Vampire Gender: Female Age: Two centuries Appearance: This girl reminds you of a dangerous spider. She has almond-shaped eyes the color of blood. Her fine, straight, neck-length hair is the color of fine china, and is worn in a severe style. She is tall and has a lithe build. Her skin is a bluish-gray. She has thick eyebrows, pointed ears, and thin lips hidden by an iron half-mask covering the lower half of her face. It keeps her from feeding or talking above a whisper, and it locks in the back.
Cian wears a strangely repellant metal seal as a pendant on a necklace. A hard tug on the necklace will cause it to break away, she is forbidden from removing the seal herself.
Her wardrobe is a dark hooded woolen cloak, leather armor styled in some ancient pattern, and an adventurer's satchel, with pockets along its wide strap.
Parents/Childhood/Education/Adulthood/Livelihood/Crimes against the Kingdom/Downfall/Whatever Talents:
With the strength of five men, Cian is able to lift a horse, or she can punch her way through a stone wall.
If she locks eyes with another, Cian can slowly pull them into a light hypnotic state, able to obey basic commands. However, if contact is lost before that state is achieved, or the subject is shaken or experiences sharp pain, the hypnosis is broken and they wake up.
A vampire's bite can quickly numb and paralyze their victim, leaving them helpless as the vampire feeds.
They're unaffected by viruses or bacteria, but it can make the blood taste strange. The black plague gives blood a smoky flavor.
A vampire can recover from even grave injuries. Small injuries may be completely healed in a few days, a stake in the heart a month or two. Eyes and limbs may take a couple years. It's why they do not age.
Flaws:
A word in an ancient language was engraved into the lid of her iron coffin. On hearing that word, she must obey any command given to her. However, pronunciation is important.
Exposure to full sunlight, a vampire's flesh will start to smoke. After a few moments, their flesh catches fire, burning them to ash if they are unable to find shelter or a body of water. However, if a little blood was to fall on the ash, they will be revived. Some vampires keep a small vial of blood on their person for just this purpose.
While a vampire can hibernate for many years after a heavy feeding, an active vampire must feed on a pint of blood at least once a week to maintain its strength. Blood from a heavy drinker or habitual drug user will affect the vampire as well. If starved for blood, a vampire can become a wild thing, driven by its unquenchable thirst. The smell of blood can be mildly intoxicating, one has to guard their reaction around minor cuts.
While a vampire can tolerate water, wine, tea, and coffee, most food tastes disgusting to them. For the unprepared, they can become violently ill.
Lactose intolerant.
Equipment:
A small medallion that resembles (yet isn't) lead, bearing the ancient mark of the Dead God. It feeds constantly on magic, or perhaps the soul? It makes the skin crawl if one gets too close. To wear one is an almost unbearable torture. There were three on Cian's iron casket. One is enough to make her as weak as a child.
This heavy metal coffin has chains to keep it locked up, preventing Cian's escape and allowing her to be safely transported. A shallow bowl in the lid allows blood to drip into her mouth.
Miscellaneous:
It's often believed that a wooden stake driven through the heart of a vampire will kill it. As they're undead, you've only pissed them off. Do you know how hard it is to find a seamstress or tailor willing to work after dark?
Vampires can see themselves in mirrors - they just hate them. If the vampire has cast a glamor on itself to hide, their actual appearance is revealed when glanced at in a mirror. One of the forgotten reasons why mirrors are often placed in entryways.
Some vampires believe themselves to be on the top of the food chain. They're not. A Crusnik is a type of vampire that preys on vampires.
I'm definitely interested in this, got an idea for a satyr that has a curse similar to a werewolf. I'll post their character sheet when I'm finished with it.
I'm giving you two ways to control her - a geas whose command word is engraved in an ancient language on the lid of her coffin, and three ancient Seals of the Dead God, one of which is hung around her neck on a breakable necklace. I pity the poor fool who tries to take away this pagan emblem from her.
I should mention, pronunciation is very important for the geas to work.
Glad you like my Dairy flaw.
I'm figuring the Maw may have had a rat problem before she showed up.
@Expendable The seals are very nice and all, perhaps as a backup, but the Warden will have no trouble controlling her on her own. That's why she's the Warden, after all.
Skin: Sun-kissed—unusual for the notoriously pallid race.
Height: 237 cm / 7'9"
Weight: 97.5 kg / 215 lbs
Build: Tall, spindly, and uncanny.
Clothes: Exceedingly exquisite, but that's typical of Moonwalkers.
Other: Some say she has an aura of grace, but really, she just walks slowly to let shorter creatures keep pace with her.
Personality
Moonwalkers are thoroughly inexpressive creatures, as emotionally distant as they are physically distant in height from other beings. So the legends say, anyway. "Weaves" remains mostly silent unless spoken to, but is nonetheless quite open with her views, if one only gathers the courage to ask—or knows where to look. Moonwalkers express feelings through poetry and art rather than facial muscles or emotional outbursts as humans do. On one hand, this gives Weaves an air of grace and elegance that is perhaps undeserved, and on the other, it creates a sort of emotional language barrier between her and her allies. If you were to ask her, Moonwalkers are much more similar to humans than they appear, the strangest thing about humans being that they keep their written language, suitable only for recording mundane details. Why fight so hard to preserve that which nature deems unimportant? For if it was important, it would be remembered—or so her shallow logic goes. She's a mellow and easygoing sort, for the most part—content to focus on the big picture, and let details and sleeping dogs lie where they may.
Generally speaking, most races have an innate fear of Moonwalkers—though they don't commonly know them by that name. Weaves does eschew some of their notorious traits, though. When appropriate, she will at least try to smile, though it remains unnatural and physically challenging for her to do. She also tries to avoid having such a looming presence, though there's only so much she can do about it without coming across as condescending. Weaves could be described as either a stern yet gentle giant, or a non-aggressive terror of the night, depending on who you ask. On the battlefield, however, she's best described as "serenely destructive." While other denizens of the Maw show violence in an impressively explosive or subtly festering way, Weaves' unique brand of cruelty is pure and structured—sadistic artistry, polished to a mirror sheen. It's entirely natural within that context to see her as an emotionless psychopath, but if you were to ask her, she'd describe her wrath as a purely corrective force of nature, and a righteous indignation with punishments to match the crimes committed by her enemies.
Like others of her kind, she has an innate affinity for nature, art, and culture. The Moonwalkers preserve their secrets through their oral traditions, and in stories brought to life through embroidery and cave drawings, with symbolic imagery readily understood by Moonwalkers but rendered opaque and esoteric to humans. Moonwalkers detest loud noises and bright lights, and have quietly fled further and further from human civilization as a result, relegating their very existence to the domain of folklore, doubtless responsible for many a grim tale of unnaturally tall and spindly beings who kidnap children in the woods. Her voice, like a mournful song, makes a fine addition to any choir, and her skilled hands will leave any damaged garment better than its original state. Weaves can endure the sun's light, but still doesn't particularly care for it. She has no strong feelings one way or the other towards any other creatures, regarding them all in much the same way as humans see livestock. Her palate is strange, preferring earthy, gamey, smoky and spicy flavors, and detesting all things salty and sweet. Her culinary creations would offend the "refined" palates of the nobility, but the denizens of the Maw tend to enjoy them immensely.
Background
Moonwalkers are a discreet race of nocturnal, humanoid cryptid beings—or, they are supposed to be. Weaves was none such character, living in the light and making no concerted effort either to avoid or to mingle with humans, who posed no real threat to her and her terrifying magic power. When she was discovered, it wasn't due to any particular action or negligence on her part. The humans had simply encroached upon her neck of the woods, and she had refused to move on. When the humans would clear an area of trees, they would return the next day to find new trees in their place. At first, they questioned their sanity. When they eventually laid eyes on the monster responsible, they would instead question everything they thought they knew of the world. Reports from the gold prospectors trying to settle in that remote and mountainous region would reach human civilization, and reactions would be mixed. Some sought to slay the beast which drained lumberjacks dry of blood with an oversized needle, injecting it into the ground and creating new life with it. Others aimed to seek it out and worship it in secret.
With some difficulty, the latter humans were able to communicate with the creature, who spoke a unique language with some similarities to an elder tongue, obscure and seen only in old magical texts. They learned that it did not kill the humans out of malice, or so it claimed. Its only real goal was to reclaim its territory, and it used the incarnum energy of those who destroyed it to repair the damage. It seemed the creature really just wanted to be left alone. It had no use for the gold its lands supposedly held, but wasn't interested in trading it for anything the humans could offer it, either. Regardless, the humans formed cults in the woods, and fostered an uneasy relationship with the being, who tolerated their presence so long as they were quiet and didn't destroy the forest. However, these humans pursued strange magicks, sacrificing all manner of creatures including their own kind. Eventually, one thing became clear. These humans were... incompetent lunatics.
Their magicks did not do anything, save to waste the blood of living beings for a bit of short-lived revelry. They didn't create anything in place of that which they destroyed. Only Weaves could do that, they said, asking the impossible of her. No matter how many sacrifices were offered upon an altar, a human corpse could not be returned to a pristine, autonomous, soulful state. They refused to understand, and so she tired of their presence on her land, slaughtering them all, creating unnaturally large trees in place of their camps. This only served to encourage more humans to come and admire the trees, some adorning them with strange markings and worshiping inferior beings beneath them. It was all so very tiresome. No matter how many she killed, more seemed to come, drawn by the legends of the "goddess" of the mountain. It was, unbeknownst to her, quickly spiraling into a political issue of grand proportions. Human civilization was unifying and rallying against the false gods, and the so-called goddess of the mountain was an obstacle to the king currently consolidating power and fortifying his wealth.
One day, no humans came. Instead, there was only the Warden—one whose empty eyes could match those of Weaves, and if it were possible, could even draw color out of them yet. Those dark voids seemed to her to promise a fulfillment of all her desires, some of which she didn't even know she had. For one, she'd have a well-defended home, filled to the brim with others just like her. She would have time to do other things besides killing and rebuilding, should she wish. If, however, she was ever feeling the urge to "paint," the Warden would always be ready to prepare a "canvas" for her, and a list of their crimes to serve as her "muse." She'd just need to do a little something for her, and unlike the humans, the Warden wasn't stupid. She would ask Weaves to do things she could actually do, and strangely enough... she'd do them.
Talents
Fell Seamstress, Cryptid Huntress, Culinary Fiend: Understated, mundane survival skills, refined to a razor's edge.
Hauntingly Beautiful, Devilish Charm, Quiet Strength: Oft mistaken for exotic nobility, she exudes unearned authority.
Esoteric, Forbidden, Occult Magic: No greater deterrent than fear of the unknown—and no greater advantage.
Flaws
Indiscreet, Conspicuous, a Looming Terror: She can run, but she can't hide—neither her massive form, nor her predatory nature.
Blank Stare, Uneducated, Illiterate: Not quite raised by wolves, but Moonwalkers lack a distinctly "human" form of intelligence.
Concerned Citizen, Oddball, the "Weak" Link: Possibly the kindest soul you'll find in the Maw—not that it sets the bar very high.
Equipment
Marrow: A spindle-like, long and sharp stick of uncannily hard ironwood, light in weight but fierce in its application—and yes, she does speak softly while carrying it. A sleek and elegant weapon of fully terrestrial origin, unrivaled in its ordinary-ness. In other words, it's an exceedingly pure weapon, perfect for channeling its wielder's magic. It's both quite durable and resistant to catching fire.
The Moon, Mirror of the Sun, the Lesser Light
Transmutation ~ Mirror of Life: Absorbs incarnum through the slaughter of living beings and uses it to create lesser forms of life.
Transmutation ~ Mirror of Creation: Absorbs the potential energy of matter and converts it into lesser forms until it degenerates.
Enchantment ~ Mirror of Hearts: Alters a living being's emotional state, inducing lesser autonomic arousal and perceptual awareness.
Dunamancy ~ Mirror of Worlds: Creates a localized distortion of spacetime which accelerates the decay, rot, and rust of objects.
Dunamancy ~ Mirror of Reality: Uses a reflective surface—such as a body of water—as a portal, to travel by means of alternate reality.
Note: Lunatic magic must be channeled through a weapon of exceptional purity, to avoid harming herself or destroying her weapon.
Miscellaneous
Her full name is slightly derogatory, not that anyone would know. Doing something "in shade" implies "during the day." Scandalous!
No credible scholar actually believes that Moonwalkers are from the moon, despite ancient and discredited texts alluding to the contrary.
Her spells were designed with "high strangeness" in mind. Crop circles, cattle mutilations, unexplainable disappearances, lost time, etc.
@Expendable The seals are very nice and all, perhaps as a backup, but the Warden will have no trouble controlling her on her own. That's why she's the Warden, after all.
The warden's a krusnik or demon lord, aren't they?
In any event, the seal is more for the protection of the guards.
