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Sariel

Name

Sariel Amastacia
Race

High Elf
Gender

Female
Age

27
Appearance

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.

Miscellaneous

Ziska

"We could perhaps get a copy of our ROMs off world, send it to the right people. Some C-Bills in the right hands would go a long way right now," Ziska said with a shrug. She offered Marit a sly grin and subtle wink, the fresh MechWarrior had measured well. She didn't flinch. She didn't panic. All traits Ziska valued. All traits they would in greater measure soon enough. The games were over, but the fun was just starting in her morally questionable view.

Draping herself over a chair in a catlike fashion, Ziska mused loudly, "We could lean into it perhaps, brutality has won some wars, but fighting an entire planet is hard work."

She laughed,"Motherfuckers. I have to give it to those heartless bastards, I didn't think they'd go this far. We miscalculated. We underestimated them. We are dealing with some fanatics here. Some true believers. They'll kill thousands just to put us off balance, just to leave us on our back foot."

"Who are they? Who are the Crimson Fists really? Fresh BattleMechs. Fresh AeroSpace fighters. Wiping out a village to get to some mercs hiding under a mountain of scrap. Lady Death would be proud of the Crimson Fists and that's saying something. We may have picked the wrong fight, Colonel," Ziska said to look around the room.

"Now, before someone goes and thinks I've gone soft. I'm not afraid. I don't mind fighting. I don't mind killing. I'd prefer not to die, but if that's the hand that I'm dealt, then I am prepared for it. That's what we are paid to do. That's what a MechWarrior is for. But this is not a war that ends happily for any of us. And it will only get worse from here."

Ziska seemed almost apologetic as she continued and a frown briefly passed over her features.

"Respectfully, Colonel, this isn't your type of war. Perhaps it's time to consider our options? We have a Davey Crockett. We have C-Bills for bribes. We could spring our people. A nuclear weapon set to blow is a strong statement in any negotiation. We could plant additional conventional devices. What is...the safety of an entire city for our people? We could fade off the map. We could vanish into the galaxy. They are spending a fortune to hunt us down. How hard will they really try to stop us? They will not openly parley with murderers, of course, but it is not unheard of for a planetary militia to let a belligerent force escape rather than drive them to fight to bitter end."

Studying the Colonel carefully, Ziska shifted, crossing her legs and sitting up in the battered folding chair she had claimed,"I would prefer to fight, I would prefer to kill the Firewitch, but it's your call, Colonel."

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