Deja

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

I'll have Kaz take the back way around the lake, he'll be the last to get to the cabin most likely.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

The ale in Kazahk’s hand went bottoms up, and the tavern exploded in action. He never did take up the old man’s teachings of patience and planning. No, Kazahk forever sought to be the impetus of a situation, to act rather than react. There were many memories of game being startled by an impatient dark elf letting loose shot after shot towards the beast as is scampered away, and Brand never could get the rascal to sit still and fish upon a bank. Those were the few thoughts that rang true to him when he headbutted the guardsmen, figuring this was the only course he knew how to follow, and so he must run it true to it’s end. After he shouted his greeting he saw a cask of the sureshot elf’s brandy knocked a guard out cold, then a shadow of movement before a yelp of pain came from his flank as he spotted Masef’s work. His attention turned that way nearly made him miss the rope dart that gave Sigur, who name was shouted by kin Kazahk could not still name, a chance that was oh so easy to take. Kazahk took his last gulps as he heard Varzhul dispatch a guard with little fanfare. He’d hoped a man with such a steed could defend himself, and he was right. The ale still hung at his lips as the last few seconds of bloodshed died down. Ah, the dirty looks Kazahk got in his lifetime, none were so succulent than those he was closest with. He sipped his stolen ale with a wink in his eye as Sigur boorish visage gave him a look of displeasure, which to Kazahk was humorous considering he just cleaved a man in two, then finished off two of his fellows. Being a kinslayer, he knew there would be little he could say to change their hearts toward him, or to plead with them that he had attempted to right his wrong in the years of absence. Perhaps this is why he acted so brashly, as to prove himself loyal to Nightwood through action. His eagerness most likely came off as suspicious valor, but unless Kazahk dropped to his knees and asked Sigur to lop his head off if he thought the drow sought misfortune on the family, there was little Kazahk could do to change this motif. He slammed down his drink when Sigur's laughing died down, and Masef spoke up, gathering his cloak from the floor and giving a wink toward Quinn as he did so. Just like old times, the drow was forcing hands to be played, and he would have been lying if he didn’t say he enjoyed it. Still, the whisper of regret and shame hung deep in his mind waiting to be dealt with, for Tagerdson’s memory was still strong for his kin, and Brand’s death even stronger. He shook his head almost unperceptively to rid himself of such thoughts at the moment; there would be a time for grieving and repentance, but not now. Long drow strides put him at the unconscious guard at Masef’s feet in four swagger filled paces. There was a palpable tension as he looked down at Masef, before he bent down and grabbed the guards collar and belt with a short huff, stood the unfortunate man up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of produce. Kazahk gave a wicked grin, the silver tooth catching the flickering lantern just enough to make it known. “Where to now?”

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Alright, where and what know? Considering Kaz forced the hand here and has the foresight of a frag grenade, he'll want to go and start chopping heads off before the the battalion can mount a proper response. It's not the most sensible idea, but then again Kaz isn't sensible half the time.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Mission Accomplished senor. Also, gotta love a story that starts with a barfight.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

The graveyard of Bosfyrd was a small affair, set on a hill over looking Fool’s Lake, and a short ride from the village itself. You could see the faint glow of torches of night fisherman from the roofs if the fog permitted and the sun and moon both lay low; at least that was Kazahk’s memory of the place. The small path that lead out to this place was predominantly for mourners or those of bait and lure, and the simple headstones sat in their own world away from the occasional flooding of the lake and graverobbers. The people of Bosfyrd were not well off enough to face that threat Kazahk presumed. Still, he had come here nightly the past three days to pay his respects to the late Tagerdson, under the cover of darkness, and the cloak of a fishermen. He came bearing flowers and a heavy heart which tugged at his paranoia as he overlooked the lake, his hair stood up from a chill brought on by the water and the history he shared with this place. For all the tears he had shed for the lad under his feet now, it mattered little now that Brand had been murdered. Fists clenched, knuckles popped and turned white on his grey kin as he thought of revenge. But also of his failure to the man, who had raised him with nothing but the best intentions. How must he have felt, seeing a child under hios care to protect, cut down by another that he had failed to tutor? Kazahk did not like dwelling on that subject for it brought a guilty bile to the back of his throat. He was not the man Brand was, and that was evident even now. But he could make thing’s right perhaps, if gypses were true. Then again they had been wrong about heading north for salvation. The tattooed gulag marks on his wrists and ankles proved that much. He made his way back into the village before dawn broke, has he had been since his clandestine arrival stuffed away in a carriage. His sanctuary during the daylight hours where prying eyes might recognize the infamous drow was the upstairs of a local shopkeep Kazahk had come to know since his escape from the Jarl five years ago. The man was actually a fence that harked and bought his products from the travels of the road with little to no question on their origin. Kazahk came to know him from a similar and larger distributor to the east who mentioned the little town of Bosfyrd. Since then through correspondence and a bit of coin, the fence served as the drow’s eyes and ears for the place, and now safe haven. The fence was no local, but his knack for gossip told him enough to connect the dots that the strange dark elf that paid him was the same one that drew ire in retelling of old stories for the villagers. Good coin was good coin however, and he let it be, having only been asked to sneak Kazahk in and shelter him discreetly for a short time. tak tak tak thump Three rapid knocks and a thump roused Kazahk from a lethargic nightmare with a slashing of a dagger he’d pulled from his person. It only took a second for him to decipher the intrusion however; the fence had news. Light blue eyes peeked through the crack in the door that opened slightly. “Yes?” The fence seemed flustered, mostly likely from the pace he had put himself through running up from the street up to the attic. “They’re here. An elf, an orcish fellow and a dark-skinned lad, though I can’t be sure about the other rumors. You can’t be certain going only on hair color, even if it is supposedly red ya know. Regardless, the three in question are at the tavern right this moment.” A silver coin tumbled out of the doorway and the fence cursed as hit his chest and tumbled down the first two steps. The door closed with a thump before anything else could be said. Kazahk was out on the street, face in plain view striding defiantly towards the tavern before the fence could talk him out of it. His fur lined cloak flapped behind him defiantly as he dug his heels into the earth and villagers did small double takes to register what they had seen. The older locals scowled and widened their eyes, for there had only been one male drow around these parts with a reputation, and it wasn’t a particularly good one. The fact that Kazahk was now coming into his own physically as a young Drow did nothing to calm onlookers, though he did have the mind to leave his steed and his war making regalia back at the fences. A short sword in a scabbard and a hatchet tucked into the small of his back were all he lay armed with, and he could hear them tinker as he strode. A rather large horse came up to the tarvern in the distance, and a rider Kazahk couldn’t make out dismounted. A few worried customers seemed to be stumbling out of the few entrances as well. Ever the pessimist, Kazahk thought of the worst as he picked up his stride and made his way to the door behind the man with the warhorse. The sight and smell of six drunk guards men, a tavern quickly trying to empty itself, and a hesitant, immediately recognizable few who were very tense, greeted the dark elf’s glare. He could spot Sigur from the lot atwixt a barmaid and the drunkards, his orcish brawn was something he had no desire to quarrel with given the family history. Quinn’s elvish features gave him away to be the young lad Kazahk used to bully and compete with as youths. The name almost escaped him, but dashing looks aside, the dark skin of Masef was the clue that set in his head. But he was most enraptured with the red hair, he could hardly figure out her name that he almost forgot about the man who entered before him and his identity. Quick mental arithmetic didn’t leave much for the family tree, and his twelve year absence didn’t assist his recollection any, but the man fit the bill for Varzhul from his perspective. ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk Kazahk’s heavy boots echoed as he furtively walked into the tavern. He kept his face uncovered, and gave all his relatives a solid, tight-lipped look before looking back at the guards, who themselves were started to wonder about all the backbone that had suddenly sprung from a drinking establishment. One such curious guard turned around to catch Kazahk’s entrance. He spun about at the waist, before thumping with a fat protruding index finger of the chest of Kazahk, who looked down at him with as much malice as he could muster. “Tavern’s closed sootskin. Remove yourself!” Kazahk gave one more look to his adopted kin, seeing their strategic positions and hands near their weapons, before giving the slightest of nods. Then, he brought his forehead clean through the cartilage of the guards nose, grabbed him by his instigating arm, and hurled him into his nearest comrade, causing them to both go down in a sprawl heap of curses and contempt. As he spun from his toss, the cloak dropped his feet and he grabbed the nearest abandoned ale to take a swig. “Welcome Home!” was all he could say, and he meant it.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Alright, I think I've gotten most of the the history hammered down for my character Kazahk. The NPC brother Kazahk killed in his youth was named Tagerdson, a orphan of obviously northern decent who was big, boisterous, and goodhearted, much loved with the villagers and the family. He would have been 29, had the event occurred. Feel free to use and mention him in the story/ history.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Alright, I actually PM'd you this time(this site changed a bit since my absence). Until I can get my char's history down, I'll wait to post so I don't end up having to retcon anything. Just curious, which characters and users are still in this thing?

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Alright sweet, posted up a sheet and tried to fill it with enough hooks to make some story lines out of. @ibyaah I PM'd you regarding the collab,, it's sitting in the CS ambiguously if we decide to go another way.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Kazahk Es'Cur

Name: Kazahk Es'Cur Age: 29 Gender: Male Species: Dark Elf/ Drow Physical Description:

Basically this, but Drow'd out

Kazahk is an admirable Drow specimen, save for the fact his journeys are written on his body, and his character shows through his scars as well. Black markings linger on lithe limbs and exposed skin in intricate patterns, some intentional and others incriminating, crisscrossed with puckered scars that linger much like their memories. His dark gray skin provides a stark contrast for his bleached hair, so there is no mistaking his ancestry. He keeps his shoulder length hair tied into a knot behind his head with a bone or such to secure it, beads and braids dangling from the mess. His face is marred with habitual scruff and a noticeable nic of a scar on his upper lip, giving his stern and gaunt cheeks a sinister look. This is exaggerated by dark bags under his eyes that seem very furtive with light blue pupils, and the shiny silver incisor that lies in his grin. He sits comfortable above most Men, but Elvish company looks him in the eye. He is rather brawny for his kind, having taken up the weapons and tactics(not to mention habits) of the stout men of the north.

Skillset:

Surprisingly, the Drow indoctrination has stuck with Kazahk well into his later years, and therefore shrewd tactical and diplomatic skills come naturally to him, along with many written languages(a few which he speaks), lower maths, and basic proficiency with most martial weapons, and many ranged ones. His time in Nightwood taught him basic survivalism along with tracking and sneaking, though archery, herbalism, botany, and craftsmanship were lost upon the boy. His travels northward refined his kleptomania and taught him merchant ways of haggling and economics, which he took a keen interest in and considers himself more than proficient in those arts. Suffering though imprisonment and the land of the north has given him an unusual knack for endurance also, along with a favoring toward the more brawn based combat of axes spears and heavy armor. If there is one combat skill he excels at, it is unarmed, hand-to-hand combat due to the many instances in his life that have trained and forced him to rely on his bare hands. Martial arts come naturally to him; his brawn, stature, and endurance make him a vicious fighter if forced, and Brand's teachings of agility and swiftness magnify this. All together this dark elf is a tough survivor that can handle many situations.

History:

Kazahk was born into a warrior caste of Drow that instilled strict and militaristic doctrine into their youth, and served a monarchy faithfully. His earliest memories are of martial training and mental exercises that were intended to mold him into a contributing dark elf. Success was rewarded handsomely, failure punished severely. It is here that Kazahk's nature was inflicted, and festered like a malicious wound. He struck out against his fellow students, unsubordinated his teachers, deceived his friends, and learned that there is more than one way to beat a system. After a nasty incident of kleptomania left him to be removed of the ownership of his hand, he decided to leave his only place in the world up to that point. At only seven he ran away into the surface world, descending the foothills of a mountain and into the plains of a land that was foreign to him. He wandered for days, weeks perhaps, using those principles instilled into him to eek out something that wasn't death but was not much of a life. When he came down a path and to a forest, he sought shelter. This was Nightwood, and as the Drow runaway would find out, Brand called this place home with his adopted family. Kazahk was desperate, but not rash. No, he could not be rash though the lesson the rod taught him. He discovered the home, the camps, the family of Brand and for a short time made due on discarded scraps, and even stole outright rarely. Brand nearly ran him through when he was finally discovered rummaging through a sack at a camp he thought abandoned. Brand saw the desperation and abuse in Kazahk however and brought him under his wing, showing him how to utilize his former doctrines to his advantage, and to adopt new ones to learn the wilds and forestry. Old habits die hard however, and Kazahk never did take all the old man's mannerisms to heart. It was just enough to keep him together, but never enough to make it work. His years with his new family were filled with good memories, but unhealthy envy would grow in the young drow's heart. While he made mischief in the neighboring villages, his younger siblings like Masef and Quinn took Brand's lessons far better then he did. He picked on that young elf, prying and using bully tactics that had been used on himself in the Drow underworld to try and find out what the High Elf knew, but alas, Quinn was just as much a orphan as Kazahk. As his stay neared it's end, the red haired sister of his wished to change her name, to which Kazahk offered a simple human pseudonym of Olivia. Being a drow, he valued what little anonymity he could find, but the girl refused, instead adopting Lysandra as her new name. She was one of the siblings that Kazahk's abrasiveness attitude did not seem to bother, perhaps for her young curiosity of his unique heritage. In his later years, he would often wonder how things would have been different between them if he had not been so set in his ways. Resentment steadily grew until he bickered with his fellows, rebelled against his adopted father, and sought freedom just like he had to begin with. He was one of the older orphans in the group at that time, and that status inflated his importance. He mistook Brand of the Nightwood's teaching and learning for the brainwashing of his Drow home. Soon careless words were said, filled with hate. A stepbrother rose up in defense(NPC: Tagersson), a fight ensued. Blood was shed, life was lost, and Kazahk fled at the age of seventeen. The last dozen years have been a blur to the dark elf. He has experienced pain and pleasure on the flood plains to the east, were the succulent Vogg river makes the soil dark and the people fat. Kazahk journeyed north to find out about Tagerdson, but only found the gallows and gulags of the icy plateau of Jirokain, where the northmen call home and the Jarl Vitek currently wishes him dead. The sickle of substance abuse found him and followed through his journey though the King’s land, the Baroness of Daggergrove and her purse funding many an evil deed. He heard rumors of a redheaded assassin at the time, but never did investigate, though he did inwardly wonder when the story mentioned a name of 'Olivia', and Lysandra quickly came to his mind. He nurtured friends and relationships when his pockets grew fat on caravans from the sands of Err as he took wares to trade, he was certain Masef would find his way into the sands and attempted to track him down, but quickly regressed when he thought about the contempt that his family members must harbor for him. He knew fear and despair has sickness took hold of him and those around him before he fled the coastal metropolis of Rostas Blut. He has grown hard and callous due to his travels, but yearns for those simple times he had at Nightwood. When Kazahk heard of the only farther he had known had died under cruel hands, he immediately sought for vengeance, but the soft words of the late man spoke to him, reminding him that first he must see to burial before a warpath was to begin. He wishes to make amends for the blood spilt and the ideals he did not honor for much of his life, and that is why he returns.

Psychological Profile:

Kazahk is a very defiant and rebellious figure, stubborn and headstrong with a furtive glare and a stern demeanor. Many of those qualities are cultivated and preferred in men of rank, to be decisive and blunt, strong in character and voice, and to be eager and efficient in their decision making. These are all characteristics that he has, but greed, jealousy, pride, and hatred have seeped into his moral fiber to taint and cloud his judgment if the narcotics and women do not. He is one to hold a grudge, and to seek out and eye for an eye, if not more. If it is worth doing, it is worth doing right. His Drow sense of pride does not allow for laziness or half-hearted promises or works, and therefore he may not be an elf of high moral ground, he does not shy away from good deeds. There is a habitual bitterness that is prone to come to his demeanor, but his irate behavior stems directly to his environment and circumstance in life. For instance, he is a merry and generous fellow when coin and good health favor him, but shackled to an oar or on the run for murder you will find a cantankerous and deceiving individual. He does wish to better himself, knowing that all his negative aspects can be humbled and improved upon. He does not wish to permeate the toxic Drow upbringing he had, and refuses to allow to be stereotyped by his race. He knows there is good and an admirable way to live in this world, because for a short time he lived and experienced under the wing of Brand and his adopted kin. Deep under his habits and callous ways he strives to see that way be the ruling one in this world, and perhaps even follow that way himself. However, knowing he has failed many times to uphold this ideal makes him pessimistic. This denial fuels his journey back home, and perhaps turning a new leaf for Kazahk.

Equipment:

• Short Sword,
  woo 2spooky

  
  most likely cursed if the merchant he stole it from is to be believed.
• Small Axe, usually for utilitarian purposes but can be thrown
• Large Bearded Axe, stored away unless battle is assured.
• Spear, mostly used as a walking staff or riding weapon in the saddle
• Horse, singular, that he has known for three winters now and is familiar with it's habits.
• Rucksacks, divided between a bag on his person and a larger sack stowed on his steed. His sleeproll and other such small traveling utilities are stored here.
• Drowish Crossbow, for as much as the old man's teachings went over his head, he still understands the power of a ranged weapon. a small quiver of bolts sits on his belt.
• Leather armor, layered thrice thick on his chest and likewise on his limbs, his mobility is maintained with little sleep lost on his defense.
• Steel Mail, worn under his leather, protecting most of his center mass.
• Cloak with fur lining, from his northern escapades that can take the bite out of the harshest of icy winds.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Alright, I was thinking a very young male drow runaway that finds his way into Nightwood, to be be found out by Brand stealing away food and trinkets from his other adopted young children to survive. Brand has some pity and benefit of the doubt and takes him in, teaching him with the others, but later down the line he finally rubs most the wrong way and runs off to be a bandit or whatnot. I'd love to incorporate some of the PC's already into his story.