[Characters] Lords of Damnation

[Sinister]

Those who seek to crush noble Talingarde beneath their booted heel.

[Ballingray]

Name: Th'Rax
Race: Human
Class: Fighter
Gender: Male
Alignment: Lawful Evil

 

Standing at over 6 foot tall, Th'Rax is an imposing figure. A hulking form, intimidating in his armor, and carrying with him his deadly blade, it is the features that strike most fear into his enemies.

His eyes, deep and blue are cold as ice, promising death to his enemies, an inevitable end that they cannot escape from. His mouth, a thin, hard line carries with it no humour, no kindness, nothing but cold, hard death.

His stance, proud and tall, tell all who come upon him that here is an unplacable, unyielding foe that will haunt them to the grave or die trying.

 

There is little that remains of the man that Th'Rax once was. Knowing that ultimately he was responsible for his own downfall and, ultimately, his own death from the monster that follows him relentlessly, he has sunk into a shell of bitterness and self-hatred. His soul is tainted and blackened from the experiences that have destroyed all of the man he once was.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, a deity favours him and calls him their own. Perhaps he doesn't realise that the strength of his own personality, his own indomitable willpower to survive in the face of almost overwhelming odds that would have crushed another is enough to retain some small favour in the heavens eyes.

Perhaps someone, somewhere, realises that Th'Rax is not totally lost yet, that there is still a chance, however small that he may yet become the champion he was born to be.

Th'Rax now is a sardonic, black-humoured individual lost behind the boundaries of his own self-pity. He tried to keep himself to himself and rarely speaks. When he does there is very little humour and warmth in his voice. He was never trained to love or to have respect for his fellow people, only for himself and his own abilities, and his recent experiences have driven out whatever humanity he once had.

Th'Rax is a paradox, a paradox of a man and one deeply conflicted. If he could seek some sort of redemption....something to free himself from the curse that has claimed his life then he would do it without a moment's hesitation.

Th'Rax doesn't trust easily. Since he desires isolation, the closer he gets to someone, the more harshly he treats them, trying to drive them away so they don't suffer the same ignominious fate that he himself is. Yet, deep down, all he desires more than anything else is for someone to break through the barriers he has set in front of himself, someone to save him from himself.

 

How do I reconcil with my fate? I was once an agent of darkness, my deity's chosen one, it was my life's duty to seek out and strike down the enemies of my lord. It is my duty to bring to them the divine justice of my lord. Yet this is not so in my case. I have been driven to the depths of the world, to whatever dark corners will shield me from sight. For I am the hunted, not the hunter, cursed to wander the world for eternity lest the shadow's that pursue me strip the flesh from my bones and devour my soul. A sad fall for one such as myself, one who once stood high in the divine graces of my liege.

He was once exulted as an agent of Orcus. He who once stood in his lords favour. How badly things went wrong. How far the mighty have fallen. Th'Rax was a protege. Marked for greatness at an early age, he was taken as a babe by acolytes of his former lord. He too, in his divine might could see that this one was special, unlike the rest. His priestesses prophesied that he would one day become a mighty warrior in his name, the greatest of the Lord's elite.

And so Th'Rax was stolen to the temples of the deity, and there he was trained from the day he was strong enough to hold a weapon in his hand. And train he did, each day working long and hard, practising in the art of war, learning the tenets of Orcus, being drilled each and every day in her beliefs. And far above Orcus himself watched, and was pleased with what she saw.

When he was ready, Th'Rax was given his divine mission. He was to seek down and destroy the enemies of Orcus, Lord of the Undead. Th'Rax revelled in this task, for he had been tempered in war and death, so had little place for love, friendship or humanity. He existed for one thing and one thing only - the death of his enemies. Th'Rax was unmatched in his ability, and all who stood before him fell beneath the strength of his blade, and the power of his prayers. With the divine favour of Orcus watching over him, it seemed that nothing could halt his divine mission.

As with most things though, the equilibrium would shift eventually. There was one thing that would prove to be Th'Rax's downfall. His own pride. As he slew one foe after the next, Th'Rax grew overconfident and cocky.

The man, prideful and overconfident was easy prey for the authorities of Talingarde. His reputation preceding him, Th'Rax was already a wanted man in the land of Talingarde. Catching him, a broken, feeble shadow of his former self was simplicity itself. And now he stays, and he awaits his end.

For he knows his death is inevitable.

He cannot escape the shadow forever.......the shadow of his doom.

[Osellic]

Name: Zandarith Sanguine
Race: Luminarii
Class: Rogue
Gender: Male
Alignment: Neutral Evil

 

The boy was born an orphan and taken in by a member of the Barca family. The Lord, Lady, and Maiden would be the only people the boy would ever know, until now. For reasons unknown to the boy he was forced to stay inside and away from all other people. He was rather curious however, and couldn't help but press himself against the windows and look out to the world beyond. The Lord and Lady found this dangerously mischievous and he was punished harshly. While still only a child, the boy received violent lashings and beatings from the Lord and Lady, as well as temporary drowning administered by the Lady during bathing hours. She very nearly finished the poor boys life on several occasions. As the boy grew intelligent however it became clear to him that neither the Lord or Lady knew of how the opposite was treating him. When the boy had become ten however his curious antics and desire for an outside world left the Lord and Lady no choice. He was to be locked in the cellar and to sleep in cages while strangled by a metal leash. The cellar was always cold, and the crisp metal would burn at his flesh, leaving horrible bruises and gashes. The isolation left the boy with nothing but his own thoughts, so much so that he actually began to welcome the company that came with a brutal lashing. As time went by the boy could not make sense of what he had done wrong, and why he belonged in a cage, or why the beatings ensued. Being locked away kept him from the windows, so why then were the beatings continued? As days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years the boy grew bitter, angry, and internally numb. Desperation gripped at his heart and he longed to free himself from the chains that bound him. One day the Lady of the manor began to creep into the cellar, she entered his cage beside him and held him tightly. It wasn't long before heavy sobs ran from the Ladies cheek and soaked the boy's wounded skin. The boy asked her, "Can I go outside now?" and her cries only worsened.

So it went for two years, though time was something lost on the boy. The Lady began to confide in the boy, telling him her darkest secrets, biggest regrets, hates and even apologize for the harm she caused him. At the beginning the boy would ask, "Can I go outside today?" but this always sent the woman away. He learned if he wanted company he must never ask for anything. His curiosity boiled inside him, and a dark rage began to stir, still no reason had been given for his treatment. During this time the Lord continued to appear on occasion and whip the boy tip his arm could take no longer. As the beatings worsened the Lady grew more and more affectionate. The boy believed he had found a friend in the Lady, but as she spent more time with him the Lord only grew angrier, which in turned escalated the beatings which again kept the Lady by the boy's side longer. The friendship the boy thought was there however dissolved rather quickly when the Lord's beatings traveled onto the Lady. She would taunt the boy from his cage and barrage him emotionally for her own misfortune only to return again the same night and hold him tightly. With things intensifying as they were the boy began to fear for his life, any spare time he had (which was a lot) he attempted to break the leash and cage. His body began to develop from the extreme physical exertion, and through puberty and it was as this time that things became very strange.

It seemed the Lady had taken a deep liking to the boy, and the encounters they now shared held a much darker tone. Her visits decreased to only once a week, but the boy was forever changed by the first. All emotion left the boy, any brief flicker of life in his eyes had now been slain, and he rarely thought, he had become truly numb. For months these encounters forced the boy into a deeper and deeper "dead" state until one such night a hair-pin fell from the Ladies hair. When she left the boy attempted to pick the locks to what imprisoned him, but naturally it broke. A renewed vigor surged through his body, and the encounters they shared sparked greater interest from the Lady. What she read as attraction and love for her was truly the boy fighting for his freedom, by attempting to subtly remove hair-pins. He had begun playing with her hair so much that she would return to him only to lay in his lap and only have her hair stroked, as a "gift" for the boy. After years of this abuse and continued beatings from the Lord the boy successfully picked the locks. Hope beamed from his fragile body, and he crept slowly from the cellar and peered out the windows of the manor's home. The outside world shimmered with moonlight, and the stars beckoned for him. Stepping outside however was harder then he imagined. A surge of fear ran through his body and instead of creeping outside, he crept upstairs towards the lord and lady. He wasn’t quite sure why, but something in him felt he must. Emotions rushed through him replacing his hope with fear, anger, resentment and grief. When the boy reached the top of the stairs he grabbed a candle stick. It seemed his body was moving of his own will, and revenge the force behind it. Before he reached the Lord and Ladies chamber however he saw a portrait of the two of them with a young maiden, a daughter perhaps. He was shocked to see this, and even more shocked when the same maiden walked from her chamber and screamed in fear at the discovery of this stranger in her home. The boy didn’t know what to do and he panicked. He dropped the candle stick and sprinted down the stairs, turned the corner and lunged for the door. It opened and he sprinted across fresh lawn. It seemed he would make it to the fence but something bit at his heel and teared wildly at his flesh. A creature unlike he had ever seen. Fear ripped at his heart as the beast continued to attack and something inate took over him. A surge of electricity formed and shot from his palm leaving the beast dead upon him. It wasn’t long before the lord beat him senseless and he was returned to his prison, now more secure then ever.

There he sat for another four years. The beatings from the lord grew worse, but somehow the boy grew numb to pain. The encounters from the Lady became slightly more infrequent but intensified in nature. When the boy was in his twenties the door to his cellar opened again, but this time to the face of the daughter. She didn’t speak, she didn’t blink and she didn’t breathe. She just walked down the steps slowly and put her hands on boy's wounded face and body. She wept for a moment and then disappeared. It was months before he saw her again. When she returned she held a dagger in her hand. The boy assumed that perhaps this was finally the end, instead the girl undid his chains and handed the dagger to him. He eyed her carefully and took the dagger. Her words still echo in his head today, "If I have lived my whole life unknowing of your suffering then the do unto me as has been done to you. Show me what it is I have been ignorant of." Her voice quivered as she spoke. In a flash he grabbed her hair and forced her against the cellar wall, the dagger pressed deeply against her throat and a thin line of blood dripped from her perfect flesh. And it was as she had asked for. By the end of the experience, the boy had beaten her as her father had and abused her as her mother had. When it was done the boy sat down and cried along side the maiden. He tried to form words but nothing could escape his mouth save a soft whimper. The maiden took him by the hand and reattached his chains, grabbed the dagger and limped away.

As the years continued things stayed very much the same with the Lord and Lady, however the Maiden continued to reappear. She brought him books by candlelight, fine food and drink and even taught him to read, to speak eloquently and the proper way to wield a sword. She would confide all her fears and sadness in him and spoke of a day where he would be free of this, free to take revenge on her miserable parents and the world that bred such behavior. When the boy was twenty-four she told him she loved him, and gave him a proper name. "Zandarith Sanguine, do you like it? I think it’s poetic and deeply beautiful" The two made love that night, and again every night after. The maiden was a darkly intelligent woman, and taught Zandarith how to kill, how to steal and how to not get caught. He of course never actually preformed these things but was taught how to intellectually and he practiced in his head over and over.

The two would discuss for hours how he would slay the Lord and Lady. The plan was simple, every year the two celebrated their anniversary by hiring a bard to sing to them while they sat from a swinging chair hung from a tree in the back yard. "You’ll sneak up onto them and penetrate blade though both of their back simultaneously." From this day the maiden would bring two short swords with her, and he practiced his skill for hours. There even became a time where Zandarith felt happy. For five years this went on, but when Zandarith turned twenty-nine everything changed. The Lady of the manor visited him again as she usually did and this time was very aggressive in her approach. It seemed she wished to slay him upon one final rendezvous, and if it weren’t for the maiden opening the cellar door she would have been successful. However seeing her lover being forced to lay with her own mother was more then she could bear and momentary madness consumed her. Scream and cursing at the Lady, the Maiden attacked. The noise she made awoke the Lord who was furious to discover what lay before his eyes. Zandarith, the Maiden, and the Lady were all beaten severely, Zandarith especially. In an attempt to save his love from harm Zandarith used all his might to break free from the chains that withheld him. Everything he ever experienced burned inside him and the chains snapped. He fought furiously against the lord, and landed a few good blows but was unsuccessful at slaying him. Before the night was through, the maiden and lady were taken away, and a man he had never seen before escorted him to a much a larger prison. The last he saw of the lord was his scowling nasty face barking out,"I won’t have your filth upon my conscious any longer. I’ve reserved the worst death imaginable for how you have humiliated me. Shake in fear for three days. Wallow in piss for three days. Boy, your wretched life ends in three days."

 

Zandarith is a little detached from the world around him, to say the least. Tho much of his personality has yet to be discovered. Certainly a vast and dark well of emotion lie bleeding beneath the surface, but much of that has been suppressed. His one most motivating goal are the words of the maiden: "If I have lived my whole life unknowing of your suffering then the do unto me as has been done to you. Show me what it is I have been ignorant of." If Zandarith is freed the world will know his suffering.

 

Zandarith stands at a powerful six feet two inches, and is carved with a muscular physique. His skin is a midnight blue with hues of silver reflecting from him in the light. His hair and eyes are an albino white that strike fear and awe into all those who gaze upon him.
Ignore the words on his chest. Those aren't there.

[Sinister]

Name: Grimm Hacksaw
Race: Hobgoblin
Class: Two Handed Fighter
Gender: Male
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Appearance: Like most of his hob brethren, Grimm is a stocky, thickly built man with a greenish-grey cast to his skin. Having been through a scarification ritual at a young age, much of his body is covered in toughened, leathery flesh, made hard by knives and fire over the course of months. The same fire took a toll on his eyesight however; one of his eyes has gone pale and lost its darkvision, and the other is useless. His staure marks him as tall for his own race, but of average human height at 5'8". His tightly corded muscle and bulk still make him a large fellow, tipping the scales at just over 215 pounds by human reckoning. He carries himself with both pride and caution; with the air of someone who's looked death in the eye often enough that it no longer frightens him, but he isn't looking to catch another glimpse. Left to his own devices, he'd dress comfortably and without ostentation.

Personality: Grimm is a bit of an odd specimen among Hobgoblins. His killer instinct and matter of fact nature smack of his kin, but when outside of the heat of battle, he's a rather easy going fellow, content to let the soft times last while they can. Grimm also possesses a strong streak of gallows humor that sees him through hard times. More than once, an arrow meant for him veered and struck a friend in the skull in the thick of battle. Best way to get over that sort of thing was to mourn quickly, then laugh it off and keep moving, in his mind. Dwell on it too long, and you end up very dead, very quickly. You have to be realistic after all. This is not to say that he isn't still an exemplar of the famous Hob discipline. He has been a soldier since his birth, and he behaves accordingly. He would never be lax or lighthearted about performing his duties. If he had any at the moment, that is.

While he has never had formal study of any kind, Grimm is well versed in a few subjects that his parents emparted to him. As his clan's chief Siege Master, his father was able to show him a great deal about the nature of building and cities, and of course how to best knock them down. His mother was able to teach him about certain forms of medicine and anatomy from her work as an apothocary for the army during the Goblinblood wars. He isn't the quickest man around, but these pursuits have made him a tad more intellectual than many.

In general, The Hacksaw is a man to be reckoned with, and an effective killer if need be, but his easy nature and quick smile have won him as many battles as his blade, and he's aware that that's the only reason he's still alive...for three more days at least. Once, his commander Kettlebreaker gave him some advice for dealing with people: "A big man hits you once, you ask him why he did it, and calm the bastard down. He hits you again, run if you can. But if he chases you? Lose him, then come back when he's Sleeping and gut him til he can't bleed no more, burn his house down, and piss on his wife for good measure. Who's gonna hit you then?". Words to live by, those.

History: During the later days of the Goblinblood Wars in southern Isger, the goblin hoards and their hobgoblin commanders had grown desperate, hemmed in as they were by the armies of the Chelish hellknights and Andoran infantry. They began using every resource they had at their disposal in an attempt to stem the tide of the conflict. This included, but was not limited to, pressing their own soldiers on the cusp of adulthood into service. And so it was that young Grimm, son of Olak Bloodpick, son of Sinder Horsehide, was conscripted to join the fight against the human coalition. Though disappointed, his parents did not fight the matter too fervently, and hobs are not nearly so sentimental as man. Grimm had been trained for combat his entire life, but the horrors and glory of war still were a shock to him at such a young age. His superiors never found out, but during his first skirmish, he survived by hiding in the trunk of a decayed tree. If they had, he would have of course been executed. Such cowardice didn't last long, however. After ahis first full engagement, where many a good hobgoblin fell around him on all sides, the shock drove the fear right put of him. Instead of something terrifying, death became a another part of life for him, but one he was intent on outrunning as long as he could. After these fights, he earned his name, Hacksaw. He had learned something of medicine from his mother, and put it to use caring for the wounded. For many, this meant amputation with a hacksaw.

The wars did not last a great long time after after he had joined them. The humans might have been weak as individuals, but the combined military might of four nations was simply too much for his superiors to handle, even with brutality and retain on their side. The numbers were utterly overwhelming. In the mad scatter for life that followed, Grimm and his battalion were separated from the rest of the hoard, and ran cross country until they had reached relative safety. His commander, Arak Kettlebreaker, was one of the finest warriors Grimm had ever known, and was determined to keep his men alive by any means necessary. There were about forty of them all told. Quite a few mouths to feed, and most of them were used to slaves handling menial work for them. As much as many of them no longer had a taste for war, all that was to be found in those days for a hardworking hob was mercenary jobs. And so they set about finding it. Grimm was quite popular with the rest of the men, quite with a joke, and quicker with a blade, he earned their admiration both on and off the battlefield. For years on end they fought together, building a fearsome reputation.

Unfortunately for the band, work is hard to come by in peacetime. Foolish and desperate for coin and bread, Kettlebreaker took a job that he knew was dangerous from the outset. A group of naive cultists had been putting together a plan to kidnap the princess of Talingarde, Bellinda, and hearing their references, hired them to do the dirty work. Grimm and the rest cared little for some backwater nation or their royalty, and they agreed to rumbling bellies. But the job was utterly and completely botched. During the assault, Grimm became cut off from his fellows, while he didn't see it happen, he heard them being butchered to a man within the princess' chambers. He hurried to their aid, but was caught and captured by the Knights of Alerion themselves, desperate to protect the royal line. Arrested and convicted to high treason, Grimm is restless without his friends, and unsure of how to get himself out of this scrape. He finds himself a soldier without anything, or anyone to fight for.

[Bshaff]

Name: Zerah Rishik
Race: Changeling
Class: Oracle of the Outer Rifts
Gender: Female
Alignment: Neutral Evil

 

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Appearance:
Zerah is a goddess in her own right. Standing tall at 5'9" her slender, toned body dominates over most that gaze upon her. She has a pale white skin that still reflects the white tattooed ancient words that cover her left arm and back. Her long, pin straight, black hair contrasts her other striking features giving Zerah a dark aura about her. Her changeling background can be seen through her contrasting eye colors. One eyes being a dark chocolate brown contrasting with the piercing green of the other. People often say the eyes are the window to the soul but with Zerah's eyes it's difficult to see the soul at all. Zerah carries herself with pride and it often appears as if she is gliding across the ground instead of walking it. Black, purple, and red are her favorite colors and majority of her revealing garments sport these colors.


History
Zerah, like most changelings was born of a hag mother and human lover to her. As is common, at birth Zerah was left on the steps of a foster family to be raised by them. Zerah was born during the reign of King Markadian IV. She was left on the steps of a small cottage on the outskirts of the city of Gastemhall. What seemed to be a quaint village on the outside dealt with many dark dealings underground. Anton and Tessix were the couple living in the cottage at the time and at the sight of the child they quickly rushed her inside, making sure that no one saw. The first few years of Zerah's life were lived in secrecy. Her new foster parents took good care of her and loved her deeply, but never let her leave the house or let anyone in to visit.

On Zerah's 5th birthday everything changed though. Tessix was frantically running around the house searching for something, unbeknownst to Zerah. She was overturning chairs and looking behind every piece of furniture when Anton also comes bursting in. "Tessix, Did you find something for the ritual? We must go now! If we are late they will come looking for us." Tessix behind tears whispers, "I can't find anything for the sacrifice, I can't believe we forgot it was today. What are we going to do?" Anton and Tessix then begin to whisper into each others ears while looking back at the small Zerah. Anton rushes over to Zerah and picks her up. "Well I'm going to take my sweet Zerah upstairs and give her some birthday cake. How does that sound little one?" He then kisses her on the cheek and begins to walk upstairs when a loud knock is heard on the front door. Anton hurries up the stairs as Tessix opens the door. A deep voice is heard from downstairs, "The two of you are late for the ritual and it is your turn to provide the sacrifice. We cannot keep Asmodeus waiting. Where is Anton?" Pounding feet are heard walking up the stairs and in no time two massive men in black and red cloaks are standing in the doorway. Anton attempts to shield the small child from them but it is too late. Their eyes instantly dart to the small Zerah and in no time she is being held in their clutches. [B]"Well well, it looks as though you have found your sacrifice. Or does she belong to you? You haven't been hiding this child from the church now have you? You know what the punishment is for that. Either way the child is coming with us. It is time for the ritual." [/B Tessix is on the brink of tears and looks to Anton for reassurance. He pushes her forward knowing that they must follow the leaders towards the ritual. Once they reach the ritual room Zerah sees a large circle of people in red and black cloaks standing in a circle chanting. In the middle of the circle is an altar which is surrounded by a large black circle. The guard hands Zerah back to Tessix. Tessix begins to pray over her with tears streaming down her face that splash down onto Zerah's cheeks. The chanting comes to a halt and Anton and Tessix are commanded towards the center of the circle. Anton too whispers a prayer to Asmodeus, "Please spare her Asmodeus, she will do great things for you. We will raise her to glorify your name." He then turns and lifts up the small Zerah. "Our sacrifice to the great God Asmodeus. May her blood strengthen your power." He then places her onto the altar and Tessix and Anton rejoin the circle both quietly crying. The chanting starts up again in a language unknown to Zerah. Around her the altar bursts into flames and she begins to cry out for her parents but the chanting has become too loud. Suddenly light flashes on the child and words are being carved into her left arm, the same words as the chanting. Instead of the fire growing it immediately goes out. Everyone in the circle suddenly breaks into confusion. One of the leaders approaches the sacrificial altar and looks at the child's arm. In glistening letters reads the promising oath to Asmodeus. He picks up the small child and speaks to the group, "It appears that not only has Asmodeus spared the sacrifice but has chosen her to be the future leader of our movement. Asmodeus has touched and blessed this child." Tessix and Anton rush over to Zerah crying and hold her close. Zerah would continue to be raised closely as an Asmodeus worshipper and leader of the church as she ages.

It wouldn't be until Zerah had turned 17 that she would have her life turned around again. Times had gotten rough for the Asmodeus followers with all of the purges happening in the kingdom. Her and her family were constantly on the move running from those that did not believe the same as they did. When the new king Markadian V came into reign the purges began to die down and Asmodeus followers went completely underground to keep their practice alive. One day the Asmodeus church was meeting underground to study the ancient texts and spend time in prayer dedicated to him. Suddenly the doors are burst open by a massive brigade of knights all armed with massive weaponry and torches. They began throwing the torches and lighting all of the tapestries and books on fire. Mass chaos ensues as the knights are blocking all of the exits from the church. Anyone that attempts to run immediately gets shot down by flaming arrows. Zerah sees everything that she has grown up with completely being destroyed. She begins frantically scanning the room for her parents. She sees her father Anton blocking her mother Tessix from two guards that are approaching. He gets on his knees and begins to plead for them to spare Tessix. Zerah begins to run over to them when she sees the guard swiftly behead her father and grab her mother. The guard brings Tessix over to another group of women that had been gathered up. Zerah drops to the ground in anguish at the sight of her father. She looks back at the guard and mentally captures his face. That will not be one man that she is soon to forget. She knows at this point that there is nothing she can do to save them. She then remembers a small hiding place underneath the moveable altar where special sacrifices are kept. It was small but it was her only hope. She turns and sprints to the altar before she hears the screams of the women cry out and drop to the floor. She raises the altar and crawls into the compartment located underneath and lowers the altar back down sealing herself temporarily in the darkness below. She waits there for what seems like hours before raising the altar back up. The room is now smokey and dark. The remains of burnt and bloody bodies scatter the floor. Everything and everyone that she had ever known had been taken from her just like that. She lets out a scream and feels the hatred boiling in her blood. She goes to her mother's dead body and holds it as she cries. She swears to Asmodeus that the knights of Alerion would pay for what they had done. She would bring justice to her people and bring the reign to the true king, Asmodeus himself.

Zerah let that hatred continue to burn inside of her as she trained and studied in secrecy and loneliness for years. From that day revenge burned inside of her. She knew she was not strong enough on her own to take down the Knights of Alerion let alone the King for that matter but she had to start somewhere. So she plotted to find the Knight that murdered her parents. That was a face she would never forget. She was able to get a hold of guard records and by many sneaky patrols around the guard territories she was able to discover the name of the man who murdered her family. Richard Havelyn was his name. After that it wasn't hard to ask around town and discover where he lived. The day had finally come that she would strike. She had made an elaborate plan to sneak into his home in the dead of night. She planned to lock him into his bedroom and light the house on fire. Since her people went up in flames so should he. It would be easy and traceless. Her plan did not go as smoothly as she had anticipated however. Unfortunately being a very powerful Knight of Alerion she did not account for extra hidden security by his home. Before she made it into the house was caught and captured by the guards for trespassing on government property with criminal intent. She was immediately taken to Branderscar prison where she would have to plan her next escape...Asmodeus would not let her end come now.

 

https://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=50569

[CaptainJohnHawk]

EDIT: Hey sorry, I tried to edit from my phone and it totally messed up my formatting. I re-posted my character sheet, now that I am home. Also the requested roll is under the rolls spoiler button

Freak Name:Freak Race: Ice Elf bastard Age: Appears to be around 16 human years old Alignment: Chaotic Evil Class-Sobriquet: Witch Description: Freak, stands roughly 5'8" and weighs 120lb's on a good day. Several visible scars cover his body and face, two of note being a boat anchor on his left arm, and a long line of tick marks swirling around the left wrist and arm of Freak. This swirl of scars starts with a very old slash starting at the wrist, and ends with a wound made very recently. Freak has a rather unpleasant stench, possibly due to the infestation of bugs in his hair, or the blood and mold crusted pants he is wearing. Freaks eyes are mostly a natural blue, however when focusing on a person or object of interest, his eyes will appear to freeze, and emit a dim blue light.   During the early years of the House Darius rule, the King would send small scouting parties beyond the Watch Wall and into the Savage North, to monitor the surrounding area as an early protection from attacks. On these scouting trips, the guards would come across all types of creatures, and on rare occasions, Ice Elves. The groups would never contain more then a handful of untrained bodyguards and some food gatherers for the tribe. Normally these encounters would pose little threat and both parties would be on their way, but some times there would be conflict. On one such day, a knight of a note-worthy name, killed a bodyguard and celebrated his victory with one of the Elven food gathering women. This event led to a bastard child being born that only brought painful memories back to the mother and her husband. After several arguments on whether or not they should raise a baby that would be a constant reminder of the worst day of their lives, they decided to dispose of the child in the frozen tundra, and allow the Gods to decide his fate. By a stroke of luck or the act of a higher power, a tribe of Burabar, out on a hunting trip, came across the child. Its feet and legs having been entirely blackened by frostbite, the child would be lucky to even learn to crawl, little alone walk. The Burabar took the child back to their village, and a Burabar by the name of Lokka took the child into her care. To the woman's surprise the child recovered very quickly and even learned to walk at an early age. The Burabar taught the child how to hunt and defend itself, and all though he was a tenth of the strength and size of these massive creatures, he was driven. During meals, the child feasted on a variety of meat, human and elf beings eaten on several occasions. After a few years, everything began looking tastier and tastier. Once the child grew into its teen years it was clear that even though his leg had recovered their strength, the skin never regained its color and stayed a dark grey.He also began developing a twisted view of the world and begin acting aggressively towards others, and on one occasion biting an elders ear clean off. This event was the final straw for the tribe and they decided the child was to be judged by the Gods once again, and would be thrown back into the tundra. Lokka did her best to protect the baby from the guards, but she was easily over powered and the child taken. He was bound and blind folded and thrown into a fur covered cart to be taken far away. After a five day cart ride across the unmapped snow ridges and canyons, the child was thrown out of the cart and given a bag of basic survival gear and some food. The child wandered for months trying to find its way back to the village, surviving off of snow rabbits and what little provisions the tribe had given him. After three long months he abandoned his quest and made a small camp inside an abandoned snow cave. In that cave the boy lived off of anything dumb enough to wander close to his fires for warmth. For two years the boy lived like this, having nothing to do but think of why he hated the world and why the world hated him, and during this time he developed a general hatred towards all living things. After one particularly cold winter, the boy decided it was time to act on his anger and take revenge on the world, and after several months reached a towering wall of ice, stretching as far as he could see. The child walked along side the wall for four days, and on the night of the fourth day came across what must have been an old entrance into a keep, that has long lost its use. Crawling through the rubble left inside the collapsed tunnel, the child reached a dark cellar. To his surprised it was full of fresh food and drink enough to feed a castle. The child stuffed itself with pickled vegetables and salted pork, until it could barely move. After a long dark trip, it had finally found a home, and for the first time it could remember, he smiled and went to sleep. With a loud bang and the sound of wooden chairs sliding across a floor, the child jolted awake. He was not as alone as he thought. Creeping out of the cellar and up a small flight of steps the child located the origin of the noise. It was an elderly human placing chairs around a small wooden table that held a bowl of fruit and eggs. The child did not know why, but he hated this man with more hate then he knew existed, and for the next few moments showed that man exactly how much he hated him. With teeth bared and finger nails out like claws, the child jumped onto the back of the man, sinking his teeth deep into the mans neck. After a few gasps and gurgles, the old man had drowned in his own blood, and the child began to eat a well earned kill. However, killing this man did not relieve the child of the hate it felt, and soon the child took off searching the remainder of the castle for any other living creatures. After making quick work of a pinned pig and a handful of rats, the child came across another man. This one was much younger and stronger, and would not go down as easily. The child knew that he would have to wait for the man to be caught off guard or perhaps wait for him to go to sleep. As the thought of sleep entered the child's mind, the man turned quickly in the direction of the boy, and starred right at him with a confused look on his face. After a slight exhale, the mans eyes fell closed and he stood there motionless. The child did not know if this was of his doing, or a gift from the gods, but he did not care. He was hungry for his next kill and wanted nothing more then to end this mans life. With a ferocious swing, the child smashed a rock into the mans head, sending him to the ground, and his kill count rose to two. After several other trips through the castle he had learned these men had simply made camp in the keep, to protect themselves from the storm. The boy knew he could use this idea to entice other lost travelers into his spider web, and for the next two years, he did just that. Killing parties as large as five people with simple martial weapons and his strange ability to command the feeling of sleep almost at will. Once his kill count got over twenty, he began taking pride in his work by scratching tick marks into his arm, to remind himself of each and every kill. If he manage to kill a creature that was stronger then him, or gave him some kind of challenge, he would take a small trophy from them, usually a belt or scrap of cloth. The fort must have developed a reputation for disappearances, because people began to come more and more frequently, looking for the "Freak" that lye in its dark corners. These encounters were the most troublesome for the now teenager, and more times then not, some or all of the victims would get away from him. After enough reports to local authorities, a neighboring town to the keep sent a group of guards up to the keep. They found him with his hands in the chest of some poor soul and his face covered in blood. The child spun around quick enough to see a very large man clad in armor, with a look of terror and rage in his eyes. The boy was no match for this knight, and after a futile escape effort, the boy was caught, and bound in irons. One murder was enough to convict the boy, but the "pile" of evidence found around the keep was enough to send the boy to on a one way trip to Branderscar Prison. The guards took the boy in a covered cart, and made sure not to skip any beatings along the journey. Being held up by a small snow storm the journey took a week longer then expected, and before they reached their destination even the guards had begun calling him the Freak. It was lucky they reached the prison when they did, the boy might not have survived another day with the guards. The men pulled the boy from the cart and brought him in to the prison, and before they left, the men branded the child with a large "F". It is there the boy awaits judgment, it is there the boys hatred boils over, it is there the boy dies, and Freak is born. Character Sheet

[JFlynn]

App Sheet: https://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=52092 Name: Luthien Elzario Race: Dhampir Class: Warpriest Alignment: Neutral Evil Deity: Nerull Appearance Luthien has the appearance of a human, 5’6 inches tall, and once had a shapely frame. That was long ago, of course, during a time when the fields were thick with fattened humans bleating to be reaped. Alas, due to misfortune, years of atrophy, and betrayal, her figure is sickly and grotesque…for the time being, that is. Despite her apparent frailty, the young lady carries herself with a mysterious grace, albeit, akin to a shriveled rose. Short, choppy, raven black hair drapes over her face and wispily fans midway down her neck. Crooked bangs guise a malicious pair of grey eyes that are cold as tombstones. There is yet a spark of fairness clinging to her brooding visage, but rarely will she don a smile for anyone but prey. She prefers rags above riches, practicality over aesthetics. What trust remains rests in the elegance of death, and the rapture of violence. The steadfast oath of plated armor is her only relief, and the song of the Reaper’s scythe is a sweet lullaby before the feast. Always, her garb must be black. Should she ever practice her faith in the light, something rust-red would suite her macabre tastes. Personality Life has a funny way of destroying your faith in it. Perhaps, she should feel grateful for only being half-alive. The meaning of why we exist, why the world is rotten and cruel, may be a conundrum to the simpletons of the world, but existence has always been perfectly clear for Luthien. For her, existence comes at a price, for her survival has always coincided with the death of others. Does she pity those people? Does a wolf pity the weak, or an owl the vermin in the fields? Moral questions are tiresome. Conscience is a luxury, but only that—as conscience is no indicator of character, but has led to far more bloodshed than some would care to admit. Men and their morals are the monsters here. She’s merely a quiet scavenger in their wake, and has always been content living with that grisly arrangement. Pious men and their righteous blades are the true foes of enlightenment, so there is little remorse when faced with slash or dash. The meats have their walls, and their castles, and kingdoms—but they’ll never be free as a crow. Luthien is every bit a high-born Lady, despite having no family or estate to speak of. Arrogance and contempt for the living was instilled in her at a young age, along with a zealotry that rivals that of the Knights of Aurelion. Her one desire is to spread the faith of Nerull, though deep down Luthien longs to live a carefree life…like what her human mother had. Inevitably, the world and everyone in it—even the sun—will be swallowed by perpetual darkness and the depths of Winter. Hopefully, with Nerull’s ascension, one day the filthy side of her that lives, along with all its cares and useless whimsy, will perish along with the world. Dhampirs survive by wearing façades, and though it is not unreasonable for her to cooperate with beings that would otherwise be considered food, the benefits of forming alliances would have to significantly outweigh the cons. Despite the urge to murder those she considers “blood-beaters”, or “lesser riff-raff”, regardless of their station, Luthien is well practiced in restraint, and can find other means of releasing her savage frustrations. Delving into an intriguing subject often does the trick. Deciphering scrolls and artifacts is one of her interests…as learning about the past, and how the world works may provide clues on how to destroy it. History Born one miserable and dreary night in the city of Ghastenhall to a refined, though arguably vapid human—a lesser noblewoman named Sorsha Merendi—as soon as the child was revealed to the fading mother, she died with a hideous scream. Truly, not anyone of consequence. The father of this child, however, certainly was…the midwives thought to drown the creature in a pail of water, but the shadow that leapt through the window had them drowning in their own blood. Lucian named the girl-child after himself, as siring this abomination had been his intention all along. Growing up during the days before the great Battle of Tamberlyne, it was a tumultuous time where even the best of friends could find themselves clashing blades—while for others, it was a time to revel in the aftermath. Lucien was a garish, unabashed vampire at night, with his rapier-cane, flamboyant crimson silks, black leather, and a crooked feathered hat for added flare. Traveling near areas plagued with disease and hardship, poor folk confused him for a wealthy merchant or passing Lord. Like sheep, they followed him and the small child, some even trying to steal her on occasion. Endlessly, the sheep bleated all manner of pleas for just a small gesture of mercy….They were obliged of course, promised a few coin and some-such, when really he proffered death. The sight of Father ripping out throats was common place. “Nothing but riff-raff, my dear, mindless scrap.” He coldly laughed, “Never pass up the chance to rid the world of vermin.” By vermin, he meant everyone. No one was spared, because Lord Nerull—The Reaper, The Foe of All Good, He Who Revels in the Slaying of The Living—demands that the world be cleansed of smelly blood-beaters. His children are the dead, but, being half-living, Lucien instilled in his child a deep guilt. “When you’re older, you must murder as doubly hard if you hope to appease The Reaper. You were born to walk in the light, and murder in the light, to defy the petty gods and defile all that is good. That is your purpose, Dhampir.” Most of Luthien’s life was spent in isolation. Lucien hunted every other night and made sure she was sated on the blood of urchins, nameless babes, and whoever else he could snatch. Orphaned children, in particular, found Lucien fascinating. The myth of the Ghastenhall Prowler was born as rumors surfaced of a killer in the alleys, but no one of importance took interest in investigating. For many, the disappearance of hundreds of undesirables came as a relief. The laziness of officials made it easy for them to live in relative comfort, but Lucien wasn’t satisfied simply scrounging on the fringe. Soon he procured a poor and dilapidated manor-house under questionable means, which allowed them some measure of privacy…yet, despite never seeing any bodies, there was always a faint trace of blood and decay in the air. As a present, seeing how his daughter was always alone, Lucien gave her one of the previous inhabitants—a prim and obedient elf with curly almond hair and clever green eyes, named Ephren Krayth. Located within one of the shabbier districts of Ghastenhall, the manse fell even further into disrepair as the years wore on, and nary a soul dared linger outside the gate, as it had a reputation of being cursed. A ballad was even written that any who ventured inside would be dragged to hell, sung throughout Ghastenhall by Lucian himself. Ephren was such a wonderful pet, the only friend she ever knew. While Lucien was away, sometimes days at a time, no doubt off fulfilling his hedonistic needs at the brothels, the boy guarded and jumped to her every whim. When despairing, Ephren worked hard to cheer her up with magic. When hungry, he prepared her meals and even offered his blood on occasion. The boy easily embraced Nerull and together they studied the arts of death, ending each session with prayers for destruction amid the ruins of the haunting manor. Though prohibited from going out, at least they had each other. When war broke out between House Barca and House Darius, Luthien’s desire to fulfill her dark purpose only heightened.   Nerull's Apostle Together, dressed as harmless pilgrims, Lucien took Ephren and his then twelve-year-old protégé on a journey across the Heartland, visiting the many battlefields and experiencing the carnage first-hand. Father was a bard, merely a humble disciple of Nerull. She wanted to be so much more, determined to prove that despite her filthy lineage, The Grande Reaper could love her as one of his own. Luthien’s first kill was a young soldier on the precipice of death. She merely helped him along. Testing her small fangs on his exposed neck, it took a few tries to really sink them in. It was hard concentrating amid the screams. Lapping up what she could as the prey bled out, Luthien feebly yanked the sword jutting from the man’s lifeless corpse, before following Father’s lead as he gleefully stabbed the dying wherever they squirmed. This still remains a poignant, nostalgic moment for her to this day, for they had never been closer as father-and-spawn than when slaughtering pigs. Markadian proved the victor at Tamberlyne, and his insufferable goodness and many exploits caused a stir throughout the fusty cults of Talingarde’s underbelly; those devoted to Asmodeus sensed a shift against their favor, but their troubles didn’t reach the trio. For now, Nerull was a god of distant memory—expunged early in Talingarde’s history by druids of Obad-Hai. Lucian had survived that time, and never ceased to regale her of the horrors and might of Nerull’s faithful. Unfortunately, Mitra became the patron god with Markadian’s rise, and those who didn’t agree—regardless of previous allegiances—became the dregs of society. Eventually, many of the old gods were abandoned. Despite being so alone, the Reaper was there nonetheless, encouraging Luthien to practice His merciless faith. Without words, Nerull made it clear that she was destined to be the unholy vessel that he needed. She had the gall and savage-tact to spread his influence, at any cost. Hunting became effortless as the years went by. As the Dhampir grew in beauty and cleverness, there was no point keeping count of the many imbeciles lured to their demise by a simple bat of the eyelashes.   There was a time when emotions were confusing, especially any notions of “love”. Emotions and needs are a curse of the living, after all, and a true practitioner should be as ruthless and cruel as Nerull’s Winter. However, there was no denying that there was a fondness for Ephren that defied her cold sentiments. Somehow, the elf had managed to survive decades of servitude, albeit he was clever enough to avoid Lucien during his flights of fury. All their time were spent together training and doing devotions by day, then hunting at night. Ephren never took part in the actual “murders”, but had knifed attackers on occasion. When he watched them feast from the shadows, the eladrin never turned away, but wore an expression that baffled her—that of sadness and disgust. During one particularly rough session, Luthien dislocated Ephran’s shoulder from an accidental blow, and the weapon had lacerated him across the cheek. It wasn’t intended, but her fury had run away from her, as something had been gnawing away for weeks. Truly, it was impossible to make sense of her feelings, or the frustrations that came with them. “Are you afraid of me?” “If my Lady wishes, then yes.” Ephren would have fled both the scenario and from the truth had she not grabbed and slammed him against the wall. A tinged afraid herself, the blood streaking his face teased at her murderous inclinations. “Don’t be an imbecile, that’s not what I want.” Not entirely sure what that might be, Luthien leaned in, struggling with the urge to take a bite out the elf’s throat. Ephren is just like any living scoundrel. They are all weak and afraid. He has no power over me. It was here, that Luthien came face to face with the conundrum posed by her human side, as before she had never thought of Ephen’s worth and what life might be like without him. Detecting, perhaps, the inward struggle inside her, an inquisitive gaze is all he gave. Even with his pathetic life in her hands, the thought of crushing it filled her with a sense of loss. In the end, what surprised her was Ephren’s kiss. Logically, it could have been on instinct, a means to survive. Looking back, did it really matter why? What mattered was how it made her feel, and, surprisingly, the quickening of the heart awaked her to what it meant to be alive. Falling into love came preposterously easy, and as their passions were consummated, in the back of her mind, there was little doubt that it would inevitably be their downfall. As the tempest of the Mad King’s reign swiftly ended and Markadian IV claimed the throne, zealotry like never before decisively ended theirs as well. It became near impossible to hunt without rumors flying of monsters in the area, now so insolent and emboldened! Their lovely manor, now ramshackle, became a prison. Lucian nearly went mad, so filled with angst that he began to feed on rats and roaches. The drastic change in Lucien, disturbing as it was, should have been a clear warning—but it went ignored. It’s not like he was the only one craving blood. Difference was, Ephren belonged to her in a way that made it impossible to share, and, selfishly possessive as she was, anything that threatened her property was a terrible slight. It came at no surprise, then, when Father finally snapped after a few weeks of raiding the basement. It was possible to scrape by off of the meager scraps of mortal-food that Ephren could scrounge beyond the manor, but Lucian had no such luxury. There were times they had to bar their door to keep the crazed vampire from slaughtering them both in their beds, but the next day his rages were always “acts of desperation”, and truly a misunderstanding. The situation only worsened as word spread that the forsaken manor where the “Blanched Lady” resided was the abode of death, rampant with pestilence, ghosts, and demons of all things. “All will return to normal once that wretched Markadian dies. Curse them all.” She grudgingly hissed, curling beside Ephren one dawn. Lucian’s pained, bloodcraving howls were echoing from the basement, making a racket as usual. Father had well lost his mind, and, if nothing was done, the authorities would soon take interest in their gloomy lair on Briarthorn Street. “There’s no guarantee of that. Likely, this new faith will make corpses of us all.” Muttered Ephren, truly a pessimist at heart. “There may come a time where we can no longer practice ours.” “Never! Nerull is far more powerful than they. We serve Death itself.” “True, but there are only two of us, including that madman downstairs.” Slightly perturbed, Luthien leaned away as she gazed accusingly at the elf. “You doubt the power of our Lord Winter? There surely must be others as dark-hearted as we…you do, feel him amid the pitch black, don’t you?” Gazing at her like stone for the briefest moment, Ephren then curled a smile and pulled the Dhampir into a mischievous kiss. “Of course…but how long are we going to hide away from the world? If we’re going to defy the Law-men and the living, than you must take up the priest’s mantle.” “Me? Truly?” Luthien didn’t know whether to feel flattered or anxious at the prospect. “Even if I wanted to, Lucien says that isn’t possible. The last enclaves were known to exist beyond the wall, and there hasn’t been any priests baring his colors in the heartland for six centuries, how can it be passed on?” “We have the Way of Necromantei, don’t we…the tome Lucian always carries with him? Who is he to say what is and isn’t possible?” Considering it, indeed, Lucian possessed a rather ancient book that seemed more like a grimoire than a shabby almanac. More than one Asmodian had inquired about it, dagger in hand. Ephren had always been particularly interested in what secrets lie in that blood-drenched book. “Besides, how long do you suppose before Lucian’s madness delivers us to the headsman’s block? You are the true and rightful heir, Luthien…it belongs to you. If Lucian is too much of a coward that he would rather hide the faith than spread it, then he is a nuisance, and no longer useful to the cause. Imagine what you and I could achieve with the Bone-Script.…We could initiate an age of darkness, and even bring home the Reaper’s throne! You would be his High Priestess and Queen, and I, ever your faithful servant throughout eternity.” For the first time, Luthien ignored her better judgement—or rather, her father’s domineering voice—and completely agreed…the Bone-script certainly belonged to a keeper of the faith. Something so valuable shouldn’t be left in the hands of a madman, who would sooner use it for kindling than for seeking enlightenment.   The Kinslayer As dusk fell on that very day, Luthien grimly made her way to the dank basement. Ephren followed, but at a reasonable distance. Upon pushing open the door, their prey was in the midst of feasting on rat-innards. Sickly gaunt, with transparent, veiny skin and dilated black eyes, Lucian was barely recognizable. “Luthien! Brought me a morsel? I smell it from here!” A terrible hiss issued forth as the vampire sniffed the air and tossed the rat carcass to the side. “No more hiding then? What made you grow a backbone?” “I think you know…” Luthien darkly replied, scanning the disgusting chamber with a quick glance. Rat bones and matted tufts of fur were thickly strewn across the cold floor. There was nary a place one could step without crossing filth. “Father, you’ve become weak. I’ve come for what is mine, and it’s high time you deliver.” Retrieving a soiled hanky from his scrappy jacket-pocket, as if to feign sanity, or perhaps had reached a moment of clarity, Lucien carefully dabbed the repulsive stains from his mouth. “I want the Bonescript of Necromantei!” The Dhampir barked, brandishing a nasty scythe with jagged teeth. “Ephren and I are leaving this forsaken place, with or without your consent, something we should have done decades ago! I’m going to wander the realm as a priest of Nerull, and, with his blessing, bring about Winter’s revival!” “Folly!” Flew a spat. “Folly! Folly! Folly!” Gruesome laughter strangled from the vampire’s withered pipes. “I knew you’d get cheeky one day, silly-girl! I suppose I’ll have to kill you, same as the ones before you…but I had hoped you would be different!” WIP!!! @.@...

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