Trenton is a man of average height and muscular build, with the strong arms and weathered skin of an experienced seaman. At all times his eyes glow with a dull green light the color of sea-foam, an effect that becomes more pronounced when he uses his powers. He wears his matted black hair down on his shoulders, and no matter where he is or what he's doing, it is always damp with sea foam. His face wears a goatee and often a cocky grin or an outright snarl, and his body has only ever been witnessed wearing one thing - a tattered overcoat over a grey tunic and trousers, with a cutlass sheathed at his belt and all manner of belts slung around his waist.
The air around him is heady with the stench of the sea - salt water and seaweed and dead fish and brine. There is no warmth in his flesh - his chest can never be seen to rise or fall with a breath, and where the beating of his heart should be there is only silence. Any mortal who looks upon him comprehends his nature almost immediately, instinctively. Trenton is not a corpse, but nor is he a living man; he is a man who stopped living one day without ever dying.
Trenton has enormous power over souls - living, dead, and everything in between. He can call the souls of the living back into their bodies and force them to serve him, but this is no resurrection - this is undeath, because the existence of one soul is one of tortured unlife. He can feed on souls to sustain himself, and has to if he wants to make constant use of his powers. Most frighteningly, however, he is even able to rip particularly weak souls straight out of his victim's bodies, killing them instantly and binding them forever to his will. Oh, he's also an exceptional swordfighter and sailor, but that all seems a bit less important when you can create undead armies en masse whenever you want. Finally, he is capable of traveling very, very quickly wherever there is the ocean, for he is intimately familiar with the strange seas of the next world, and often dips in and out of them to speed his travel.
Trenton's most prized possession is, of course, his ship - The Hangman. This massive warship is thoroughly haunted, crewed by spirits enslaved by its Captain and boasting a hold full of plunder from this world and the next, some of it living and screaming to be set free. She sails all across the outskirts of the world, for she is far faster than any natural ship and needs no wind to glide across the waters.
The effects Trenton keeps on his person are more limited - his cutlass, an old blade forged in bygone times, bears a powerful enchantment - the power to rip the soul from any man slain by it. This is, of course, entirely superfluous, as Trenton is more than capable of doing so on his own, but he wields it anyway (mainly because he is fond of it). In his pocket he keeps a chunk of black obsidian about the size of a knife blade, which he categorically refuses to answer any questions about.
There are many stories about what lays beyond the edge of the world. Some say that off the far corners of the map there is only an endless sea, a vast expanse of rolling waves that extends forever. Some speak of a strange land where the sun never rises, where the stars burn with green and black fire and the sea churns with all manner of serpents and stranger, fouler things. Still others claim that this is the land of the dead, where the souls of saint and sinner alike languish in eternity, staining the water like blood.
The stories all agree about one thing, at least - only one man has ever sailed those waters and returned. His name has been lost to time, but every sailor in the world knows his tale by heart. He was a humble sailor, a deckhand who always did as he was told. His ship was off on an expedition of exploration, a noble quest to discover what lay beyond the western edges of the map; a fool's errand, of course. They sailed for months, through driving rain and baking sun alike. The crew all begged the captain to turn from this course, return home before they all starved, but he had gone mad with his hunger for glory, and could not be swayed. The crew began to talk of mutiny, but by then it was too late.
The tales all differ as to what happened next - perhaps they found the edge of the world and sailed straight off it, or maybe a storm came upon them and blew them into the next world. Maybe they came upon some stranger passageway still. Whatever happened, the sailors had found what they sought, but it brought them no joy. Time left them; sanity left them. They might have drifted in those black seas for a hundred years or maybe just for a day - they breathed the air of this land, they counted its stars, they wept in fear of the things that swam in its waters. At long last the ship struck land - a towering mountain of black obsidian that stretched up to rend the heavens. It was here that the sailors heard the song of the next world, and it was here that they were unmade by it. All except one, that is.
It is unknown if this sailor was an evil man before he touched the shores of the dead, or if the unholy powers that possessed him made him so - either way he had gone mad with hatred and cruelty, and refused to die. The vessel that had borne him to this place was unworthy of him, so he raised a mighty warship from the black seas and sailed away with a crew of dead men. It is said that he still haunts the seas of both worlds, preying on any vessel unlucky enough to run afoul of him, feasting on their souls and enslaving their corpses to become fuel for his dark desires.
Or so the stories say.
Trenton is more than a terrifyingly powerful necromancer and scourge of the seven seas; he's also a sneering, petulant jerk. He lives only for amusement and the fulfillment of his every whim, and will happily kill or enslave anyone who opposes him on any level (as well as a lot of people who don't). He is deeply sadistic and hedonistic, and enjoys tormenting people and keeping them as his 'playthings'. Easily bored, he'll almost always throw his toys out the second they stop amusing him; the plunder in his ship's hull exists only to please him, as he'd much sooner take what he wants than pay for it.
Trenton, unlike many of his villainous contemporaries, has no delusions of eloquence. He is a coarse talker, a childish bully, and a generally wholly unpleasant man. He treats the lives of his minions, his slaves, and pretty much everyone as being wholly disposable, worth only what they can provide to him in the immediate short term. It is very difficult, if not impossible, to find anything to like about him whatsoever.
The moon was full as the battle raged across the decks of the two ships that had pulled up alongside each other. One was a resplendent warship that bore the orange colors of the port city of Geldren; the other was ragged, and sailed under no banner. The night air rang with the sound of flying spells and crashing steel as the two forces engaged each other - one made of warm flesh and iron will, and the other of bone and meat and foul magic.
Trenton Baker, Captain of The Hangman, kicked open the door to his quarters and strode out on the deck to see what all this commotion was about, his blade in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Melaronian wine that was, it had to be said, fairly disappointing.
A sailor armed with a trident and undue bravery roared a war cry and charged the captain, aiming to run him through. Trenton tossed the bottle off the side of the ship and stuck his hand out, eyes pulsing green, and his attacker stopped in his tracks, twitching and sputtering at the mouth. A green mist leaked out of his eyes and floated towards the captain, who grinned as he inhaled the feeble soul. The man fell to the deck, convulsing, and a moment later was still.
"Thought you could take me in the dead of night?" Trenton roared at nobody in particular. "I am the feckin' dead of night!" On his right a rotted zombie tackled a sailor and began to tear at his flesh, filling the sea air with screams. Trenton's eyes pulsed again as the corpse found the man's throat, and the mangled body rose a moment later, sword still clutched in its hand, and immediately rounded on its former allies.
Trenton dove into the fray, hacking and slashing with his blade, cutting his enemies limb from limb and soul from body. The battle had been going poorly for the would-be heroes when it was just living against undead - with Trenton himself involved, it quickly turned into a slaughter. It wasn't long before those remaining alive threw their weapons on the deck, and Trenton ordered them all lined up on their knees.
The pirate captain strode up and down the deck, reviewing each of his captives silently. A mass of dead flesh walled the men in on every side, all perfectly still, their dead eyes radiating with his power. At length, Trenton paused in front of one man, more of a boy, really, who was shaking and almost mewling in terror. "What's your name, lad?" He asked, bending over so his visage was a mere inch away from the boy's face.
The youth recoiled and gagged with fright, bringing his hands over his eyes as though that would make the world go away. "I said," Trenton repeated slowly, "What's your name?!" He grabbed the boy by the collar and threw him to the deck, kicking wildly at his head in a sudden fury. "I asked you what your name was! Not gonna look at me, not gonna talk to me, huh? Gonna cut you up and feed you to your friends, snotty little..." His rant trailed off into indistinct yelling, the blows still raining on the lad's head and neck as he rolled and begged and tried to swap away the kicks, until at last he fell still. Trenton strode away, and the boy rose to his feet a moment later, stepping back to join the mass of the dead.
"Where's your captain? I didn't already kill him, did I?" Trenton asked the captives, and with a quivering hand one of them pointed down the line.
"H-he's over there, sir," the pointer said and Trenton strode in that direction, stopping only to shove over a random prisoner with his foot and let out a laugh as he did so. He stopped in front of the man who looked like the captain, a grizzled old seaman clad in an officer of Geldren's dress uniform. The pirate crouched down to look at him face to face, and to his credit the other man showed no signs of fear.
"Hi," Trenton offered, and cocked his head as he stroked his prisoner's weathered cheek. "So. Who the shit are you?"
"I am Captain John Feldrich of the Royal Geldren Navy-" was all the man got out before Trenton struck him across the chin, a sneer on his face.
"Blah, blah, Captain Arsehole. Let me guess, sent to kill me by your king or your queen or some big shit because something that 'belonged' to them belongs to me now, yeah? Well," he spread his arms around the scene, "That didn't go too well, did it? Laugh with me!" Trenton tilted his head back and howled with a deep belly laugh, and around him dozens of dead jaws sagged open and emitted a groaning, clattering sound that was something like laughter.
The prisoner's head stayed high. "I do not fear you, creature. I am an honest man and I say my prayers each night, and your unholiness holds no terror -"
Trenton giggled at that, rising to his feet and patting the man on the head. "Oh, you're a fun one. I think I'll keep you," he announced as he turned his back on the prisoners. "Throw him in the brig with the others. Kill and eat the rest."
The sound of screams and curses rose in the night air behind him as Trenton strode back to his quarters and slammed the door behind him.
"Do you have a premonition in you? Do you have a desire for war in you? That is the proof of those who will go on with me."
✧Name:Aesir. ✧Title:The The Apotheosis of the Court. ✧Description:Immortal World Conqueror.
✧Appearance:A man of great build who is almost never seen without his armor of war. Aesir chooses to style his hair into that of a single braid, weaving it in the distinct pattern of the great snakes and dragons of old. Rumor has it that he has done this in acknowledgement of the goddess Apophis.
His armor takes on hues of red, black and orange while his eyes are a dull gray in coloration; whether this is a sign of age or magical influence, no one knows. Those that perhaps did are no longer among the living. Lastly, he wears a cape that parts into two down the middle, resembling more of a scarf than anything else.
✧Magic/Skills/Abilities:Despite trusting his blade above all else, Aesir still recognizes the usage of magic in this world. Apart from being a masterful swordsman, his focus in magic leans towards the defensive type, able to generate barriers of many kinds and specialties to both himself and his allies. Sometimes they can even be used to trap the enemy, utilizing one of those specialties mentioned such as causing the barrier to explode upon itself for example.
Though Aesier’s most grandiose skill is not any sort of active ability, but rather lies passive. Aesir has obtained complete immortality in his mortal life and thus can never be truly killed; as such, the only method to defeat him is to seal his body and soul away. Or be some sick sadist and just keep killing him until one gets bored.
✧Inventory/Holdings: Aesir is usually never seen without his fully-adorned set of armor that does well in protecting him against not only physical attacks, but also magic as well, allowing him to focus all of his efforts through weaponry and brute strength. Furthermore, he possesses a pair of double-sided great swords named Omnia that can be split apart if needed. It is said that when these mighty weapons are swung, they are able to summon forth powerful creatures both wild and strange to assure Aesir of victory. Lastly, he holds a mask that does little in battle apart from protecting his face and adding some truth to his myth as the “Masked Berserker”.
Contrary to popular belief, Aesir is not currently possessing the body of a servant; he is instead in full control of his original body through which his immortality keeps him sustained at the physical appearance of youth. His kingdom is said to be be coated in a field of concealment that only fools dare to uplift, his forces stretched far and wide within his land. Those under his rule consist of many non-human creatures and those who praise his name and the glory of war. Alongside his rule is his most trusted servant, the Chaos Angel known as Iona.
His personal fortress, which lies in the heart of his kingdom, is said to be a mighty tower that reaches so high it scrapes away the boundary of the heavens and the mortal world below. A constant stream of energy is pulsed out of the tower and aimed upward. In this way, the kingdom is forever protected and concealed, though some hold question that the constant stream of power is perhaps Aesir's attempt to wage war with the divine.
✧Myth:Legends tell of a boy reared by man but cursed by the gods who would breathe among the living. A boy whose ambition and thirst for control and power were thought to be signs of ill omen from the divine. Yet man is blind and ignorant as time has proven again and again; before long, the boy was no longer a boy and his desire to conquer had been fully realized in the form of massive armies assembled to his beck and call.
But all things born of this world are destined to end, faded to die, and soon enough, the man was brought before Death’s door. Yet in the twilight of his passing, a god, or a trickster, or a devil of a Court long since forgotten in time, offered unto him the powers with which to cheat Death. Driven by his consumption of power, the man soon took upon his newfound partner’s deal to which he was assured there would be no consequence.
There is always a consequence however, be it manifested through physical, mental, or even spiritual means. The man, now dubbing himself as Aesir in mockery of the gods who failed to end his mortal life, became a being cursed to walk the earth, whose sole purpose was to cause conflict wherever he moved. Neither love nor forgiveness could save him. Now he bathes in the blood of his enemies alone, in a fortress and kingdom thought to be hidden away in a land that lives only in myth.
Or so the stories go. Be it by fate or choice or chance, the Apotheosis of the Court was rustled from his state of dormancy by a being of bitter tidings. A servant of Kil'threx had approached the conquering king in his own throne room, promising a new purpose with the prospect of spreading war in the name of the dark god. With the taste of strife fresh upon his breath, the “Masked Berserker” set off once more to do his duty in causing chaos upon the land.
✧Personality:It is no secret that the man named Aesir has an intimate relationship with war and conflict. So much so that many wonder if he is perhaps driven by some goal or pursuit to justify his ways. Yet despite his thirst for battle and strife, there is an air of chivalry surrounding the man. He will not raise a weapon against those without arms; whether it is because he holds pity or sees staining his hand as a waste of time is unknown.
Furthermore, Aesir has no qualms in either watching battle take place or directly joining the front lines himself as he acknowledges the need for both tactics in war. However, if he does take blade in hand, he will fight to the very last and treats every soldier like a son of his own. A father to his men on the battlefield and a king to his subjects in the throne room.
“War never changes. You humans only think it changes merely because you witness something that forces your mind to reconsider the variables. To recount, to rethink, to do away with strategies and plans. War may have many faces, with new weapons and ever developing powers…but I assure you my friend. War never changes.”
The patron of conflict and battle himself sat highly upon his throne while the world burned all around him. Literally. The latest army of adventurers had traversed through hell and back to make it this far. To that he had to commend them in their willingness to be slaughtered.
A great battle had taken place here, ending in conclusion with the bombardment of his castle with spells meant to tear apart the very skies themselves. But here he still sat, unfazed and unconcerned, but no less proud that despite the eons passing by, mankind was still prevalent in their ability to enact war upon each other.
“You’ve done well to reach my doorstep, but alas, like any pawn, you were destined to fall,” the immortal continued to monologue to the mound of charred corpses that lay beside his booted feet. “To think you’d sacrifice yourselves in the efforts of slaying Aesir of the Court among your own bodily shells….a bold move. But ultimately useless against me,” he said, rising from his now crumbling throne and walking among the living inferno that was his home.
“Come Iona. We have much to do. The humans have made my blood boil with ecstasy by forcing me to make a new army. My favorite pastime,” he called out to the ruins of his fortress before melting away into the darkness and smoke. “Hmm…we’re going to need a new castle. Something resistant to fire this time,” he muttered to himself.
A massive dragon of Black scales, with a total length of 175 feet from head to tail, and a height of 80 standing on all four legs. His scales are black and plate-like, and are as hard as steel, except for his soft underbelly which serves as a weak spot to his natural armor. An assortment of horns along his head, with three rows of sharp, spike-like scutes running down from the back of his neck to the tip of the tail, which also has a triangle-shaped barb. He has a wingspan of 230 feet, and he has four fingered claws on both his hind and forelimbs. The hands on his wings however, are smaller and have an additional 'thumb'. The wings are a bit more flexible then they appear. Instead of having a set of eyes, he has a single, giant reptilian eye at the center of his head. This eye provides both excellent vision and additional magical abilities aside from what would be expecting of a dragon.
As a large dragon, you could expect the beast to have enormous strength and durability, but he also can be fairly fast for his size, especially in flight. Being a dragon his forked tongue also has a great sense of smell. His saliva is toxic, as it has a blood thinner that prevents blood from clotting, and can be slightly corrosive to non-dragonic organic material, and weak earthen materials like stone and certain metals. His saliva as a result is a translucent green color, and often steams when exposed to air.
As expected, dragons have a natural affinity with fire, not only can he not be burned by any means (or directly negatively effected by heat alone), but he can breathe flames as well. However his fire is a bit more unusual then most dragons, as the flames are a gold-black color. Thought nothing else is remarkable about the fire. The fire can be produced and manipulated from almost any point of his exterior body, such as the mouth, wings, or claws. Manipulation can involve it being shot out as spheres, steady streams, etc. It can also determine the concentration of force and chemicals to make a much more explosive blast instead of a lingering fire.
His eye grants near-perfect vision, even through pitch darkness or smoke-screen effects. It can see through almost any sort of illusion and protects him from such magic. Additionally, the eye can activate several 'spells'. Once it casts a spell, the eye glows a red, laser-like light before it takes effect.
Telekinesis: Takes hold of an object, or multiple objects, with a limit of being able to carry up to 500 lbs in total weight, within sight and in a range of 10 meters. Alternatively, it can be used to send kinetic force or blasts towards wherever the eye is looking at as a powerful projectile of solid force, or directly around him. has a minute cool down between casting of this ability.
Telepathy: Preferred method of communication with others, allows the dragon to speak in the minds of others and vice versa, however this can also be used to peer into the surface of the conscience of others, to validate if they are being truthful or if they are holding any secrets. Note that this isn't necessarily mind reading as it can only detect the mind thinking allowed.
Shield: Creates a sort of shield or wall made of kinetic energy wherever he is looking at, usually directly in front of him.
Pyrokinesis: This allows him to control fire directly, note that this isn't connected to his naturally ability to produce his green flames from his body, but this can allow him to control that fire after it has already left his original control. Uses of this ability can be to control where the fire spreads, fire tentacles, redirecting a fire projectile, or causing a spontaneous combustion on a target object or area within the same range as his telekinesis that can vary between some small sparks to a grenade-sized explosion. This can be used on any other form of fire as well, so long as that fire isn't directly in control of someone else.
Electrokinesis: Limited to only shooting bolts of lightning from his eye, redirecting or neutralizing electricity, or imbuing a part of his body with electricity. Has a 4 minute cool-down.
Transformation: He uses this only to turn into a human form, and to change back. However if the source of the spell is broken while he transformed as a human (I.E. Something destroys his eye) then he is forced back into his original form. Also his wings often stay in this state as well. Also he only has one eye in his human transformation, but the position of the eye is normal, with one and a right and an empty socket on the left. His human form, while has some dragonic properties such as being unable to burn, and his eye is still enchanted, it is his weaker form. While his physical stats are above human level it is dwarfed from his true form, the only advantages are being much faster and being able to use equipment.
Summon: He uses this only to summon certain equipment that he uses, or to un-summon them to send them back to his lair.
Within his lair he has amassed a vast sea of fortune, mostly of gold and other valuable treasures and artifacts, which was either stolen when he took over the lair, or what he added after some pillages or raids later. He has many magical equipment within this treasured horde as well, though he only uses a few of them, the rest he merely admires. It is difficult to use equipment without using his transformation anyway. So these are the only items of note.
Human Form adorning his enchanted armor, and using Gilfried
Gilfried: As seen in the picture, The lance is made of an enchanted steel that grants the weapon a power of electricity. As such, it can be used to evoke destructive flows of electricity with each blow, or fired range electrical attacks such a bolt of lightning. The blade is enchanted to be indestructible by physical means as well
Armor of Salgberd: The same knight who wielded Gilfried adorned this armor, it is enchanted by the same methods, and made of the same material of the lance, however the electricity is mostly offered as resistance to electricity.
His lair lies within a massive volcano, the mouth of the cave being large and wide enough for his size. Inside is a city of dwarven design, ruined by time and his own destruction. The cieling is very high, with a large opening that leads to the summit of the volcano and has full view of the sun in midday. Volcanic vents and pools of lava run through this city, carving through it molten streams. Beyond that is a massive lake of magma that serves as his resting area, and past that is an even larger cavern though not built by dwarves, a large natural cave instead. This cave houses his treasure hoard, which floods the cavern near the brim of it.
A kingdom of dwarves, the name of which lost in history, were infamous for much of their great wealth and being blacksmiths of magical items. This one day, attracting the attention of a great dragon, whos origins itself varies between legend to legend. Some say that he was born by the god of evil himself as a last effort to destroy the world, others say that he was the very incarnation of the god of dragons himself, or others say that it was a dragon who was cursed by a god for a previous sin to loose his eye, though many stories tell of a connection with Kil'threx himself, either has a dragon corrupted by his power, an egg cursed with his wickedness, or a straight up creation of his own powers directly. regardless, all legends point to his claim over this dwarving kingdom. The few that survived such a calamity would go on to tell of his great might and horrible nature. Some say he was a wild beast, others say he was an intelligent devil. Regardless, the once great dwarven kingdom fell to ruin under the tyranny of the dragon. Afterwards the myth varies once more. Some peasants will tell you that he seeks his territory for children that got lost in the woods, others say that he is amassing a brood of dragons.
His activities are the most told; Grazing over farms to feast on their cattle, destroying villages for the sake of destruction itself, or tyrannizing kingdoms with fear if they do not pay tribute to him. Many times does he seek to be revered as a god, and kingdoms that fail to acknowledge his might are swiftly destroyed. Many have tried to slay him, but none have made it back from the treacherous volcanic city he lays claim to.
He is a great dragon that embodies the sins of Pride, Wrath, And Greed. He loves valuable treasures, rare items, and lost artifacts. A harmless hobby one would think, if not for his lust to steal these treasures from others, guarding his accumalated hoard jealously, the very reason he exterminated the dwarves of what is now his lair was for greed alone. His avarice has lead him to be paranoid, thinking of thieves or knights that wish to steal his treasure hoard, and because of that he rarely leaves his lair unless prompted too for one reason or another.
Though he is ancient, he has a very short patience with those that poke a whole in his ego, or are simply too much of an annoyance to toy with. When he shows his wrath, it is often short, going on a destructive rampage or simply swiftly burning a mortal alive. However if someone does him a great wrong or injustice, he will seek vengeance, and his revenge will be brutal. He will often scheme how the revenge will be played in decades of time spans, setting pieces in too place and inspiring rumors and scapegoating all for the one man that decided to steal his golden goblet or made that one joke of him across an entire city of him being a gecko. Ultimately these revenge schemes will consist of a slow psychological torment and leading into a brutal murder, and every now and then throwing in perhaps some dirt to tarnish the target's reputation, working in the shadows as a sort of social puppet master.
That being said, he loves deception. He is good at it, though of course, why deceive everyone when you can just burn it? He uses his deception solely for the purpose of his amusement rather then tying it in to anything more important, such as a mission, which he uses his brute force for. Revenge or toying with an arrogant paladin are the two favorites of his.
As for his pride, perhaps a sin bigger then his avarice, as he sees himself as a God. A God worthy of praise, a God that even the other gods (yes, even Kil'threx, though he isn't stupid enough to say that too his face) Should fear and respect him. He does not work for anyone but himself, but he will work with someone should he see it too his advantage, or how he likes to put it "using a pawn". His pride tends to be his biggest weakness, both being as something he is easily angered by, and the fact that it is easy to please him, or to keep him from killing you. Stroking his ego is very effective against him, and doing so may persuade him. Though there is a very small limit in what you can get him to do with flattery alone.
Territorial, he is. So much so that you will not find a single dragon 100 miles away from his lair in any direction, that is because he has killed every single one within that radius, and has kept a damn good job at making sure no new neighbors make their home. He cares not for those of evil alignment for the most part, just as he cares none for the good alignment. To him, his 'coworkers' are prey that are merely being used as pawns for now.
He is wise, yes, and intelligent, as one would expect for such an ancient creature. However his wisdom is corrupted, tainted by his ego and avarice. His jealousy keeps his 'prized' knowledge to himself, though may give advice if he is pleased enough. His wisdom is poor in judgement, as he sees himself as the greatest in most if not all aspects, being above the gods and all. One thing is certain though, he is a crafty schemer for only his amusement.
Heat was the first thing that fell over the knight's face. His blue eyes staring at the inferno before him. The cave entrance had been cold and damp but further in, and the entrance to the old dwarf city, the heat even unattended remained great. Volcanic pools of lava acted as lakes and rivers as they cut through crumbled buildings and structures of dwarven make. He stepped forward, slowly, electricity briefly escaping his lance.
As he past through the cities, surprised to see no demons or hellspawn, or lesser dragons attack him, he eventually came across a massive lake of lava, and past that, a stalagmite cavern that looked even bigger and deeper then the city's cavern, filled with riches beyond his wildest dreams. "Dragon!" The knight shouted. "My name is Salgberd, knight of blue thunder!" He would smash the ground before him with the end of his lance, electricity flowed in the ground and great force shook the cavern. "I have come to slay thee and bring your head to justice!" For a moment after, all was quiet, until the magma began to bubble. A black mass slowly rose from the molten rock, rising, bigger then the knight imagined. Before him was the head and some of the neck of the beast, looming over him while the rest of his body was presumed to be beneath the molten liquid. He heard a booming voice in his mind. "You dare awaken me?!" the voice pounded in his head so loud that the knight staggered back and held his ears.
He geared up his lance, ready to attack after recovering from the voice. "Sleep is the last thing you should worry about! demon!" He shouted as he would throw the lance directly into the eye of the dragon with great force and speed, however to his surprise, the lance stopped in mid air. "wha-" Before he could finish, the lance swiftly turned around as if by magic, and was then volleyed back towards him with the same force. He would catch it with great dexterity and strength, absorbing the electricity that came off of the weapon, though he would have to skid back a few feet. The massive eye at the center of the dragon glowed, a crosshair of red light illuminating off of it before a bolt of lightning connected between the pupil of the dragon and the chestplate of the knight. He would be blasted back by the bolt, but the electricity didn't hurt him. "That is some fine quality equipment you have..." The dragon seemed to vex in the head of the knight as he recovered again.
The knight was tired of the dragon, and he charged again, leaping into the air with inhuman speed and strength as he went to impale the beast from above. The dragon watched him, clearly the man wasn't bright, as the beast simply moved its head and neck out of the way. As he did, the knight's eyes went wide, as he was now heading into the pool of lava. He screamed as he plummeted into the liquid. He surfaced, his armor keeping him alive but barely his skin was burning off of his bones in a gruesome matter. The dragon watched the fly be burned by the lamp, as it were, as the knight struggled to stay afloat in the burning liquid. He was pleased to see the equipment was unharmed by the heat due to its magical properties. Before the knight burned away completely, a voice ringed into his head. "Thank you for your donation."
The following day, The village raised the alarms. Their hero has returned. All matter of men, women, and children gathered at the gates, and an expecting king to give the Salgberg his reward. The knight entered, fully clad in his armor. Cheering spread throughout the kingdom and the king along with his trusty guards approached the heroic figure. He offered the knight a golden relic of his family's keepsake. It was a fancy thing. The knight snatched it, aggressively so, to everyone's shock. He then turned back to face the king. "I am tired of pretending to be the good guy, I, Salgberg, am a knight only for riches and praise!" he exclaimed to the horrified faces of many. He then unsheathed his lance, and followed to stab the king. "I always hated you.." The knight said, the guards undrew their weapons and the knight ran through the crowd that was still shocked in cowardice. His only family tried to stop him, but the knight merely trampled over them, even slashing his father across the way, and escaping to the gates. The guards never did find him. The knight returned to the mouth of the dragon's lair, unmasking his helmet to reveal not Salgberg, but a different man altogether underneath the armor. The man laughed as he carefully placed the golden object down and morphed into his true form. The great black dragon that the knight tried to slay.
The Great Dragon Niddhog had awoken from his chambers, laying ontop of his treasure hoard as if it were a bed or nest. Appearing before him, an apparition of the God of evil himself. Niddhog saw his 'master' as a roadblock to his true glory. He was greater then him, for now at least, that much was certain to the dragon. However eventually he will surpass his creator. The beast was silent as the manifestation of the Dark God spoke. "It is time to put your destruction for greater use, Níðhöggr." The god spoke, speaking of the Dragon's official name in perfect pronunciation. "You should know by now that I am not a henchma-" the God held his hand up, cutting the dragon off. Normally if one were to do this the dragon would inflict great wrath. However he wasn't about to loose his cool in front of a god, and besides it wasn't the actual god, just an apparition. He would stand back, and show him images of even grander treasure, legendary items, and above all, a small glimpse of the dragon's own reflection, ascending like a god. "I know what you seek, I know your ambitions, you cannot hide your true nature Níðhöggr, I designed it after all." The dragon's attention was now fully brought upon the god as he continued. "Aid in me, and with the others I will recruit, in the destruction of the world. You will be paid in more then just physical value in your efforts, perhaps even the power you seek.." Before the dragon could question him further the apparition faded. The dragon was deep in thought, he doubted that if he knew his true intentions then he wouldn't grant him godhood, it was likely just empty promises. Still, he doubted that his efforts wouldn't go unrewarded, and there is always the chance that his creator is more foolish then he thought. So the dragon rose from his gold hoard. There wasn't much of a cost for doing this either, any risks at first glance. Destruction was what he loved, though it seemed he had to help others as well.
The dragon would fly out above the city, through the large opening in the summit, and land upon a cliff. His talons digging into stone as he oversaw the landscape before him. If he had to tolerate these other nuisances, so be it.
When out among other gods, mortals, or anytime else she's basically not lounging in her abode, she...it, is dressed in luxurious purple robes, complete with long flowing and imposing cloak, claws metal gauntlets and a rather...odd mask covering his-hers-its, features. All of the equipment is summonable, meaning she can summon it from anywhere should she so desire. The robe itself is fairly durable, and acts as a fairly decent suit of leather armor to naturally deflect physical attacks. Of course, it has also been heavily enchanted and fortified. If one had the misfortune of removing the mask...well, all they would see is a gaping hole where its face should be.
If, one were to pay her a little visit in her not so humble abode and bow to her, they would find a much less mysterious, and much more beautiful and alluring creature. Standing roughly at five foot eight with pale skin, bright golden colored eyes dressed in fine silk clothing with pure white hair tied up, and wearing some fairly revealing clothing. She is often seen smiling, an uneasy sometimes 'unhinged' grin, one might say. Of course, this appearance is simply a magically kept facade. Her true form is...something much more terrifying.
This horrific fleshy mass is...well, exactly what someone's nightmares are made out of. Cold, clammy, and somewhat slimy to the touch its not something anyone wants to meet in a dark alleyway. It stands at eight feet tall, and lacks any sort of facial features. Only a giant gaping mouth, twisted sideways where a face should be. Three strong looking arms protrude from its body, with obvious muscle one might expect from something other than a mage. Powerful legs hold it upright, ready to carry the creature with the same musculature as its legs. Several tentacles writhe and protrude from the creatures body, ready to be used as weapons for both offense and defense.
Magic/Skills/Abilities: As far as skills go, Khata is what some might say, a complete master of the arcane. She has a incredible advance understanding of magic in general, which she uses to create horrific arcane creatures. Her most powerful skill, however, is the ability to summon various abominations from some unknown plane. Contact with these beings have slightly eroded her sanity over the years, but she cares not. all is for the sake of knowledge and magic...and power. Of course, summoning such creatures are somewhat difficult to do in battles, though the effect they have and the sheer potential for destruction they can cause is greatly worth it.
However, such things won't help her if she's being attacked at close range. She can beckon these entities into a sort of half-existence, letting them dwell within her body and granting her a variety of effects and most importantly, physical boons and physical alterations. Aside from this, she also has various spells at her disposal that involve simply destroying things with the power of the stars and heavens.
her most unique ability, however, is the ability to speak to mortals within their dreams. Such dreams, are often horrific nightmarish things, often ending with the victim being devoured by some abomination. Such people, are usually eventually driven mad and are either killed, or flee and search for her tower...
Inventory/Holdings:
Inventory: Enchanted Robes, to bind the flesh to a mortal form
A Staff Spear, to rend flesh of foes and commune with greater powers
A mask to conceal the face, to hide the true nature of things
Black stones, ascending to the heavens to beckon otherworldly creatures
The robes themselves are something summonable. They are enchanted to withstand physical blows, magic of all kinds, and extreme temperatures and environments. Aside from that, they are nothing special and function as typical robes do. Additionally, at her side and also summonable, is a spear designed to also function as a channel for magic. It does both jobs equally well, and while she's not as trained as some purely physical fighter would be, they would find themselves likely surprised by her skill with it to start with. And lastly, is her mask. It has the power to hide or reveal otherworldly things.
Tower of Nyarlith The massive, sprawling black tower of Nyarlith is something of a legend among those who study the arcane. It is located not in this physical plane, but rather it has been summarily removed from this plane of existence thanks to pacts struck with eldritch beings. It was once located in what is today a vast desert, with nothing but sands and ruins as far as the eye can see. The desert was once home to a thriving civilization, but it has long sense fallen. Where the tower once stood, is nothing but a massive hole filled with water, where an eldritch guardian sleeps and watches over the seal that keeps the tower concealed from this reality. The hole, is said to be where the base of the tower once stood. Around it are the ruins of the city that have fallen into disrepair, and some have even sunken into the massive basin of water.
Indoctrinated, Abominations, and the Enlightened What does Khata enjoy more than anything else? Dominating others, and her precious little slaves who have lost all form of what one might call 'free will'. They have been broken mentally, but their physical abilities are kept intact for obvious reasons. Surprisingly, slaves are treated well as long as they of course, behave. They make up the main cannon fodder of her forces within the tower, catering to her every whim and fighting for her on the front lines as slave warriors. Often times, their equipment is pretty heavily enchanted with magic, and some make use of magic themselves.
Additionally, eldritch abominations which stalk the hallways and are always in the process of being made. These mindless creatures have no mind, and only serve to serve their masters. Mindless beasts, with no way to really control them. Set them loose upon enemy ranks, and watch the chaos unfold.
The faithful, are the few insane humans who make their way to the tower after being affected by her dreams. They for the most part, are normal humans who have taken up tutelage under her. Masters of the arcane and summoning eldritch beings and contacting them for boons.
Myth: Once, in the Vastness of the now desolate Great Desert, there existed a kingdom by the name of Azair. It was a prosperous, powerful kingdom that had been around for ages and had no equal in power. It was unified, a veritable utopia of wealth, civil stability and culture. Wars were said to have been a distant thing of the past, and power struggles were nonexistent for these people. Many people came to this utopia, lived there, and built lives. Of course, Utopias aren't exactly a realistic thing, and there is no such thing as a civilization without conflict...
The high priest of Azair used to be a friendly, kinder, older human. However, they had a fascination with things of the arcane nature that would eventually be his downfall. She skirted too close to the truth. Came into contact with eldritch beings who showed him visions of what the future might hold for him and the kingdom. War. Famine. Destruction. POWER. All he had to do...was let the creature in. Let it in his head.
So he did.
What happens next should be of no mystery. The old priest was devoured by his desire for arcane knowledge, drove him insane. Power hungry. Eventually, this led him to wrenching power from the king, constructing the Tower of Nyarlith out of the finest obsidian stone that could be mined. After that...he sentenced everyone to death, letting eldritch creatures roam the streets and have their way with the humans in return for locking away the tower in another plane of existence.
Of course, that's all history. Slightly embellished, or so the story goes. What is the actual truth of it? No one knows. For centuries, the tower had been dormant. Hiding away in its sealed off realm where its owner indulged their magic curiosities, eventually transforming even their own body into something horrific and inhuman. And then, came Kil'threx, speaking to them in a dream.
An eldritch creature had a task for them.
And they would agree wholeheartedly for a chance to serve a higher calling. Creating a portal between the realm of the waking, and the realm of the Nightmare Tower, she set foot on the world once again in such, a long, long time.
Personality: Really...not all there in the head. Talks to herself, makes odd comments, and otherwise is just generally unhinged. She takes great pride in her abilities, and loves showing people just how destructive and awe inspiring they can be. She has an insatiable lust for knowledge, magic trinkets, and loves them to no end, actively seeking them out and will always accept items of a magical nature as payment for services rendered.
That said, she treats her slaves and subjects rather well as mentioned previously. She subscribes that a loyal slave who loves you, will always be more effective than a fearful slave that is similar to a feral dog. She'll even go out of her way to save slave units and soldiers, should she have too. Of course, disobedience and failure is dealt with harshly...but punishment is always acceptable when a slave has failed their duties.
Oh, and well, remember she's a complete sadist and often goes out of her way to inflict pain and suffering upon others that aren't her loyal slaves, faithful, or abominations.
Sample post (put this in a hider please):
"How lovely of you all to join us!" The voice cackled as the doors to the tower opened, a clock chiming somewhere above. "Wohoho, how lovely indeed! Majestic even! Welcome to my humble abode, little adventurers! I'm curious as to how you lovely little things found all of your way here! Entertain my curiosity some, maybe? Please? It's been oh so very long since I saw the outside world, being all trapped here in my castle~" The pale woman upon the throne giggled in an unsettling fashion.
"Do not listen to the creatures words or be...seduced by its form! That is what we are here to kill!" The white clad paladin drew his sword, the doors to the throne room slamming shut behind him. "It's not even a woman!" The other party of adventurers drew their weapons. One with a rather nasty looking axe, dressed in some black robes. Another with a large hammer engraved with various holy symbols. Khata simply laughed from her throne.
"Majestic! Heroes are heroes, even in a dream!" her smile turned into an unsettling grin as she looked down upon the adventurers in her throne room.
And then she was in front of the Paladin.
"Calling me an it...how rude. Typical hero! And here I am a damsel in distress, locked away in a tower. Are these not 'real' enough for you? Is that it?~" She said, pressing her chest against the paladins armor. The holy warrior reacted almost instinctively, aiming a sword right for the creatures heart...or where it was supposed to be. The blade pierced the creatures soft flesh, but instead of hitting the creatures heart and incapacitating it, she seemed wholly unaffected by it.
There was a sickening crunch as the paladins armor was pierced instead. The creatures arm had turned into a a mass of writhing tentacles that slowly enveloped the paladin, crushing his bones and slipping into the cracks through his armor. The other two shook off their shock quickly enough, and proceeded to counter attack, trying to save their companion. The axe was brought down in an attempt to strike her head. The hammer attacked her from the side, in an attempt to prevent her from running. However, she dropped the paladin...and was suddenly ten feet away back in front of her throne.
The heroes looked absolutely confused.
"Ah, ah, so adorable. So adorable! You funny little humans, so adorable! Saving him, when you should be saving yourselves! Surprised? This is my tower! You think you can defeat me here? My gods won't let me die so easily, ahahaha~ Lemme show you again."
Suddenly, she was once again in front of the heroes in the blink of an eye...with her spear slammed right into his heart. She swung the spear around, slamming it into the remaining hero.
"Hehe...one left. I wonder...how much fun I can have with you?~"
Night falls on the sands, Starlight beckoning towards Nyarlith.
It is said the sands were once more hospitable, but after the fall of Azair the water in the desert dried up, filling a giant pool in the center of the once great metropolis where the Palace of the old King once stood. The dried earth split, great fissures forming leading to the depths of the earth...
Existing on the southern edge of the continent, The Drazir wastes are, well, as one might expect from the name; A vast, endless ocean of sand, ancient stone ruins and fissures that lead far into the earth, swallowing travelers who lose their footing close to their edge. The desert is incredibly hot, the harsh sun beating down upon the sands making it reach temperatures that would make most men stay as far away as possible throughout the day. The clear, cloudless skies don't help, letting the sun fall unfiltered through.
One should keep in mind, the desert is not lifeless during the day. A variety of beasts roam the sands that call the place home, waiting to prey upon those who would brave the desert. They tend to take refuge within desert ruins or the sandy caves that have been carved into the walls of the crags that litter the region. Some of these beasts, are some of the horrid experiments that have found their way out of Nyarlith, and should not be taken lightly.
However, at night the desert takes a much more...peaceful looking form. It cools to a much more reasonable temperature, the large moon illuminating the desert in its pale light. Starlight shines from above, twinkling like little gems embedded in the sky. It is probably the time someone would wish to travel through the desert as the cooler temperatures make it much more tolerable to travel through. However, some nocturnal creatures come out at night, beckoned by the moonlight. It is by no means completely safer to travel.
The various ruins that dot the sands, are always of interest to scholars and wizards, hoping to stumble upon some artifact of great power. A way to commune with the same gods that the old kingdom Azair possibly had contact with before their fall. One should be careful though, quite a few of Nyarlith's faithful call these ruins home. Stumbling upon them will often not go well for the unprepared...
A few sparse oasis exist through the region which are safe enough, but for the most part it is completely devoid of flowing water, save for underground springs.
The gates of Azair still stand watch over the ancient city, time only adding to their wondrous splendor and beckoning the curious inwards with promise of treasure and knowledge.
Some say on the night of the Pale Moon, you can still hear the frantic calls of the citizens, pleading for their gods to same them from the monstrosities that were unleashed upon them.
The ruins of the once great civilization still stand to this day, a defiant opponent to both sands and time. The ancient monolithic stone walls of the city have eroded with time, but not faltered in their tasks of keeping out sands and invaders. The city itself is a surprisingly...green place. An ancient waterway runs from under the central gate into the giant pool in the center of town where the Palace once stood. Plants seem to have flocked to this source of water, and have taken root within the city. The ruins themselves hold many magical and arcane secrets, should one be brave enough to find and brave them.
And of course, make it past the plethora of creatures living here. Most, are discarded remnants from Nyarlith. Failed experiments, guards, or even some indoctrinated humans seeking for a way to enter the tower.
All manner of obscene, abhorrent experiments that only one as mad as Nyarlith could come up with take place within its halls.
Many a foolish wizard seek the tower and the ruined land of Azair, if only for some insight into the arcane mastery of the realms master. The master is a fickle thing, and if you entertain them you may be granted a boon of insight. People who manage to leave the tower, often go on to become powerful wizards until the end of their life draws near, and they are beckoned to return to Nyarlith.
Erected so long again, the tower has remained in pristine condition thanks to otherworldly influences and magic. It currently exists on an otherworldly plane, in a realm caught eternally between sunrise and sunset, with the sun setting in the east, and the moon rising in the west. Clouds fill the sky, moving at an unnaturally swift rate as an unseen wind carries them to their destination.
In this realm, the tower does not exist in a sea of sand as one might expect...but an actual sea. It stretches as far as the eye can see. An endless abyss, where all manner of eldritch creatures have taken refuge and live. The tower extends far into the heavens, all the way past the swift moving clouds above, and into a cool crisp night air where the silver, pale moon shines brightly and illuminates the roof of the tower, where all manner of obscene rituals take place under the amused gaze of Nyarlith.
The only way into the tower is to beckon the Blood Moon, and step through the revealed portal that has been revealed. Pray the guardian doesn't awaken, however. It is a ravenous beast, that will let no trespassers through without its masters permission.
The contents of the tower are vast and seemingly endless. Indeed, the tower almost seems to be bigger on the inside at times. A few notable locations within:
-The Study Halls located on the upper floors, where scholarly pursuits are shared between the Enlightened -The Archives, located at the second highest place in the tower where all manner of magical tomes and research documents are kept -The Labs situated in the middle, where magical experiments are conducted. -The Communal room, located just below the archives, where one can attempt to commune with the elder gods. -The Lower halls, where abominations and experiments lurk. -Above the lower halls, are where the Indoctrinated rest. -The Beckoning platform, where rituals to beckon the gods to this realm are performed. -The throne Room, where Nyarlith grants audience to those who wish it. -Many, many, more unnamed rooms exist, their purposes many.
The indoctrinated of Nyarlith have lost all sense of free will, unable to disobey orders from the creature that calls themselves their master. To be certain, they retain their desires, wants, former personalities from before but they can not do anything against the will of Nyarlith. I had the...opportunity to meet one once. I expected a mindless husk, but was surprised. They appear just as you or I. Completely normal. I wouldn't have even known, had they not told me.
Its frightening. It makes you wonder just how many have been lost to that creatures influence and we have no way of telling.
Slaves, or the 'Indoctrinated' as some call them, make up most of the population within and outside Nyarlith. Those who have had their minds dominated by Nyarlith and have lost all sense of what one might call 'free will'. Not that many would ever wish to do anything other than what their master tells them too. Such thoughts have all been wiped from their minds. These creatures come from all number of races that have existed. They are fairly easy to tell, as most will be dressed in simple robes or armor, depending on their own chosen specialty. They are as numerous as stars in the sky, and it is difficult to gauge the actual number of them.
They are currently led by a general, a powerful man who was once a part of a group of paladins that sought to bring an end to Nyarlith, but who was instead given insight into the arcane knowledge, who then pledged loyalty to the creature.
Those outside the tower, carry out special tasks. Reconnaissance, bring back information about the state of the world, bring back useful materials for experiments, etc. Those inside the tower, often cater to the wants and desires of their master. It is no secret they take great pleasure in indulging in mortal sins with their indoctrinated or Enlightened.
The lower halls of Nyarlith are home to all manner of creatures. Experiments conducted by Nyarlith in order to achieve some greater purpose...or simply to sate the creatures sadistic pleasures.
The experiments conducted at Nyarlith produce all kinds of abominations and creatures. There is no set explanation or classification for these monstrosities. Most cannot be controlled, tamed,or spoken too, even their masters have trouble with it. Most are kept within the lowest parts of the tower as insurance and guards. Some though, manage to slip through the veil and into the desert.
Most, used to be human of some sort. Some though, appear to be chimeras. Animals fused with other things, most often things that seem to come from beyond the veil or other aquatic creatures. Slugs, octopi, fish, etc.
Not all who seek Nyarlith are those indoctrinated. Not all of them are mages either. Simply someone the creature has taken an interest in, and have given them a choice. Come to Nyarlith and gain their own insight into the world without his aid, or go on living as ignorant, sightless beings. Those who accept, are whisked away to the tower where they may commune with the great ones themselves, find their own path of Enlightenment.
Differing from the Indoctrinated, since they still retain all forms of free will, thought, and in fact, some in the past have actively worked against Nyarlith at times. They are easy to recognize, all wear masks similar to Nyarlith in reverence to the one who granted them such insight into otherworldly knowledge. Not all of them are mages, in fact some do not have the ability to cast magic at all. Some are simply special warriors or those born with a natural talent for seeing things.
These Enlightened few, make up the higher ranks of Nyarlith's people. Whereas the indoctrinated are simple servants, guards, keepers, and general soldiers, the Enlightened are able to conduct their own experiments and travel between the tower and the waking realm. They are often the leaders, generals, and otherwise those of power within the tower.
Dreams. All men have them, but few are able to master and understand what they truly are. Dreams are a time when human minds are open to the most insight. Able to hear the eldritch mutterings of those greater than them.
Dreams, is an Area Nyarlith is quite well acquainted with. Often times, they will find a mortal they've taken an interest in and show them a nightmare. Such nightmares often will end with those afflicted seeking the tower and her. Depending on how they handled the nightmares and how much of the eldritch things they can see, they will either be turned into one of the Enlightened or one of the Indoctrinated.
One of her lesser known abilities, however, is the ability to create peaceful seeming, lucid dreams for a few. A rarely used skill, but it allows communication, sharing of ideas and for him to see into a persons psyche. Often times, their form in this dream is vastly different than what the legends and myths state. Most often, the dreams take place under the bright light of the moon on a balcony, overlooking the sea.
"The true tragedy of war are not the bleeding gashes it opens, but the scars it leaves behind." ⛓ Height:174 cm.| ⛓ Weight:Unknown.| ⛓ Age:Over 10,000.
⛓ Name:Iona.
⛓ Title:Ahwaan's Ash.
⛓ Three-word description:Angel of Chaos.
⛓ Appearance:The first impression of Iona is that of a woman of stunning beauty with a tall and well defined physique, not unlike a marble statue chiseled by the hands of master of yore. Her body and curves are well proportioned, with a medium shapely bust and worked out muscles that only add to her womanly charm, further enhanced by her swaying, waist-long, blonde hair and eyes that share the color of rich red wine.
The features that call for most attention on Iona, are her huge, black-feathered wings that she can summon or dismiss at-will, as well as her stoic gaze that can cause any men to his heels with nothing but the sheer intensity of her stare.
⛓ Magic/Skills/Abilities:First and foremost, Iona is a fighter, being able to effortlessly wield any weapon ever conceived by mankind, but favoring her own arms, with dexterity that goes far above that of even the most seasoned mortal warrior. Iona's also a spellcaster far more experienced and able than any mortal, even the mightiest spells a mortal can ever hope to master are no problem for her however, Iona's true power lies in the holy element. As an angel it's only natural that Iona can wield a vast arsenal of holy magic. Smiting any who dares stand in her way without any form of mercy or remorse, Iona's the ultimate testament that light isn't necessarily good, much less nice.
Furthermore, Iona's also nearly immortal, being unaging, requiring no sustenance of any form to exist and possessing a healing factor that guarantees that she'll overcome even the most grievous of wounds, her ability to regenerate can be suppressed if she's sealed but the only thing that's said to be able to permanently kill Iona is whoever she recognizes her master, through a contract. As long as her master keeps on living, Iona will always come back and only him can end her life permanently.
⛓ Inventory/Holdings:Iona's most praised possessions are her armor, which can be made to look like any sort of garment (though she favors a lightly armored dress that only ever enhances her feminine charm), yet will always protect Iona in their integrity as well as her swords.
Dies Irae, Iona's dual blades, forged by a divine artisan from an unknown black metal that can only be damaged by weapons of equal quality, like the great hammer Mjolnir. Aside from both of them being blessed with holy powers, allowing the blades to strike true even against being that have no form or shape, like ghosts and spirits, they can also be joined by their hilts, changing shapes to become a black bow inlaid with golden runes. In bow form, Dies Irae can shoot powerful bolts of explosive holy light, instead of normal arrows.
Lastly, Iona is in possession of a pair of matched silver rings. She can give one to a being she wants to form a contract to and will always know where and how well the recipient she chose is. Conversely, the recipient can use ring to summon Iona to their side no matter the distance taking them apart, unless Iona is sealed. Both share a telepathic bond, being allowed to converse and share their emotional states without anyone infringing on their privacy.
⛓ Myth:A long time ago, before mankind and the other children of light rose to prominence, the world was a sea of shapeless chaos onto which the Gods breathed life, ushering shape and beauty to their Creation. All of them, except for Him, the Dark One, Bane of Life, Destroyer, Conqueror, by many names He was but only one only which He recognized as His, Kil'threx, the God of Evil. He sought to usurp Heavens and douse the world of the light in darkness, taking all the Creation to Himself.
The God of Evil's strongest weapon in His crusade for conquest, was also his Opus Magnum, the biggest mockery to the power of the other Gods, His own archangel, Ahwaan. Stealing the secrets of the other gods, Kil'threx, created a being of peerless beauty, wielding His enemies' own weapons against them as a testament that even the light would provide them no solace.
However, time would come when the Conqueror's army would fall, His might crushed and Ahwaan broken and sealed in an old temple, deep within a valley where no mortal dared to thread. Chained with links of pure silver, heart and stomach transfixed by her own blades, abandoned in the darkness from with she came, forever. The Archangel Ahwaan was no more.
Deep in her millenia long sleep, Ahwaan would have a vision, a dream of her master so handsome in His dark glory, seeking once more to free His ultimate tool upon the world of the light. When she woke up from her dream, Ahwaan found herself laying upon a bed she had never seen before, free from her binds, sitting on a chair beside her was him, the one who gave Ahwaan's freedom back, tho one who came seeking the power to conquer all, even the Heavens themselves, her new master, who had been ushered to find Ahwaan by none but her Creator.
"From this day forward, you are Ahwaan no longer. Like the Phoenix, you have been reborn from the ashes of your former self. I name you Iona, the island upon which my eternal kingdom shall be built; you shall be my sword from now and forever more."
The man who named himself Aesir said before the Archangel could even utter a single question. Nodding, Ahwaan no, Iona rose from the bed, taking the covers to preserve her modesty, and gazed upon the lands of her new master. There was a war to be won and Iona would once more be a spear of light, crushing down all those who were foolish enough to challenge her Master.
⛓ Personality:Iona is usually a stoic woman, only ever speaking, in her deep contralto, when it's important, or if prompted by her Master. She's not one to hold secrets and will always be true to her beliefs, no matter. Despite holding no pity for anyone, Iona despises those who abuse of their victims for petty sadistic reasons. In fact, it's not unknown of Iona to put down soldiers of their army that demonstrate psychopathic behavior. If Iona ever needs to eliminate a being that can't defend itself, she'll do so without hesitation, but in an apologetic way as she feels no pleasure from killing those who can't defend themselves.
Perhaps it's a quirk of her angelic, or feminine, nature but Iona really feels sympathy for women and children and will only raise her blade against hem if ordered by her master, or if they try to fight back in any way. In fact, Iona has requested to take the custody of any children orphaned and woman widowed by their wars and for those she cannot spare, Iona will raise a grave.
Thanks to her mercy for the weak, Iona, is revered as a sort of saint, by those she brought under her wings, though Iona never let them place her above Aesir in their prayers. After all, it's only his mercy that allowed them to live. Iona will never overstep her bounds and try to usurp her Master however, it's not unknown of their followers to see Iona and Aesir as a couple. The truth of this statement is left to each of their imaginations, though.
⛓ Sample post:
“War never changes. You humans only think it changes merely because you witness something that forces your mind to reconsider the variables. To recount, to rethink, to do away with strategies and plans. War may have many faces, with new weapons and ever developing powers…but I assure you my friend. War never changes.”
Those were the words of her Master as he sat upon his throne, victorious once more. Iona stood beside him, with blades readied, in case any of their foes had a trick up his sleeve. The angel didn't face the enemies of her Master with pity, nor did she show contempt, she was indifferent, just staring at their dying forms through it all but remaining silent. It was not Iona's place to speak while her Master did so, after all.
“You’ve done well to reach my doorstep, but alas, like any pawn, you were destined to fall... To think you’d sacrifice yourselves in the efforts of slaying Aesir of the Court among your own bodily shells… a bold move. But ultimately useless against me...”
And such was the truth. While Iona respected their efforts, facing her Master was a sure death sentence to anyone, Iona's blades would not waver or show remorse when taking down those who chose to stand and fight however, they knew honor and respect such as the dead are meant to be treated with.
“Come Iona. We have much to do. The humans have made my blood boil with ecstasy by forcing me to make a new army. My favorite pastime...”
"As you wish, Master." Iona said before setting her feet on the trail of Aesir, only ever stopping when one of the still surviving humans clutched her left ankle. "P-please, have mercy! I have a wif-wife and a child... newbo-" The man tried to say, before feeling the cold bite of Iona's sword piercing his heart from behind. "They'll know you died thinking of them. Now, you may rest..." The light of life left the human's eyes just as Iona pulled her weapon from his body and followed her Master once more.
"May I ask, for a new orphanage as well, Master? Our war is sure to make even more victims and I'd like them to not suffer more than necessary."
Long Description What is it you desire most? Your deepest wishes, pulled from your wildest dream, harvested from your innermost secrets. The innocent fantasies you play with in the back of your mind, in the pit of your heart, the very nature of your soul. That which gnaws at you, your unsated want, a need restrained by reasoning, modesty, virtue. Like a caged beast, you drool hungrily at your temptations, but barely lick your lips when given but a taste of it when in a drought and famine. Now culminate all those years of unrequited starving. That is Zhystkrexas.
Appearance
He appears to those who are unaware of the true nature of the beast as a living idol. A perfect human being as they believe it, often seeing him as a man befitting the role of a chief of the desert tribes. The aspects they value most exemplified within him, a paragon of their own hopes and dreams to what they desire to be. For it is not his power to change himself, no rather it is his power to change how others see him. Dressed in finery of gold with a body of a worthy of worship, regally moving with the power and awe, the splendor of a true god-king to be envied and admired.
But to those who wish to see him for what desire truly is, for those who desire truth, they shall see him for what he is. A smiling devil with twisting horns which flow like hair around him. Sharp teeth and fangs, a gaunt face like a skull and hollow eyes with which he eats your very being. Though dressed in his robes and finery, he is nothing more but a skeletal terror as his ribs are visible against his open robe. That is the true nature of desire. The insatiable hunger that consumes you, and though you may eat, there is nothing to show for it. Life becomes meaningless, and you are nothing more than a walking corpse: Empty.
Personality
Zhystkrexas, the corrupting influence of it all, that which dwells with the deepest reaches of the mind. Patient, devious, and cunning, an immortal who uses immortality best of all to sow the seeds of his grand design for the harvest. How many seasons shall he wait until his bounty becomes full and rich? But starve yourself completely waiting for the harvest to come? Why not feast on the spoils of another? Oh yes reap what is yours, but also devour the yields of others. let them savour their small victories, their piecemeal battles, let them dine upon their riches and let their praises be pleasing to their ears. Let all their plans align and designs unfold to their whim, but in the end it matters not. For when the crops are ready to be harvested, the locusts shall come to eat it all. And so this is why perhaps of all the evils in the world, Zhystkrexas is most despised, for he leeches off the work of others, and dares to manipulate even his peers as he would mortals.
Such is he who hungers. A façade of benevolence over a pit of pure malice, a voice so tempting, so pleasing to hear from a true cosmopolite, and yet beneath the veil a ravenous fiend. It is his hand that feeds, and also he that bites the hands that feed, and those that he fattens to feast upon. Nothing can sate him for he is hunger, and he shall lead you to consume yourself before he consumes you, both physically and spiritually as he devours your flesh and captures your soul. And once he has led you down the path, he shall take deepest pleasure in devouring your envious eyes, your lustful heart, your prideful tongue, your wrathful limbs, your greedy mind, your gluttonous gut, and your weary head.
And why does Zhystkrexas do this? For it is his nature. He hungers. He is hunger. Though his kingdom is plenty, he is the starving lord who eyes upon the kingdoms of others. In time, he shall consume them, and then when there is nothing left to be consumed, he shall be forced to consume himself.
Powers and Possessions
The Devouring King exemplifies not a strong physical force nor magical one amongst his peers, but do not mistake this for weakness for his powers lie elsewhere. While he is merely slightly stronger than the average paragon mortal, and commands arcana within reach of the most learned of mortal magi, His unique power lies in his ability to bring out the worse in things. His presence is toxic, changing the very essence of beings and non-beings. It is his hand which cultivates the seed of desire, the primal shard preexisting, tending it to become an overgrowth that bursts through the nature of a thing. His work is to accelerate the inner hunger, the rest comes naturally as torment ends with feeding and overfeeding. Yet satiation never happens, and so indulgence becomes wickedness, carnal desires feasting upon morality, and moral desires feasting upon carnal needs. No one is safe from his abilities, to woo and tease out the hopes and dreams of a person, then taint them into a twisted reality. Where the pleasure may never end, but all meaning to it is lost.
While it is with this psychic force that the Dark Dream eats away at the will. Appearing as he would to mortals in a form they find desirable by dulling their beliefs in anything but to conceal the truth of his horror. But this illusionary self-delusion is merely a front for the true abilities he possess in the form of his magical contracts that taint reality with unyielding fantasy. It is his contracts which create kings out of men who lust for power, and scholars out of men who long for knowledge. Those who crave wealth find their coffers filled by the connections the Corruptor creates, and those who seek the pleasures of flesh shall find it so. By the magic of his magical contracts innocently offered to drag them deeper into their obsession, the shrewd negotiator can make those fantasies come true at a price. Already they have had their freedoms taken from them by his invisible chains, to sign a pact with him was undeniable.
And with these contracts, he may tap into the power of those poor souls, sealed away in their personal heavens but bound to be squeezed and abused at his pleasure. They who are trapped in an endless dream, but tormented in the same nightmare, used to lull another unsuspecting victim. He may channel the powers to seemingly warp reality to his desires, but ever moreso to twist the wishes of others. Take for example a man who wishes to be a king, but to do so would need to raise an army to raise a coupe. An army would be offered, perhaps summoned by the magic-users eternally bound by his contract or even comprising of fallen warriors who have sealed their future in the past. And the price for a regicidal army would be the future king's own soul. A bargain that the wise would be so wary, but the cunning would attempt to outwit. Nevertheless, when under the influence of desire, both wisdom and cunning become a hubris. And by the Corrupter's whim and will, that was so easily gained becomes so easily lost. So a collection of lost souls the Desert Demon gains, each trapped in their own prisons of eternal paradise. Such is his title, for he rules his subjects within their own kingdoms.
A legendary metropolis which sits brilliantly in the desert like a radiant gem to scatter the sunlight for miles. It is a city built by the Jaria Clan, a desert people who serve and view Zhystkrexas as their God-King. Zhystkrexas himself rarely manifests his presence in the public eye, and thus the city itself is ran by its elite citizens, governing itself with its false-utopia to mask the corruption which has taken the very city. Every sort of pleasure and vice can be found within the polished stone walls, but the city itself has loose regulations, and developed magical defenses which essentially maintain a semblance of order. The entire city is self-sustaining, and requires no outside support, yet invites visitors from afar to experience what it has to offer. Most travelers stay however and become permanent additions to the city. Either willingly or worse. I'Zhystana also holds two secrets: the two sources of Zhystkrexas' powers.
The Forgotten Desert was and forever will be a desert. It goes by many names, for it borders many nations like a dried patch of land, in Ancient Elven it is called Qualmanfauglir, in Dwarven Kurz-Gazan, Humans have called it more names throughout the ages than other races, but the common name is the Forgotten Desert. For as long as anyone could remember it was a forsaken place upon the world, a cursed boundary where the kingdoms of old would draw the borders of their nations. There was no value to claim the desert, for it was an inhospitable place, and nothing of value was ever found. Who would send legions to defend a sorry claim? Only a foolish ruler would gaze upon the tides of unforgiving sand and see any potential.
Only outcasts live there. Herding and scavenging on the picking the harsh climate offered. Though the sun shone brilliantly upon the sands, and the beautiful sunrises broke through the plateaus of stone, no plants grew and no life survived without water. And as the ancestors knew, the Forgotten Desert had no water to give. Rain never came upon the empty dunes, nor did waters ever rise from the sands, no river it had to claim and locked in by land from all sides. Only by living on the fringe did anyone survive, and yet to push on into the heart of the desert as a journey of discovery. For despite the warm days and cool nights, those who drive on, past the storming sands and chaffing winds, into the heart of this barren place, they may see the splendor that is I'zhystana.
Only the well prepared can venture forth in the great city, or anyone who wishes to make the journey by more practical means than traversing a great desert should consider chartering a passage either by magic or caravan into the city. There are even desert-ships which sail through sand like water, catching the winds upon their sails and rolling upon the dunes with their great wheels. But with its crown jewel of I'zhystana, and vessels which travel to and from it like this the Forgotten Desert is no longer quite Forgotten is it?
I'Zhystana is built in a labyrinthine arrangement of walls circumscribed into walls with the Palace of the God-King in the middle beside the Oasis of Acrid. The sectors between the three walls serve as districts which tend to offer a particular set of indulgences that dominates the particular area of the metropolis. The Rim, the Rise, and the Royal Districts are named rather aptly for what they offer.
The First district, The Rim, welcomes travelers into a taste of carnal delights. Things which can please the senses between brothels and bazaars, if it is to be touched and felt, it can be found in the Rim for the most basic needs of all. The various attractions which are highlights of this district afford the great wealth generated by the city.
A series of bazaars which never seems to end, save for when it does at the edge of the second wall. Each tent and stall offers wares ranging from far-flung exotic goods imported from the reaches of the world to local artisanal crafts made by some of the best artificers in the world. And though many hotels and hostels, villas and inns are offered for rent, the marketplace never sleeps in I'Zhystana as coins always trade hands. Common currency is accepted here, however the God-King's benevolence allocates a portion of the city's tax money as a welcome package to new arrivals to encourage economic exchange, along with various other incentives for new merchants to set up shop...
Those who which to taste the good life may dine at the various eateries which offer a selection of food and drink as complete as the wares sold in the markets. Exotic delights and compounds strange offered to sample and try, spirits flowing in chalices such that they may never be empty, and plates constantly replaced with more portions of food. It is said that one can tour the entire cuisine of the world in a single plate, or at least by merely walking from one diner into the next in a single city block, and even the dogs may eat as kings here.
Ah the fragrant houses for the pleasure of flesh. What lusts can be slaked off here? Man, women, anything really. Whatever the traveler wishes to try and is willing to do. There are even some darker dens which lace their acts with magic to perform unnatural things. But one will find in a place like I'zhystana, there is no such thing as taboo. Such public knowledge of these intimate things are common in city that is said to be everyman's paradise.
The second district, The Rise, caters towards those seeking self-improvement and things which cannot be held by mere arms of flesh. In the second district scholars find libraries to dwell in, warriors find arenas to test themselves, artists find gardens of meditation and inspiration. It serves to channel the productivity of the city, and thus the various attractions of this district afford the great people and status of the city.
Libraries, polytechnics, and institutions of learning dot the sector. Museums and records for those who love the past, books and auditoriums for those who care for the present, and laboratories and guilds for those who look to the future. For those who seek knowledge and wisdom, a day is not enough to take in all the resources available and so many stay to rejoice in the halls as scholars of their own field to ever-increase the reputation of I'zhystana.
Where once life did not grow, now it thrives in the city of the desert. Green and lush with beauty in nature, tended carefully by the unnatural hand to appear as natural as can be. It is a tamed beauty to look wild, a source of paradoxes and intrigue for philosophers and artists alike. For it is beauty captured and experienced, but far more beautiful than anything that could be captured. To walk in the growth and stroll lazily through the park, to sleep perchance to dream. The gardens offer tranquility and serenity, a place to lose oneself and to find yourself.
And for those who care not for understanding or peace, the arenas shall win their hearts. The blood and battle, the sweat and grime. All of it to entertain the masses of others who wish for sport. Races, fights, and displays of skill, every form of competition to claim victory in exists here. For fame to be renown and sung through the desert winds as the best in I'Zhystana. Who shall claim the title and honor? The Glory is yours to take, to take from the other man unworthy of your mercy. Win and you shall be the subject those painters shall paint and those students shall learn of!
The Third and final district, the Royal district, serves as the residence of the God-King as well as the administrators of the city. It is also within this district that temples are made to the God-king, and of course is home to the sacred Oasis of Acrid and the Palace of the God-King. It is the very heart of the city, from which all forms of regulations and bureaucracy arise. Thus the seat of power of the Forgotten Desert.
The estates of the important citizens of I'Zhystana. Luxury beyond luxury, only those who are chosen by the God-king himself may live in the inner circle. Of course this position is a precarious place to be as others seek to acquire the very same post. Those who live in these villas are often duplicitous sociopaths who are both paranoid to lose their position, and seek to enjoy their elevate status in the public eye. Forming a court of backstabbing bourgeoisie and fiendish friends as part of the elite of I'zhystana.
The holy of holies. The God-King's faithful come to worship and praise him throughout the lesser temples built in his glory, but it is the Grand Temple which the God-King himself is said to attend. Inside the sanctum the devout may genuflect and beech the statue of their God-king to fulfill their desires. And if the clergy allow it, hearing the whispers of their Lord, the faithful may ensign themselves and their wish upon a blank scroll that shall serve as a new contract.
The main administrative building for the city of I'Zhystana. New laws are adopted, written, discussed made, regulations, policies, and more. The final process is democratic and each seated member may cast their votes to decide the fate of I'zhystana symbolized by dropping their council rings into the set of scales behind the three seats before them. Though often the Great Seat is empty for the God-King hardly appears to rule on such trivial manners, the Lesser Seats are for the Hands of the God-King who are those who have achieved the highest status of power beneath the God-king.
An interesting pair who keep the city within the God-king's grip. The seated man and the dancing woman depicted are The General and the High-Priestess respectively. Both of the Jaria Clan, the General heads the military enforcement and decrees of the God-King, while the High-Priestess tends to the spiritual adherence and teachings of the God-King. And both are just as twisted as their ruler, for the General seeks to take control of the city from beneath the God-King by careful undermining, and the Priestesss is solely devoted to the worship of the God-King as the greatest fanatic obsession she bears. As such They by in large tend to cancel each other out, with one being rooted in betrayal and the other in devotion. Something which the pleases the God-king as he sits upon his true solitary throne.
Here upon the Golden Throne the God-king Sits surrounded by a few guards and consorts as he dines upon his awaiting prey.
Named after an ancient Jaria Chief, this sacred water source created the entire city through its powers, and is guarded by the Jaria Clan as their protected wellspring. The Oasis of Desire is a product of Zhystkrexas' power, as a vast amount of the entity's essence was invested into the creation of the black pool. It is said those who wish to harm Zhystkrexas must first drain or corrupt the pool, a task impossible as the temptations of the waters seem to affected the mind of all those who seek to destroy it. For unless one only has a desire to destroy the Oasis itself and only that one singular desire in all the world, then it shall rise up once more to fulfill the desires of those who thought the sought to destroy it.
Deep Beneath his Grand Palace, Zhystkrexas hides his legendary collection of bits and baubles under the desert sands locked away behind an curious door. The Vault is warded against forms of magic and hardened against physical attempts to destroy it, as the only guaranteed way to enter is through the Smiling Door. Called so as it features an usual bust of Zhystkrexas' monstrous head which claims the contents of the vault as his possession. The jaws open ever so slightly as to admit a trembling hand to twist and pull the handle unlock the doorway. But beware, for just as the pool was guarded by one's desire, so too is the vault as the Smiling Door bites off any hand which fails to prove its worthiness to enter Zhystkrexas' true horde. And the smiling bust shall serve as a remind that only a Heart as twisted and wicked as Zhystkrexas may enter.
For within his well-guarded secret is the other source of his power: all his magical contracts. The only way to undo a deal and release the soul bound to it is to either negotiate with Zhystkrexas himself, or to steal the original document from his possession and then destroy the contract. The former is usually unwise, and the latter is generally impossible. Yet for the hundred upon thousands of souls empowering him, what would one soul be?
The blessed servitors of Zhystkrexas. They serve him out of birthright as his mortal agents. Some serve to protect their God-King or his assets, others serve to expand his influence as merchants or skilled mercenaries. Some are 'entrusted' with positions of false power, but turn paranoid and scheme to retain such a precarious position and to earn the pleasure of their Lord. They are decent fighters and craftsman, but most of all shrewd negotiators and bureaucrats. As such the Jaria are a part of the City and Zhystkrexas himself, they are his numerous armies, his devoted acolytes, his awaiting swarm.
Gregarial, The Scepter of Satiation
Once a magical vessel which served to bring forth prosperity to the land, the nature of Zhystkrexas' power has long since corrupted it into this form. Melted down into its formerly pure gold, and its four diamonds and single ruby jewels recut and refitted to resemble the teeth and eyes of the dragon-like head that tops his personal weapon. The monstrous motif-bears a partial resemblance to Zhystkrexas' true form, especially in that its hinged jaw can be snapped open or shut with a twist of the its head. It is the cane which he uses to support his position, not physically as he feigns physical weakness, but symbolically. For it is his antithesis in a way, such that any non-sentient object that should be placed into its small jaws shall be duplicated, and that duplication itself shall continue to replicate endlessly until the original object is no longer within the rod's jaws. It is the weapon only befitting of one who causes an equally endless hunger, and perhaps the only thing that can weaken his grip on his world, as such he keeps a tight grip upon it.
The Myth
I approached him upon his golden throne, and he was far more handsome than I had heard. I found my eyes fixating upon the seat of his throne, wondering what monster was beneath his attire. He sat so regally, a presence so commanding that I had no shame in kneeling before him. I took to one knee and bowed my head, catching a glimpse of his charming smile. There my mind could only imagine those lips of his moving to the sound of his alluring voice asking if I wanted him. Every word dripping out of his mouth like golden honey, drizzled upon his chest. yes, how my tongue quivered inside as it brushed against my teeth, how I wanted to lick that sweetness off his glorious body. I lusted for him, and oh my heart leapt for joy when he placed the collar around my neck with that glorious smile, and wrapped the chain around his hand. He had made me his consort, another to join his court, his entourage, his harem. Yes, I am your servant, your slave, your lover. I surrender myself to you, oh great lord of the Jaria!
I looked up at him from my lowly place, having begged him for a single coin. What did he see in me? A mere tramp with nothing, no home, no family, no money. How great was his wealth and generosity that he would invite me to share bread with him? As the guest of honor? But oh he raised me from the poor beggar I was and dressed me in finery, silken robes trimmed with silver and inlaid with gold. He bought me jewels and fitted them upon my wretched hands, and his servants washed by feet with fragrant oils. What luxury did he have? What wealth to be able to do so to a nobody like me? And then he asked me if I dreamt of riches, far more than I could carry with my arms. I told him yes, I dreamt of a sea of gold and silver, diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, all the treasures as far as the eye could see, and that all of it be mine. Then he showed me his vaults, which were all that I had imagined and more. For mountains of treasures like the grains of sand in the desert surrounded me as he smiled, throwing me forward into the vast piles of wealth with his hand and telling me to take all that I could carry. How my eyes widened in disbelief in awe as I praised him, oh great lord of the Jaria!
I serve him for he has granted me peace. He consoled me when I had lost her, with his gentle hand placed upon my head as I grieved into his shoulder. When I thought I was abandoned, he strengthened my resolve. He had given me the means to my vengeance. A spear which he offered before my feet. He asked if sought justice for her death, and gave me the means to do so. He smiled as I picked up the weapon, rising and steadying myself with the shaft as my mind dwelt upon the deaths of her killers. He applauded as I came back, drenched in blood with only my sweat to wash the stains away. Justice has been served, and for this I owe him my life. This blessed spear with which I had carried back the impaled trophies of my enemies heads, now will become his. I shall fight for him, I am his spear that shall pierce all those that would stand before him. May I die for your name, Oh great lord of the Jaria!
I was invited to his feast, a banquet thrown at one of his lavish parties. I thought I had tasted everything there was in life, but he proved me wrong. There was a smorgasbord of dishes upon his table, all smelling of exotically pleasing to the nose as I licked my lips in anticipation. The drinks he offered, the wines poured which filled the cups of all those gathered around him, and me sitting to his right as the dishes were being passed around. And as I ate my fill of rare delicacies from around the world, he smiled while asking if I had saved room for the main course. The main course? What was this to him then? Merely an appetizer? And what was it that he would bring to top off these scrumptious delights we had just experienced? Then there it was, a small boy dressed in a white tunic, perhaps a serving boy, approached us. My eyes could hardly believe the horrors which happened, but as the succulent smell wafted into my nose, I could not resist lifting my fork up to bring the tender flesh to my lips. I thank you for a most excellent dinner, oh great lord of the Jaria!
I sought to test his power, and to know his limits. There I wished to know more than anyone mortal had, I challenged him to tell me the secrets to immortality. For long did I spend hours over ancient text regarding his kin, and years I had devoted of my life to the study of the Children. I had studied sorceries beyond the scope of many men, and perfected my spellcraft to rival the lesser gods. Yet I was still mortal, as poweful as I was, death would end it all. So I had traveled to his kingdom to see if I could deceive him into telling me how to become a god. And so through my flattery, did he feign his impressions, praising my skills to entertain his court as he asked what I wished to be rewarded with. My request was what I had longed for, knowledge forbidden to a mortal man: transcendence. So he smiled, as he offered me a scroll. Now the torments never end as my flesh burns and bones melt, my mortality being purged by the eternal flames as my soul fuels your power. You have won, oh great lord of the Jaria!
I had trembled at his arrival, kneeling before me at my bedside. For three moons had I reigned over as chief. What have I done to displease him? Why so now was I stricken with this malady? This accursed illness which leaves me here too sick to enjoy the fruits of my conquests? Even now my own advisors and family plot against me and each other. To take up that which is rightfully mine. Why have you abandoned me? I asked him in disbelief, coughing blood and hacking phlegm. Did he not promise me the power to rule over them? But what cruel irony that it was that I should be confined to dying on this bed while another sits in my throne. Ignoring my questions, he rose to lift my head to meet his eyes. Then he smiled and asked me if I was ready. Please have mercy, oh great lord of the Jaria!
I scoffed at the depravity of his kingdom when he approached me. I had rebuked him for the vast hedonism that bleeds out from his den of sin. I being virtuous detested all that he offered me. I wanted nothing that he could ever bring. So I bade him to leave, and left his presence. I sought refuge in the wilderness, away from his corrupting shadow. There I suffered in the heat of the sun, the cold of the night, the hunger of an empty stomach and thirst of a parched throat. But he would never taint me, I would be pure, and untouched. I would become a paragon of resisting the corrupting demon, the vile one who seeks to twist us all. And foolishly I thought I had rid of his influence at last, but he waited. He was patient, as I squandered away my time, living in moderation, living simply on the verge of death for fear of his return. How I wasted it all away, in pursuit of my enlightenment, a chance at family and friends, a chance to pursue a hobby and skilled art, a chance at a full life to experience it all. By attempting to resist him, I had fallen to the desire to resist him. And so he came to me once more in my old age, though I could not see his smile, as he asked me once more if he could grant me anything I desired now. Grant me rest, oh great lord of the Jaria!
These are some of the tales you will hear from the other voices of I'zhystana, but I see you seek more than a short recollection. You want the truth, and I can offer you more insight into our Lord. All that this old storyteller asks in return is one favour for the knowledge offered in my story. Promise me this oh Hero, and I shall tell your tale with the rest of my old life so that they will know the truth of your victory Efendi. And of course, if it is not so much to ask, perhaps you can buy the rounds of drink to keep our lips moist as I speak and you listen hmm? Ah, our tale begins not in the distant past, but only a few miles in that direction from this humble watering hole for vagrant thieves, vagabonds and scoundrels, for it is there in that path lies the city of I'zhystana.
I'zhystana. Behold the jewel of the desert, the most splendorous city anywhere. While some say the City-State-Kingdom of Melaron is greater, let me assure you Efendi, once you have spent a single night in I'zhystana, no place in the world in this life shall be as glorious. For how can it be that for hundreds of miles of sand and more sand, that such a thriving metropolis can exist? The answer is quite simple Efendi, it is called I'zhystana for a reason.
For beyond her walls of endless pleasures beyond the imagination lies her secret. The bewildered travelers and visitors may find their hearts torn between the exotic brothels, the grand arenas, or indulgent spas. The sages can find refuge in their towering libraries and while the nobility chatter in their high-rising parlors. Vast world-class bazars for those hearts set on riches or dining upon the flavour of this world all in one night, lush gardens holding viewing galas for those who amuse themselves in the arts. Some may call it paradise, but for whose who consider it a den of debauchery should consider the great holy temples to their God-King. The worship of one being, the Lord of the Jaria.
It was he who gave life to this place, where once only sand and sun existed, now thrives life. For long ago, upon a blessed moon, did he come to them. They who had once which once roamed nomadically through the deserts, enduring the harsh lands to scavenge for their sustenance, as all who lived in the desert once did in the old days. Dozens of clans roamed the endless desert, pushed to survive this way as the other kingdoms encroached upon their lands more and more. And since no Kingdom lay claim to the barren desert, it was natural that it became a sanctum for those who had nothing left to lose but clung to the hope of life however meager. It was here in the land of nothing, in the hour of desperation, in the face of death, that the last chief of the Jaria clan signed his tribe into the service of a handsome stranger who appeared in his tent.
What happened that night no one truly knows, there are stories that claim the chief consummated the agreement, some who say that the chief was forced into signing, and other yet say there was no such stranger and the chief himself cried out to the desert for a miracle. Whatever happened that forgotten night, it was said that very morning the sunlight revealed the waters had sprung from beneath the sand. They say he was a divine being, heretics claim he was a demon that crawled out from the desert sands, but are they not one in the same? Others say he is no god, but merely a powerful sorcerer with a penchant for business, but I say who else can create all this from nothing but a god?
There was the gift provided, and now the Jaria clan alone may lay claim to abundance through their ancient dealings with their new Lord. In return for a single oasis, such that they may survive the desert, they had committed their entire surviving lineage to the God-King. Was it a fair trade? I would say any man who would help you cheat death itself was a man of great benevolence. He came to them with an offer of life, but they would in turn serve him. Brokers of his dealings, the middle man to spread his influence across the land, the example of what he could grant: a life of luxury in the barrens of the sunlit wasteland.
It is this life that some say is wrong, but to a people who lived on the edge and had nothing, was it so wrong Efendi? Hedonistic epicureans, the members of the infamous Jaria clan have an indescribable amount of wealth, knowledge and power throughout the lands. So much accumulated over the years by using their oasis as their capital asset, offering quenching water to the other wandering bedouins of the desert. A small price to pay for water was cheaper than blood. It was indeed a fine water supply, with cool, clean, and crisp water, waters which made everything seem better, food eaten with it was far more delicious. Sand became fertile to bear crops and crops water with it produced in overabundance. Wounds washed with it healed faster, skin more supple, and bodies more fragrant as libidos raised. It was indeed the miraculous water, the Oasis of Jaria. And yet they who drank it would find the same water no longer capable of sating their thirst. Food without it became bland, and all others became putrid without it, wounds festered and skin aged, clothing chaffed and crops died. They became locked in a dream, a dream which turned to a nightmare when the water ran dry.
So the addiction began, and they who partook in the Oasis became enslaved to it, enslaved to the deals of the Jaria who smiled as their wealth bounded upwards with every transaction. It was not merely water which their patron had given them, but far more, for from the desires of others they had their own filled. Power, fame, wealth, everything came in overabundance to the Jaria clan by the sacred oasis. The pool which to this day remains protected by the clan as they have built their empire around the holy waters. No longer have they need to use its miraculous abilities, but blessing of stranger is to be forever revered.
And there he sits upon his gold throne within his marble palace. Clad in gold rules the God-king Zhystkrexas. Praise be to you, oh Great Lord of the Jaria!
There, I have told you all that I know of our story Efendi, now I hope you will not have forgotten our agreement, there is a always a price in the city of I'zhystana, you must find a way to release me from my deal with my Lord...
A Story
Allow me to take a moment's rest in recounting my tale. Forgive this old storyteller's lips for being parched, but a brief respite to catch my wind and drink. Ah that reminds me of another tale of which I could tell regarding drinking, but that is not the story you asked for now is it? You travel to I'Zhystana seeking audience with my Lord? Who is this Kil-threx of whom you serve? Ah nevermind, perhaps you would have asked for another tale if you had the time. Now, where was I?
...And there Our warrior stood, bathed in the blood of the guards as he threw their lifeless bodies before the God-King's court. The crimson ebbs of battle mixed in with his panting breath and running sweat. The gallant Knight-Paladin had sought to slay the monster which had taken many of his order. Felling the eight Jaria guards within the throne room had taken a great deal of effort, let alone the dozens he had to vanquish to get this far. But it mattered, not for now the demon before him would die. It was over, he declared, through all this he, he was finally going to kill that thing that sat upon the golden throne. The moment he had been waiting for, to thrust his blade into the wretched heart of all sin and kill the beast at last.
But ah the God-King Zhystkrexas merely smiled, and beckoned the knight closer. And with the courage of a lionheart, the Knight charged his sword aimed at the Lord of the Jaria's chest. It was then that the good knight found his arm held, a force clutching at his wrist and a powerful hand gripping tight to prevent his blade from sinking into the boney flesh of the great beast. There in those precious moments he would wrestle for control over his own blade against the God-king, but found himself in a deadlock. And how he wanted to pierce its dark heart and more than anything at this moment, kill it.
But the God-King knew his desires, as it knows all desires and the evils which lay dormant in the hearts of men. So the Devouring One asked him the question, that if he would so easily trade his life away to kill it. And our knight in the heat of the battle of wills screamed yes as he felt the grip of the fiend loosen. Blade penetrated the God-king's chest and skewered its body to the very throne it had not arose from. Gazing at the lifeless body of the demon, our knight was victorious at last. Or was he?
For it was an hollow victory, just as he was a hollow man. His hand dropped his sword of its own vocation, moving to hold his face of its own accord. There in horror he realized what had happened, and his own hand betrayed him. A horrific scream and gruesome tearing, the terrified slayer began to rip off his own face. And there beneath his visage was seen... the Face of Zhystkrexas, Lord of the Jaria.
It is a tragic tale, but I have kept my promise to an old friend. Many thanks to you for the drink Efendi.
When not adorned with his spectral armor Deos often takes the appearance of a human, clad often in dark colored dress clothes, favoring blacks and reds above all else. His hair is often unkempt and generally messy with the color changing between black and red depending on what shade he feels like wearing. His eyes are one very curious part about him that shows the world he is no human as they are pure black with nothing but a red iris to denote any change in color. That however is not the strangest thing that sets him apart from mortal men. The strangest is the cut on his neck from when he was beheaded ages ago, healed by foul magic and wicked ways, but still containing the black stitching that once held the two together.
For his frame he holds a rather lithe and toned body, despite his supernatural strength. His skin is a rather tan hue and with a well-kept complexion again despite his rather dark or aggressive life. Particularly interesting about that same bit of information is that his body is near devoid of scars or blemishes despite his beheading mark, again despite his incredibly violent life. Not because he doesn’t take injury but because he heals himself from any harm his foes deal him, even going so far as to take away the scarring as he doesn’t particularly like the blemishing of his body. The only reason he keeps the neck scar is because he believes it gives him some character and wears it almost as a morbid necklace. Finally are his oversized demon wings that stretch out of his back. Bat wings with black bone structure with red internal membranes they clearly show that he is no angel. Even with their size he has incredible control over them, allowing him to almost use them as hands herding and wrapping his large wingspan around things or people.
When dressed in his “normal” clothing his entire look drastically changes. Clad in dark armored plates that envelope his entire frame with skulls, chains, and horns placed all around the set. His visage of burning armor that spills forth Hellfire from joints, eyes, and creases spins a daunting image for any foe to face. Spaces in the back make room for his massive wings to unfurl and grow to allow him to move swiftly as well as take to the skies despite the armor. His armor is equipped with long claws at the end of each finger that he uses to rend and tear at foes as well as claw and break apart obstacles.
Being the Sovereign of battle, bloodshed, and war Deos ‘ powers revolve around fire and strength. His body is capable of withstanding incredible amounts of trauma having his frame be naturally durable under his magical and powerful armor. His strength is something to be feared, striking with a force though cleaves through bodies and fortifications much as a siege engine would. Letting him lay waste to man, defense, and ground before him. His magic is incredible powerful but just as powerful as it is, it is also focused. His repertoire of spells is low leaving him with the domain of casting powerful blasts and rays of fire that surge from his body.
Similarly for his destructive fire he has to ability to make a vicious transformation into a malicious and incredible powerful Demon Lord. Taking the shape of a burning beast that sheds his wings for another pair of arms, augmenting his strength and magical power in exchange for his speed and ability to fly.
He also contains within him the power of rapid regeneration allowing him to survive and continue to wage war despite taking on grieves wounds and savage injuries. On the topic of healing he is also immortal having very little that can keep him down. Whenever he takes enough damage that would warrant him to “die” he is taken back to his realm of Hell to recover over a span of time.
To reach his realm he has to ability to strike the air before him to rip open portals to and from his lands to not only get himself home, but also take others and bring forth his armies to lay siege. The range of scale of these portals require more time depending on the size, making small single person portals have an instantaneous cast, while large army sized ones can take up to several hours to bring forth. The portals can only connect to his realm though. So while they offer a quick way for him to leave his realm and head back home, he can't use them to just jump from place to place outside of his realm. They must always link back to his realm before heading off to another place. For a portal bigger than a small group of people he must be on site to stabilize it, meaning he must focus on the portal to make one big enough to let an entire army through. While being made, the portals are vulnerable to dispelling magics making it so that if a anti-magic field of a portal disrupting force is present he can't successfully stabilize a portal. Once they are set up however an enemy mage of sufficient power must go to the portal's site to focus and channel dispelling magic to close it.
His final power is that of war domain. His armies and monsters of war all share a large link that he creates to feed them instruction from no matter where he is. He can also use this power to augment a soldier or beast of his with his own strength to assume control over them and fight through them. That particular part only works for those of whom he has domain over however. To assert his domain he can twist and bend any captured prisoners of war or beast to understand the beauty of battle and the pleasure of war.
Items and Equipment:
His sword Omen. This powerful demonic blade is crafted from the nearly indestructible metals taken from his domain and forged in searing Hellfires that temper the blade to be a force of absolute devastation. One key feature of his blade is that he can summon and banish it at will, letting him take arms at the mere flick of a wrist.
His armor is also forged in the same fashion as his sword and much like his sword he can summon and banish it letting the metal seep around him to encase him in his garb and raise him from his usual height of 6 feet to a standing height of 11 feet.
Estates and Realms:
His realm of Yirathlx is a land of war... Battle can always be heard echoing around the streets and fields of the realm, though instead of war and conflict it's training and practice for both current and future battles. All around are fires and pyres burning brightly into the eternal night that envelopes the sky. The obsidian and stone of the city glistens from the dancing light and glint of steel. To many this would be a picture of horror and fuel for nightmares, but for Deos it is a beauty that must be brought to the world so they too may enjoy the splendor of war.
While his realm is held in a spiritual plain that is separated from the mortal world, there is a special place that connect the two worlds. The Gates of Bloodshed stand tall surrounded by the leaking Hellfires of Yirathlx and by monoliths of obsidian that are carved in various statues of guardians, warriors, and beasts. It is from this door that mortals and people of the physical realm can reach his domain to seek audience with the Sovereign of Eternal War. This gate is the only bastion that Deos holds in the mortal world, with his Royal Guards and elite warbeasts patrolling around the obsidian walls and Hell-Steel Spires that stand around the gates.
Deos' home and castle in the centre of his space of battle is the great Hall of Conflict. Surging up high into the sky he has the view to watch over his entire domain and collect all of his spoils and pleasures of war. Keeping his personal quarters as well as his treasure halls filled fit to burst with gold, silver, gems, and other things he values as trophies. Inside the castle is immaculate, showing off a vain side of him that clearly depicts his love of beauty in greed as well as warm with tapestries of past battles and standing armors of countless nations and ages all lines up down the long hallways.
Servants and Beasts:
Among the realm and armies of Deos are hundreds of thousands of dedicated soldiers from many races that he has collected from over the ages. Many are human but some are abnormal... Some standing 8 feet tall with horns and sharp fangs, others with wings and a regal air. All of them having one thing in common, an undying loyalty to their lord of mayhem.
To augment his armies of men are his beasts of war, ranging from living tanks with grafted catapults on their backs, to massive siege beasts that lay waste to walls and armies alike with their massive arms, large goring tusks, and hungry bloodlust. Yet still to take the skies he was winged creatures that range from human sized bats to large airborne monsters that threaten to lift buildings off the ground with their many rending claws and lashing tendrils.
Stories are told of a man who a long time ago dedicated his life to war. Growing up as a knight who cared not for any code of honor or fair maiden to rescue. Instead he drew pleasure from slaughter and joy from carnage. Seeing his foes lay in bloody heaps before him were the only sight he wished for...
Through his lust for battle he commit atrocity after atrocity and battle after battle, until he met his match. The kingdom of Mirath was glorious nation that stood against his home of Nyiara. Only it wasn't as things seemed. Nyiara's army governed by their queen, Lady Amsel grew to distrust and see the monster that Deos was. It was then they sent him away to meet his end in one final battle with an enemy he would all to happily fight. Leading his contingent into a fight that he could never win. Outnumbered beyond count and surrounded he refused to relent, fighting till his body couldn't handle it any longer and he was taken prisoner. Set to be executed the day of his defeat he was met with the axe. Though instead of admitting defeat and relenting he laughed at his accusers and spoke the fateful words, "You have not seen the last of war." Only to be stroke down with a single blow, making his head roll away from his frame.
His words however spoke true as when he was cast away from the living world he found... something. A voice in the darkness that guide him, taking his soul to a long forgotten realm that he named Yirathlx. Finding a home in this desolate land away from the afterlife he fought against the clawing forces of insanity and the boring existence of a life without battle. He recovered and found his form, growing to return back to the world that cut him down and cast him out. However he was not a mortal man anymore...
Bursting forth in a flush of Hellfire and black smoke the monster that Deos Risleth had become surged back from the pits of Hell to slaughter and kill once again, taking in followers, prisoners, and slaves for his own benefit and pleasure. He was unstoppable, and upon finding both Mirath and Nyiara allied after the fall of the monster, he flew into a new war against his former home and enemy, laying waste to them with his supernatural strength and power. Taking as many as he could manage prisoner to corrupt them into his loyal soldiers, bringing them back to a force that was finally directed to the truth... glorious, neverending war.
Deos is the lord of conflict so it's safe to assume he enjoys the pleasure of a sword in hand, but it's not all he is of. War also generates spoils and treasures that he also embodies and enjoys. So more often than not he can be seen with slaves, women, gold, and silver within arms reach.
This has given him a almost conflicting personality that changes depending on if his armor is on or not. When not garbed in plate he takes on a cocky and lighthearted air that cares more for pleasure and drink than blood and metal. However, on the other end of the spectrum he can switch to wanting nothing more than to hear the screams of tortured souls and the clang of sword on sword. Some times this can be almost bipolar in nature having him at a drop of a hat go from enjoying a drink with some of his slaves or consorts to breaking the bottle on the table and goring one. This in turn has given him a rather unstable and crazy reputation.
Burning fires and screams were all that couldn't be heard from down below. Deos had found another bastion of human life, erected to show the world that they had grown to a position of power and progress. However, that wasn't a good thing. They built their world on peace and negotiation which was disgusting and a true atrocity that had to be purged from the world...
In his hand was their king, Lord Bertrand, desperately clutching at the metal hand holding him on his knees, making him look out over the balcony of his own palace to see the slaughter before him, "Isn't it beautiful..." Deos started to say, letting the reverberation from his head radiate out, "All the blood, all the swords, all the warriors creating their art and preforming their dance. It's a wonder and a fleeting pleasure."
Just as he finished a massive tusked war beast, trampled through a collection of Haran warriors who were desperately trying to protect a makeshift barricade. The beast used his tusks to gut and smash several of them letting their strikes glance and barely scratch it's thick hide.
Nearby another barricade was holding out against the soldiers of Deos' army, slashing and thrusting at them with swords and spears. It seemed as though they were winning as no Haranian was getting hurt from behind their tipped carts and falling beams. "You will pay for this you monster!" Lord Bertrand said to the armored man behind him. However his words only brought the sword closer to his neck.
"You call me a monster. I disagree. I am but a humble man, bringing joy to the lives of mortals." He said, watching as the Haranians continued to to repel his soldiers. "Look and see my work, the joy they feel for working together and fighting against their foes." He continued and just a few moments later they started to crumble. Several brutes of Deos' approached the barricade and struck at it, letting their defense start to crumble to let the soldiers advance, turning the tide in an instant. "They had the pleasure of dying happy. Won't you let yourself have the same joy?" He finished looking down to the lord.
"Fuck yo..." Was all he managed before a squelching sound could be hear as Deos clenched his fist, crushing his head like an overripe grape, letting Bertrand's hot blood wash over his fingers. Watching his body slump to the ground he smiled under his helm watching the Siege of Haran come to a bloody close.
It was another day in Yirathlx and particularly in the Hall of Conflict. Deos was doing nothing particularly important, merely watching his wine swirl in his ornate, golden cup. Off to each side was a consort that he had chosen for the day and before him was a series of prisoners being brought through for him to pass judgement on. For each new soul he cast out his free hand and warped them to suit his needs, giving them the gifts of war and the joys that follow. Though the process wasn't gentle the end result made each and every man or woman leave with a wicked smile on their now twisted face.
The next was a young woman, tall and strong, raised right from whatever military she served in before her fateful battle against Deos' hordes. Bound in chains and forced forward at spear point by two of his Court Guard. Deos looked at her with blank eyes, gauging where she would be most useful, but seeing what she was and where she came from would make turning her into a consort of slave a waste of her talent. Instead he raised his hand to turn her into a loyal soldier, but something happened...
There was a call that rang in Deos' mind, a familiar force he hadn't felt in a very long time. Pausing in his ceremony his eyes began to glaze over, entering a sort of trance that confused all present in his Burning Court. His consorts looks to him and pressed their bodies against his thinking something was wrong, while his Court Guards pressed their spears into the prisoner in the event she was the cause of their master's distress. When in his trance, he left his court mentally to peer into the void from which the call came and everything was foreign once more, but deep down it felt familiar, as though he'd been there before.
Nothing was clear, save one thing. That voice. Standing before something so overwhelming was a strange feeling but one that Deos reveled in, such power, such glory, it was beautiful... Hearing the force speak brought chills to him and while the words made no sense to him, in his mind the meaning and drive was made clear. A reason, location, and time was given to his mind and upon the end of the event he returned to his Burning Court. Eyes returning and coming back filled with drive he pushed away both of the consorts and stood up quickly. "Take care of the rest of the prisoners." He said in a curt and almost excited manner. Putting his ornate cup to his lips to took one last big gulp before tossing it to the side, spilling his wine on the searing obsidian that made up the floor beneath his grand throne of Hell-Steel, gold, silver, and fire, making the liquid fizzle and steam away in moments. He was quick to leave, walking with a purpose out of the court to get ready for this meeting of minds that he was promised.
Name: Vortigern Titles: He of Whisper and Shadow [name] The Spiritbinder Grand Magus [name] (honorary, “postmortem”)
Three-word description: Dark Magic Spymaster
Appearance: He of Whisper and Shadow, contrary to what most of those who truly know of his existence believe, is not a formless spirit, jumping from one host body to the next. Vortigern, in fact, does possess a body. As a matter of fact, aside from its remarkably pale skin, Vortigern’s body is in good shape. Its eyes are dark, its hair is long and healthy, and its skin is actually quite smooth. To the more magically sensitive, he would appear surrounded by a thick pale mist. This is part of Vortigern’s true essence, which has transcended his mortal flesh, but still animates it.
On those rare occasions where Vortigern chooses to go out, he usually wears an old set of robes, well-maintained from his magic, of a style used by the Order of the Stars about a thousand years ago. They are largely black, but trimmed and patterned with gold thread, and belted with leather and steel. His hands and feet are covered by thick leather boots, dyed black. The palms of each glove are adorned with heavily stylized circles. He wears a hood and cowl, styled in the same vein as his robes, which obscures his face and hides his hair. In addition, he wears a similarly styled cloak for more decorative purposes.
Magic/Skills/Abilities:
Active Spellcasting: While never his specialty, Vortigern knows how to invoke more direct methods of using magic to inflict harm: fire, lighting, ice, kinetic force, clouds of toxic gas, and so on.
Illusionary Design: Technically a form of Active Spellcasting, but different in function than the rest. Vortigern can bend light to create false images, and distort the air to create false sounds and scents.
Summoning: Easily Vortigern’s greatest ability is to call upon spirits already in his service. Calling them requires very little effort, considering they are already bound to him, and is facilitated by the stylized circles inscribed into his gloves. In a fight, all but the weakest of the spirits under his command can disorient his opponents, and the strongest are capable of inflicting some serious mental harm. He prefers to use spirits over fighting directly.
Spirit Assault: How Vortigern prefers to go about fighting enemies directly. Using his knowledge of the human spirit and mind, he can seriously curtail a person’s ability to use their body. When attempted at a distance, this cannot be directed at a specific individual, and results in moderate sluggishness at worst. Direct physical contact allows for attacks that are far more devastating, including up to total paralysis and unconsciousness. To affect internal organs Vortigern must physically strike a part of the body that lines up with that organ—for example, to stop the heart Vortigern must strike in the middle of the chest. If a person survives being attacked in this method, they will recover from these attacks fully with sufficient time.
Domination: A specific technique related to spirit assault, Vortigern is able to twist a person’s body and mind to serve him. An unwilling subject is hollowed out entirely, rendered nothing more than an obedient husk. A complacent—willing or unconscious—subject retains their mental faculties and personality, but is unable to disobey Vortigern’s commands. Vortigern receives willing subjects either through coercion or through his cult (more on that in a bit). Vortigern can employ this technique to alter the mind and memory of a person who hasn’t been hollowed out.
Transcendence: Approximately eight hundred fifty years ago, Vortigern performed a ritual that altered the nature of his spirit, becoming He of Whisper and Shadow. As a result, his body does not physically age, and nothing short of total destruction will break his spirit’s connection to it. Even still, it is more likely that he will become a powerful spirit after that occurs, like those he controls now but far greater in scope, than it is that he will pass on.
Inventory/Holdings:
Objects:
The Staff of the Spiritbinder. Vortigern’s staff from before he became He of Whisper and Shadow. It is a long piece of an uncertain dark wood, crowned by a crow perched inside of a circle. As per instructions he gave to close associates before his transcendence, it was buried on the grounds of the Order of the Stars eight hundred fifty years ago. Some fifty years ago, it was disturbed and dug up. The leader of the Order took to using it as a symbol of his office. When Vortigern learned of this, he snuck in to the transgressor’s bedchambers, turned the man into a drooling husk in his sleep, and took a number of magical artifacts, including the staff. The staff serves as a means to amplify his control over spirits, but the main reason he created was to serve a function during his transcendence.
Alkor’s Amulet. An amulet created by Alkor the Spellweaver, a founding member of the Order of the Stars, which Vortigern stole while retrieving his staff. It’s consists only of a sphere of brass threaded on a course string. The amulet amplifies the wearer’s magical ability.
Darkblood. A ceremonial dagger of unknown origin, which Vortigern stole while retrieving his staff. Its blade is an unknown black metal, and its hilt, handle, and pommel are made of gold. Purportedly, it alerts the bearer to the presence of demons, but precisely how has been forgotten. It is kept in an unadorned leather scabbard.
Followers:
Spirits. Vortigern has bound a veritable army of spirits into his service. The vast majorities of these are not particularly strong, but are eminently useful for matters of morale. A weak spirit can slip into an enemy encampment, and make all sorts of merry hell to ruin someone’s day—spoiling food, causing nightmares, whispering something in someone else’s voice to start a fight, and so on. Some of the more powerful spirits can whisper dark secrets into a sleeping person’s ear to drive them mad, or false secrets to cause mistakes, or even get a person to divulge their own secrets in their sleep. Some of the stronger spirits are capable of actually fighting, undergoing ethereal manifestation to fight someone as a gfigure identical to a risen ghost. All sorts of spirits are ideal scouts, being invisible. Spirits also serve as capable messengers.
Whispers. About three centuries ago, Vortigern used a handful of individuals he had coerced into letting him Dominate them to found a cult in his honor. Its membership includes every person to join the eight-person High Council that has governed the Republic of the Carnelian Coast for the past eight hundred fifty years, as well as several key figures of governance and trade throughout the Republic. In addition to the more mundane options of having the Republic declare war wherever he wishes—a gross misuse of it as a resource—he can alter the flow of goods as he, and has access to what passes for the Carnelian espionage network. His cult also acts, in part, as his own intelligence network, giving him eyes and ears in places that the Carnelian Coast cannot reach.
Shadows. An loose organization of assassins, thieves, and spies. Spread throughout the land, they provide information and blood to the highest bidder—but only if it is in Vortigern’s interest. Vortigern founded it personally three hundred years ago, and it is run through Vortigern has Dominated, who he taught to summon spirits He bound to himself, through which the servant communicates with their proxies, who distribute orders. Members of the Whispers are not permitted entry. All information its spies gather is recorded, and sometimes Vortigern will send them out on a personal mission (and simultaneously several dummy missions) of different types to achieve a personally desired end.
Personal Army. To top it all off, Vortigern has a vast number of trained soldiers under his employ. They man his hidden fortress (more on that in a second), and are led directly by officers who have willingly submitted to Domination. The only soldiers permitted to interact with Vortigern, namely as his personal guard must first willingly submit to Domination.
Holdings:
Mountain Fortress-Complex. Starting from the long-defunct gem-mines for which the Carnelian Coast was named for long ago, Vortigern has developed massive fortress under the earth, hidden from view. Going down several stories, manned by Vortigern’s personal army, this serves as the nerve center for all of his operations.
Myth:
There are many tales the destitute of the Carnelian Coast tell themselves. For the pleasure of scaring each other at night. To explain the world to themselves. And, sometimes, just for its own sake. One of these stories is of a young mage named Vortigern. Vortigern was the youngest son of Vallirand, then the most powerful and influential merchant of the Carnelian Coast. To oppose him, and take his profits for themselves, a cadre of individually lesser merchants banded together to found the Carnelian Consortium, a body of dozens of merchants that banded together to regulate trade on the Coast—being one of the most prominent centers of trade in the known world. Vallirand was not permitted entry. Vortigern had no care for business, only for his studies, and one day moving west and joining the Order of Stars. But as his father’s business was undercut by the Consortium, so was the funding for Vortigern’s endeavors.
And so, Vortigern had an idea: populism. If enough of the people of the Carnelian Coast could be rallied against the Consortium, and be convinced to not do business with the it, then it was guaranteed to collapse. So Vallirand and all of Vortigern’s brothers and uncles and cousins traveled the length of the Carnelian Coast, saying that the Consortium was taking away the power of individuals and states to do business as they pleased. There was a furor, and Vortigern’s plan almost succeeded, but for a brilliant response from the Consortium: the founding of a republic in the Carnelian Coast. Many of the people of the Coast were swayed, but many were not, and it looked like the region was to tear itself apart. And that was bad for business. Vallirand was admitted to the Consortium, and took up the cause of the Republic. Now there was only the matter of the extant states of the region.
All were city-states, and most armed only militias and city guards, which had now, effectively, defected. There were a few holdouts, but they surrendered quickly. One unfortunate casualty of the fighting, however, was Vortigern’s eldest brother, the only of his siblings he cared for, and the heir to Vallirand’s many enterprises. When all was done, the Consortium sat down to do business in their new capital, and one quarter of them promptly keeled over. This number was Vallirand, and all of his supporters. Only some of the deaths were due to means one could call assassination, not including Vallirand’s, but it was plain to see what had happened. But instead of marshalling their resources to oppose the monstrous injustice done against them, all of Vortigern’s brothers and cousins and uncles squabbled over who got what of their late kinsman’s bounty. All the family was gathered for this in a lavish palace-home than Vallirand had owned. It caught fire.
When the fire had been put out, it was discovered that the body-count was one short, and the vast fortune that Vallirand had kept there was gone. The only member of the family who could have escaped the fire and spirited away the wealth was the one mage: Vortigern. And there was no trace of him. Those living who knew the family said that Vortigern had no interest in business, and so it was concluded that he had taken what was technically his inheritance and gone to join the Order of Stars. Many were sad to see the wealth go—they had hoped to poach it from Vallirand’s successors—but they at least had his many enterprises to divide amongst themselves.
While it is true that Vortigern had no interest in business, he had every interest in revenge. In addition to escaping the blaze with his father’s fortune, he had used his magic to set the fire, and ensure that his family could not escape. He saw his family’s actions after Vallirand’s death as a betrayal of his father, and so he punished them. However, he was not, on his own, even with his magic and the wealth and resources of his father, a match for the remainder of the Consortium. So he left the Carnelian Coast, swearing there, in the darkness of that night, to return.
He journeyed west, as all had suspected, and became an apprentice to a member of the Order of the Stars. Vortigern proved to be an exceptional pupil, and was promoted to a full membership To this day, the name of Vortigern is still spoken, lauded for the advances made by his study of spirits leagues beyond what any one person was believed to be capable of accomplishing.
For most, all of this achievement would have made life satisfying. And it might have done so for Vortigern as well, had his father not been betrayed. His anger remained, and his rage festered like an open wound. It was not enough. He grew ever more detached from his friends and associates, eventually shutting them out entirely. One day, he vanished, never to return.
Some years after, the members of the Carnelian Consortium—which had been integrated into the leadership of the Republic of the Carnelian Coast—began to disappear as well. It began with the oldest members, who had been alive during the founding of the Republic, but once they were gone no person was safe. Soon, people were refusing appointments to the Consortium’s leadership, then the entirety of the Consortium. Then people began quitting their posts. Understaffed and overloaded, the Consortium collapsed, and nearly brought the Republic with it. Once the Consortium was gone, efforts of the Carnelian government ceased.
Still, Vortigern was not satisfied.
Wells were poisoned. Fortunes were stolen. Mansions burned. One-by-one, the entirety of the merchant class of the Carnelian Coast was unmade. Few died. Most were left to suffer.
As the region had always been a center of trade, the economic collapse of the Carnelian Coast rippled throughout the known world, causing the first great economic disaster in recorded history: the Carnelian Collapse. It was clear that it had been precipitated by some driving will, so efforts were made to find and eliminate it. It was a party of two that eventually found Vortigern: a great warrior, and a powerful mage. They battled. In the end, Vortigern cast them out of his domain, but was gravely wounded in the process. But he did not die. To this very day, he lurks up and down the coast, growing in power, his hunger for revenge unsated. He prepares to lash out against the very world, and tear it asunder.
There have been many great mages to pass in and out of the world. Most of them are known only to those mages who come after them. Being scholars by nature, those heirs remember them well—assuming the memories were true to begin with. This is the story, according to the Order of the Stars, of one mage who held some renown in his day, and for a short while after his untimely demise: Vortigern the Spiritbinder.
One day, some ninehundred years ago, in the pale light before dawn, a young man came to the city of Melaron driving a cart covered with thick, course cloth. When he came up to the gates, the posted guards asked him what was in the cart.
”My inheritance”
This was Vortigern.
They lifted the canvas covering the cart to find something they had not been expecting: gold and jewels. Vortigern had such a mass of wealth with him that the guards were utterly stunned. Had he arrived at any other time of day, when the entry to the city was thronged with merchants, farmers, pilgrims, and so forth, much of the fortune would have been lost to thieves before he could get inside the city gates. As it stood, he only lost two jewels and to pouches of coins, as gifts to the guards on duty to pre-emptively thank them for not spreading any rumors.
Vortigern made his way through the city and to hi8s destination: the Order of Stars. Some small handful of mages there were awake, and he was asked his business there.
”To join you.”
Naturally, his ability needed to be tested, and that done the matter of purchasing supplies—both for magic and general living. He proved more than able enough to become the apprentice of one of the Order’s members, and his vast fortune covered any expense he faced.
Ultimately, he was taken under the wing of one Calor Talloman, a mage of no especial ability for a member of the Order, but a skilled teacher. Vortigern thrived under his tutelage. Over the next fiveyears, he fostered a friendship with the apprentice of one of Calor’s associates, one Crutius Vallorn. Crutius would prove to be Vortigern’s dearest friend. Vortigern was hesitant to speak of his past, but opened up to these two. He told them of his father’s war, of his father’s murder, and of his family’s death.
”They were just… they wouldn’t stop fighting. Someone had just murdered my father, and they were arguing over money! I was so, so angry. And I hadn’t been trained yet, not yet—books don’t really count. I wouldn’t have chosen to do it, but I don’t miss them.”
Vortigern had, in a fit of rage, accidentally set fire to his family’s large home. He managed to escape. When the flames had died down, he snuck back in and spirited his father’s wealth out of the city before his father’s rivals could get their hands on it. Crutius would comment, years after Vortigern’s death, that he had struggled with anger over his father’s betrayal all of his life.
Those years spent, Vortigern found himself elevated from his apprenticeship. In truth, this came to pass sooner than was ordinary, but ability was of greater concern than age, and he was not so young as to raise eyebrows.
With his apprenticeship complete, Vortigern chose to study spirits, a subject of stark difference from his former master, and of deep concern to the Order. While the subject was not itself anathema, many people—mages included—connected it to necromancy. Their concerns, however, were unfounded. Some considerable oversight, to which Vortigern consented, showed that he did not stray towards the souls of the dead. If anything, the reports that were compiled showed that Vortigern actively disdained those practices.
After about a decade, he had gained notoriety within the Order. He knew more about the ways of spirits than anyone, and had been able to refine his methods somewhat since the day he banished the spirit summoning the horde. Offers of funding arose and steadily increased—wholly unnecessary, as his inheritance was still plentiful, but still appreciated.
By all accounts, time was a far less plentiful resource. As such, why exactly he chose this point to take on an apprentice is unclear. Maybe he thought they would be a useful assistant with his research, or perhaps he was feeling the pangs of his mortality and wanted some piece of himself to live on. Perhaps it was something else. Whatever was the case, he found an apprentice in an applicant by the name of Saida, a young elven girl who had recently been orphaned. Precisely what made her an orphan is in no surviving record.
Saida was Vortigern’s apprentice for eight years—slightly longer than normal—and remained involved in his work for seven years afterwards. During this time, Vortigern revolutionized how mages work with spirits. He rewrote how mages classify spirits, pinpointed the attributes that cause demonic manifestation—the ability of demons to create a physical body when summoned, long recognized as a key difference between them and ordinary spirits—and developed countless methods by which spirits could be summoned, bound, and banished. While some considerable advancement has been made since his death, the vast majority of modern methods are grounded largely in his developments, discoveries, and even some ideas he wrote down but never tested.
However, he eventually drifted into another subject of study: the human spirit. Once again, this caused concerns about necromancy to arise, but Vortigern’s reputation eased the minds of his superiors.
After another handful of years, it seemed that his research into the human spirit had come reached a breakthrough. But for it to continue, he would need to leave the city on a long journey. He left very specific instructions with Crutius and Saida.
“I need to do an experiment, and I cannot allow myself to perform that experiment on any person but myself. I need to go out into the wilds. There is a very specific cave, far to the east of Melaron. Two years from now—you see this journal? There’s a map in here, as well as the ritual. I need the both of you—and it needs to be two people, and I trust you both more than anyone else alive—to go out to that cave in about two years time. The exact date you need to check inside the cave is in the journal. Don’t look inside the cave before that—details are in the journal. If I’m just, you know, sitting there, it all worked out. If my dead body is there, then it didn’t, and I’ll need a burial. If you find my staff there—just my staff—that’s the worst case scenario. You need to seal off the cave with the ritual in the journal. Then, you need to come back here—and it has to be here—and bury the staff on the grounds, then seal it with the same ritual. Honestly, it isn’t something I even really want to think about, so just read the journal after I leave, okay?”
When Crutius and Saida checked the cave on the appointed date, they found Vortigern’s staff, buried on quarter of its length into solid stone. There was nothing else.
Whatever the truth of Vortigern’s life, whoever knows the truth, he proves a difficult individual to find. Yet the agent of Kil’threx found its way to him, hidden deep beneath crag and valley. And so, Vortigern shall answer the summons of the God of Evil.
Personality: Vortigern is pre-occupied with loyalty—those few of his personal servants who are not mindless husks are either physically incapable of betraying him (a group that includes both those he has Dominated and the spirits bound to his employ) or hysterical sycophants. Somewhat predictably, if someone in his organization betrays him, he responds swiftly and harshly, even when it might not be in his best interest to do so; he is preoccupied with revenge. By the same token, while he may be a distant master, he returns loyalty with loyalty. He will stand by his servants, however low they may be on the rung, as best he can without revealing his existence to the wider world. And when he enters into an agreement with someone, he keeps it, even if he could renege it with little to no consequence.
That is not to say Vortigern is kind. He habitually treats the people of the world poorly, with his actions ranging from distant hostility to outright cruelty. Despite this, he usually maintains an air of amicability. He could easily order someone dragged into the darkness, their screams muffled by cloth and leather, while sounding like he was just recommending a good book to a friend. Not that he has friends, of course; that time has passed.
When not scheming, deceiving, or otherwise active, Vortigern is given to pondering. On such occasions, he enters into a deep melancholy, and often waxes poetic.
There was no light here. He knew every inch of smooth, unbroken stone, and as such did not require torch or spell to make his way, nor did any of the guards or spirits monsters that lurked this far down. The same could not be said of his uninvited guests. Yes. Soon. At the far end of this long hall. That was where he stood. At first, it was designed as a trap for those intruders who made it this far down. Briefly, he used it to experiment with his old studies, and had been considering doing so again. More recently, he had been using it for storage, and it was lined with crates and barrels of fine food for his body, and fine crafts for his work. There wasn’t much he couldn’t take for himself, after all. There was the telltale sound of stone grinding on stone. Yes, that was it. That was them. The sound of crashing metal. A warrior had jumped down ahead of their compatriots. Leather scaping stone. A softer, more nimble landing. Are knights now sleeping with thieves? Has the world changed so much? Or perhaps they always were. It wasn’t the part of the world I lived in, even then. He didn’t hear the next collision, but he did hear something else, just before: the fluttering of cloth. Someone wearing clothes, not armor, had jumped down. Could they possibly…? A shining light broke on the other side of the hall, bright and piercing. So it is. Things may yet prove interesting. “Name yourself, cretin! Tell us what you’re doing down here!” The mage is a feisty one. Vortigern said nothing. “We don’t need to know a damn thing about him, Cully,” said the Warrior, a Dwarf, “We saw his damn army. We just need to stop him.” Vortigern smiled. A hooded figure—by process of elimination, the nimble, leather-shoed one—leaned over to the mage, and spoke in low tones. “Are his eyes glowing?” “Yes.” Vortigern’s voice was soft, and but it stretched throughout the room. “They only do that on special occasions.” “Okay, he’s got good hearing. Good to know.” If only you knew, little thief. “I,” said Vortigern, “am perfect of flesh, and beyond flesh.” “Alright!” The Warrior raised his axe over his shoulder, both hands gripping its handle. “Let’s get this over with.” He charged. “Durmak! Wait!” Vortigern raised his hand, the pale light in his eyes sparking at his fingertips, and almost in no time at all—though the process did seem to linger a while to Vortigern—it had spread down between his fingers to his palm. The air shook, and the Warrior fell forward, collapsing onto his knees, his axe sliding along the floor to Vortigern’s feet. Arrows flew through the air. Most missed. One planted itself firmly in Vortigern’s neck. He did not falter. “Ancull, why isn’t he falling over? I hit him.” The thief who shot the arrows asked the mage. “I don’t think I know, Misha.” The mage looked up to Vortigern, her face slowly twisting in anexpression of horror. Vortigern reached up to the arrow in his throat with his other hand. Slowly, he pulled on it. When it was free of his flesh, blood began to pour down from the hole, staining his robes. The thief began to shake. “I think we may have stepped in it this time, Ancull.” Vortigern’s smile grew. The light in his eyes and hand darkened, turning a violent purple. A light shined from the back of the hall. The mage, Ancull, turned her head to see it. The light was creeping along the walls, the roof, the floor. Creeper to her. Past her. Past Misha. Past Durmak, the Warrior. Past Vortigern, onto the wall behind him. The light flowed into a complex pattern of circles, glyphs and spirals, eventually meeting in the center. Vortigern’s soft voice echoed through the hall again. “Yes, children, you have.” Pale clouds flowed out of the circle’s center. They floated around Vortigern. He heard them whisper to him, but he already knew their secrets. He curled the fingers of his outstretched hand into a fist, save one, pointing in the intruders’ direction. The spirits responded to the command. They rushed down the hall, taking the shapes of beasts and gaunt men, as the flow from the circle grew to a river of pale light. As the came upon Durmak, his armor began to glow; runes etched into his plates hummed with golden light, and the spirits flowed over him. The mage Ancull erected a barrier, a pale blue sphere, and the spirits flowed over it as well. They teared and the barrier, and gnawed upon it, but it held. Feisty, and of some considerable ability. Who taught her? Durmak stood. The symbols on his armor hummed with power, and the spirits jumped away from him. Vortigern lowered his hand. “So, you children know the game.” Vortigern kicked the axe at his feet over to Durmak. “Come, Warrior. Entertain me.” Taking his axe into his hands, Durmak charged. Vortigern sidestepped his down-swing and took hold of his arm. Half a second later, Durmak held his axe in his off hand, and his other hung limply at his side. Another strike, this time a side-swipe. Foolish, but determined. This time, Vortigern aimed lower, and Durmak found one of his legs giving out under him. “Damn.” Vortigern walked around him, slowly. “Is this how you imagined dying, Dwarf? A casualty of your own foolish design?” “Go suck a thousand cocks.” Vortigern kicked him in the side, rolling him over onto his back. “Durmak!” Vortigern looked up. The pale blue light of the mage Ancull’s shield could still be seen under the growing onslaught of spirits. It suddenly flashed. The room was filled with shrieking and keening as the spirits recoiled, recoiling from the shield. Ancull came running, with the thief Misha close behind her. Vortigern placed his boot on Durmak’s chest and faced them. “You three would have been better off not coming here.” The blood flowing from the hole in his neck began fall onto Durmak’s armor, where it sizzled and flashed in his golden runes. “I know what you are. My Mistress told me about it. The ritual designed by the Spiritbinder himself.” For the first time since the fight began, Vortigern’s smile faltered, then vanished utterly. “Who are you, child?” The fell light in his eyes and hand flickered. “I am Ancull of Ardanos.” “I’ve never heard of Ardanos. Is it some village in the middle of nowhere?” “It is my home. My Mistress found me there.” Mistress. That’s the second time she said it. And she knew about the ritual. “Saida.” Ancull growled at him. “That means nothing. You are not strong enough to defeat me.” Vortigern smiled. “Especially since she never taught you to watch your back.” The spirits surged over them from behind. Shieldless, Ancull and Misha were torn away, back into the vengeful cloud of angry spirits.
Vortigern knelt down next to Durmak, whose head was turned away, towards where his friends had gone. Vortigern placed his hand, still glowing, on Durmak’s chest. “Worry not, child. You will not be away from them for long.” Vortigern slid his hand down to the felled Warrior’s stomach, and removed it. “There. If you’re lungs somehow start working, your heart or liver will see you dead. You’ll be with them again soon, child.”
Name: Aborath Title: The Bloody King, The Legacy of Cain, Dread from the South, The Grave Knight
Three-word description: Elder Vampire King Appearance: Aborath will rarely reveal his physical form. But he does have one. He stands a respectable 1.80m off the ground. His skin is pale like alabaster, but with long black hair adorning his head. Many, upon first meeting Aborath, often assume he is a horrible monster. While in reality, he looks quite stunning. With alluring red eyes. Aborath's common attire is a simple black robe trimmed with red. Though he still wears a simple, black-iron crown. Showing that he is still royalty.
"Go, my brave son. But know that I will prepare your funeral the moment you pass my threshold. Know that your mother will start weeping, that I start grieving and your sibblings start missing. Go and face your quest. Only a grave awaits you here." - Last words of Turhael to his oldest son, Ysavor. Slain by the Grave Knight.
Aborath's form of a fighter is very much unlike him as he usually is. He wields two swords, fearing no wound or harm. His black armor does not hamper his movement, yet protects him fully. It is adorned with complex motives serving no more purpose other than to show that he can spent money on decorating an armor of battle. From his back, four leathered wings can spread. With talons at the joints and tips. Allowing Aborath to kill even faster than with just two swords.
Magic/Skills/Abilities: Vampire Elder - The legacy of Cain. From him, all the vampire clans have spawned. Each of his "child" was gifted with a unique set of abilities. But that means that Aborath had those abilities in the first place. As vampire elder AND heir to Cain's power himself, he can use all the Vampiric arts. These powers range from shapeshifting into a dire wolf pack or fellbat cloud, mistwalking, flying (leather wings) and blood magic. Which is one of the foulest forms of magic. Corrupting the enemy's very flesh and blood. Poisoning them from within. Blood magic often leaves one tainted or crippled for the rest of their lives if not treated with immediate care.
Soul magic - Nobody's soul is safe from Aborath. With an outstretched arm he can grasp forth towards your very being and rip it asunder. Of course, those stronger of will are harder to destroy than those who are simple of mind and idea. Death magic can also grip the heart of any creature capable of fearing. He can enhance his own allies with a terrible glow of dread, instilling terror on the nearby enemies. With Death Magic, you either die while you feel the very life force drawn from you or you flee shitting your breeches.
Immortal bladestorm - There is little doubt. Aborath has lived for many centuries. Maybe even millennia! All the while he has had different, mortal, masters. Each teaching him their unique way of how to wield a blade. The result of years of training and whole decades or refining every technique is Aborath's unrivaled skill with the blade. Humans stand no chance and even the oldest of Elven swordmasters must concede defeat at the hands of the Elder Vampire.
Inventory and holdings Grave Knight Armor - Armor crafted in the soul forge of a thousand screaming mortals. Their pain burns in the fires, their screams bellow the flames. Their eternal torment was forged in the black armor of the Grave Knight. Metal tempered in the blood of a thousand innocent victims. Aborath's armor is a manifestation of how far he's willing to go for power. Normal blades often shatter apart on it, dwarven expert forging simply bounces off. A hail of arrows feels like but drops of rain. Even magically enhanced elven swords cannot penetrate the armor. It is bloodbound to the Grave Knight. In this case, that is Aborath.
Ysavor & Saren - The Dread King acknowledges those with great skill in both magic and the sword. When he has beaten them, he drains their bodies of their souls. With their souls infused in the metal, he orders his elven and dwarven slaves to forge a new weapon. Ysavor was an elven prince daring to stand before Aborath. He put up a good fight. In fact, Aborath hadn't felt such a thrill for decades! When the battle was finally over he forged Ysavor's soul into a blade. Ysavor now hungers for souls. He prefers elven souls, though human souls may sate his appetite for a moment too. The more souls the blade consumes in a battle, the bright its runes burn and the more dangerous a wound from it comes. To the point that but if the blade so much as scratches you, the enchantment will tear open the wound into a bloody mess.
Saren was an exceptionally brave, human mage. He had a talent for light and fire magic. He too dared challenge the Grave Knight. But in a magical duel. The balls of fire thrown by Saren destroyed great parts of the palace complex. His light pierced the dark clouds over the Southern Realm and burned many vampires to their dead. Still, he was beaten down after a whole day of fighting. Now fused in his second blade, Saren's soul hungers for magical power. It seeks for mages and the forces they wield. Drawing it from the very air around him. Those who have cast spells before and get hit by Saren the very mystical energies you harness will start burning you dow. The souls of these mages, upon death by Saren, are converted in pure magical power to be utilized by Aborath. Sealed within the magebane blade.
Heidan - A once mighty dragon descended upon Aborath during his travels. After a week long of fighting, the dragon finally fell to one of the many blades of the Grave Knight. For the first and only time, Aborath was exhausted. And had no time to draw the soul from the dragon's husk. When he had regained enough power, the dragon's soul was gone. But it left a nest in its wake. Aborath took an egg and corrupted it with his Soul Magic. The dragon that spawned was black as the night. It couldn't breathe flames and still can't. Yet some say that, if you stand too close to it, the dragon's rage begins to pull at your very soul. Making you sluggish and tired and consuming it should your perish. Heidan is now the mount of Aborath. Who often rides his Black Dragon into battle.
Vierna - The city of Vierna is the capital of the vampire kingdom (or, alternatively named, the Southern Realm). Vierna is a complex and big city. Entirely self-sufficient. It was once an elven city at the edge of their great forest. But has long since been corrupted by Aborath. Vierna is the home of the Dark Court. Vierna, the city of Death is a large city with snake-like streets, large towers and gigantic estates. It is the only city protected by forces drawn from every Coven, under the command of the Dread King himself. The Dark Court is simply a council of the many different covens of Aborath. Whom all swear fealty to him. Each coven has a speciality tied to their bloodline. Within Vierna's Courtroom there are 11 different thrones. One is the black throne of Aborath. Though this one is even less used than the throne room one. Then there are 2 empty ones. Yet still stained with blood. Two ancient covens once tried to rebel against Aborath. They were swiftly put to the sword.
Sons of Aborath - Children specifically chosen by Aborath. While they aren't Coven grandmasters, the Sons of Aborath are among the strongest vampires in existence. Each possessing one gift or another. The sons of Aborath are an elite fighting force capable of cutting down even the most trained human fighters and weathered elven rangers. Often centuries old, sons of Aborath are chosen from among the living that show exceptional talent, loyalty and hunger for power. The sons of Aborath often ride to battle on bloodied steeds with black and red armor. Their blades can sometimes be heard screaming for blood.
Myth They say that long ago there was a great darkness. Cain, a young, foolish warrior, desired immortality so he could feel the heat of battle forever. The god of Death had witnessed his pleas so often while he took away the souls from the battlefield, that upon a very faithful day he gave Cain his wish. But at the same time he cooled his sense for battle. Suddenly it did not matter if he was fighting an honorable battle or slaughtering an entire village of women and children. The only thing that gave him any sense was the cold touch of death. So he caused as much of it as possible. Aborath was a great and noble warrior of the Order of the Sun. He rode out alone to stand against Cain. Some say that Cain defeated him, but with a bite and thus created his first and only child. Others say that Aborath and Cain struck a deal. A few would even claim that Aborath IS in fact Cain. No-one knows.
Cain had vanished. In his place now stood Aborath. Who was not as consumed with death as his master, but still felt the need to cause it greatly. He learned that the cry for murdered hid the hunger for souls. So he began to develop a form of magic that drew out the hunger for souls and manifested it in spells. Some say that during his research into Soul Magic he met the god of the death. Others say that the death god simply granted him a boon for his long travels through the known and unknown world. Whatever it was, Aborath came back from his research with both Void Magic and Soul Magic. He entered a southern kingdom of elven and began to corrupt them. Battle after battle, night after night the covens of Aborath took over more ground from the elven kingdom. Every day more joined the immortal's ranks. Either out of fear or hunger for power. Disloyalty was punished harsh and painful, while loyalty within the army was greatly rewarded. The elven, realizing that they were fighting a losing battle, began an attempt to cast a barrier to contain such evil. They already assumed that their kingdom would inevitably fail. So they were going to bind the vampires to the land. Should they dare corss the borders the barrier would kill them. Accounts are rather difficult to retrace from here. Some say that they used a drop of Aborath's blood. Others say they used one of his children. Directly linked to him. Whatever it was, it was a mistake. When Aborath sensed the spell being cast, he sped up his efforts. His army marched towards the elven capital of Vierna. The siege itself was, by all accounts, one of the bloodiest battles in the south. When the mages neared the end of their incantations Aborath managed to breach their room. Half the elven mages were killed on sight. Their blood devoured by the sons of Aborath. The other half tried to fight back, but to no avail. They were captured, and Aborath finished what they started. But instead of making the vampiric blood the mark of those who could not leave, he made it the key of the barrier. Only those with vampire blood within them could ever leave the Southern Kingdom. Thuse he chained the surviving population to his will.
Since his victory over the elven kingdom, Aborath had remained there. Watching over his kingdom from anywhere but his throne room. But should a worthy warrior or mage dare enter his throne room and challenge the empty throne, he will appear on it in a moment's notice. Holding Saren & Ysavor.
Personality: Aborath hates everything except for his own children. The vampires. Killing one, and you will suffer the wrath of the Grave Knight. He sees humans and elves as life-stock. Cattle that should be kept in pens and fed every now and then so they can continue to feed the vampires. It is their only reason to live, so he sees elven and human kingdoms as stupid little squablers who sitll resist their fate.
But then what is the fate of the vampire? To fight and cause as much death as possible. Maybe a genocide. But there must always be death. You cannot go and kill the entire city because then nobody would die after you pretty much killed everyone. So why not chain them? Hold them and every year you sacrifice a hundred of their children. The souls and blood over the years heap up and up. Over a hundred years you've caused more death than any genocide could achieve. This is what he believes in. Those who succeed to both conquer with great slaughter but govern with a steady flow of souls and corpses earn the favor Aborath. Those who resist their fate and destiny in any way are sure to have angered him. He has no use for material wealth, as for a thousands-years-old vampire he has had it all, lost it all and had it again.
"I come for you! I have come, King of blood! Show yourself!" the cocky elven prince yelled as he threw open the great, oaken doors of the empty throne room. At the other side stood Aborath's throne. A vile chair adorned with screaming visages and skulls. "Show yourself, demon!" the enraged prince yelled. It drew the members of the Dark Court from their slumber, as they began to walk the corridors. Like blood traveling in veins around a beating heart so did the Dark Court travel towards the heart of all corridors: the balcony within the throne room. Another fool had called out their master. It had been so long since one worthy tried to summon him. But this elven prince held promise. With red, peering eyes they gazed down at the unafraid prince.
With an explosion of smoke, Aborath appeared on his throne. Holding Saren in his right hand. "What... do you want." he asked. He wasn't wearing his Grave Knight armor yet. Those of the Court knew he would summon the second he deemed the elven prince worthy. "I have come to challenge evil itself!" the noble elven prince raised his sword, pointing at Aborath. "You, vile thing! I heard stories that will fight anyone who dares challenge you. I challenge you!" Aborath rose from his throne. With every step the black armor began to form around him. Out of thin air apparently. He went from a simple king, dressed in robes to a might dreadknight ready for battle. "You... are worthy."
The battle was long yet not a moment passed when the Court was not amused. Servants were passed along, getting bitten to drain them from their blood. While below a champion of good clashed with the powers of evil. The elf had come prepared. With an enchanted sword, several spells and potions. His wounds healed instantly with every touch from Saren. Despite the Grave Knight's enchantment upon his blade, he could not burn away the magical power of the elf. But eventually, after long hours, Saren found Ysavor's heart. With a gasp the elven prince let out his final breath and perished. The bloody red blade's promise to devour Ysavor's soul was stopped by Aborath. Who, instead, pulled a crystal phylactery and let it drain the soul of Ysavor. Thuse his second blade was to be formed.
Days passed in the undead their kingdom. It has been a few years now, since last Ysavor entered the dread palace of Vierna. The throne room hasn’t echoed with blades clashing for a while now, and the Dark Court had entered a slumber. Days, weeks, months. For immortals, time could go so slow sometimes. With no haste or time running out, daily things became either a ritual, but far more often a boring obligation. Until the heave, black-oaken doors cracked open again. The sudden surge of power woke up even those deepest in their torpor. A figure in black robes, hooded and holding a gnarled staff in his right hand marched within the throne room. Once more like blood the Dark Court poured into the balcony. Such power, they were intrigued, they hungered for it. But at the same time, it instilled their hearts with a once distant sensation: fear. What could harness such power!? Even worse, would it be capable of striking down their lord?
“I summon the King of Blood.” The hooded figured said. Before the black, empty throne. Once more did Aborath appeared. Dressed in his royal robes and circlet-crown. But without his blades at his side. “A power marches into my hall. State your business, wraith.” The words were cautious, but not disrespectful. “I am but a messenger, Grave Knight.” The creature said, with a hoarse throat. He pulled a scroll from his robes and held it out. From the high up canopy of the hall a fellbat swooped down and grabbed the scroll. Flying straight at its master with it and handing it over before it flew up again. Back to its stupor. Silently Aborath read the message. It was written in a language Aborath barely even remembered. The letters were written in a tongue even ancient back in his human days. But he could read it, and the use of that language added to the legitimacy of the scroll’s acclaimed writer. When he was done, he walked up to a nearby hearth and threw the scroll in it. Making sure it burned all the way down to ashes. He then turned to the strange messenger. “Tell your master I will attend his meeting.”
