[@Nariata] Oh absolutely; I had the intention of making him a sketchy, nobody-likes-him type fellow. I'll mock something up and see if you like it! [EDIT] All done. I hope it's alright. [hider=Craster's CS] [b]Name:[/b] Craster Eldruin [b]Gender:[/b] Male [b]Age:[/b] [i]???[/i] [b]Race:[/b] Andrann [b]Appearance:[/b] The face of the elf known as Craster is unknown to most, for the lithe male will never be seen without a brazen-coloured mask. There are foul rumours claiming that behind the mask, Craster is nought more than a withered corpse; the shell of a once great elven mage. But the voice of the elf is soft, and starkly contrasts the age-old stories which tell of him. Craster stands an inch or so above six feet, and appears to be ectomorphic in stature. Aside from his trademark mask, he is usually clad in fine, grey coloured cloth, leaving nothing exposed to the air. The cloth itself is wrapped around his torso and limbs, accented with golden trim and occasionally plated with light, bronze armour. The armour in question focuses mostly on his spaulders, gauntlets, and greaves, protecting him from rare instances of close combat. Strangely, the metal seems to be forged into the shape of various grim faces; a staple of fear amongst passersby. The fabric of his shawl is wrapped into a hood, which shades all visible traits of his head aside from the neutral expression of the humanoid mask. Occasionally, dark hair may be seen escaping from the head-wrap beneath the mask. [hider=The Mask] [img]http://i.imgur.com/O5LSWcb.png[/img] [/hider] [hider=The Armour] [img]http://i.imgur.com/HmiskxP.png[/img] [/hider] [b]Personality:[/b] Craster is forlorn and cryptic, and often seems to speak in riddles and poetry. He is incredibly literate and is acutely fond of books, and is capable of finding interest even in the most poorly written of prose. Familiars should not be fooled by Craster's soft-spoken nature however, as the elf is a being of loose morals, and thinks little of toying with the concepts of life and death. Craster is a strategist and a schemer, and has no qualms with the usage of pawns and flesh shields; perhaps being the last to turn back for an ally in the midst of danger. Though selfish in that aspect, Craster has few boundaries when it comes to doing as he is asked. He deems every journey and action as a learning opportunity, and takes pride in teaching naive Lords and nobles that the deaths of their loved ones can never truly be turned backwards. Craster takes residence in an old outpost somewhere outside of central civilisation. He has claimed the title of apothecary, and sells a variety of elixirs and ointments designed to extract disease and illness for a mild price. [b]History:[/b] Little is known regarding the true origins of Craster, and he will always claim that he can barely remember it himself. The elf was once a powerful and vain wielder of fire magic, able to conjure and twist even the most dwindling sources of light. Through his intricate prowess and wisdom, Craster had unknowingly accumulated a small posse of followers, and thus became a mentor to many aspiring mages. But Craster's insatiable desire for knowledge would prove to be his downfall, and the elf sought deeper magic. As he gazed into the fire, he discovered a much darker flame. This flame was small and twisted and provided no light, and the avaricious mage did not hesitate when he took the flame and absorbed it into his breast. Prolonged life, endless pain. Such were the punishments for Craster's greed. In the shade of exile, he practised his dark spells; conjuring artificial life and reanimating the cadavers of animals. He quickly learned the flaws within this black magic, understanding that crippled corpses would remain crippled, and that the souls dragged from the netherworld would soon perish once more, for they did not belong in the material world. Rumours of the necromancer in the outpost spread quickly to the capital, and the Lord of coin soon summoned him into his presence. But the Lord's intentions were not ill, for he seeked a way to reverse the death of his daughter, who had been taken by infection. With little thought or explanation, Craster agreed, and so conjured dark words above the corpse of the deceased maiden. But the Lord was horrified by the presentation of his daughter, who wheezed painfully and moved stiffly, and whose face still bore the bloody nature of her infection. The girl could not speak, nor did she understand the words spoken to her. Instead, she only reacted to the haunting tinker of a bell, which hung from the mage's halberd. Demanding to know what Craster had done to his beloved, the necromancer spoke softly. [i]"You asked for life, and I gave you life. But her soul is gone, long lost to wind. Death may die, but her soul lies eternal, and no one may ever reach it but the God's themselves. And I am no God, dearest Lord. There is no solution for death, but perhaps you might ought to work on preventing it from the start."[/i] Craster's words ran deep, and he was soon summoned once more. This time the Lord had learned the ways of death, and now sought after the cure for his wife's ailment, who had fallen into the same pit as her daughter before. With time, pain, and patience, the conjurer dragged the sickness from her body over a course of days, dispelling its miasma into a small vial which he then stored carefully into his satchel. The Lady's recovery sparked strange respect for the necromancer, who modestly retreated to his outpost abode despite being offered the position of Court Mage at several establishments. [b]Equipment:[/b] ♦ [i]Shepherd's Bell[/i] The Shepherd's Bell is a glaive whose pole extends past head-height when tapped onto the floor. It is crafted from dark hardwood and reinforced by climbing metallic 'vines', which eventually blend into the brazen blade. A small, tinkering bell hangs from the curve of the blade, engraved with archaic symbols often too worn to make out. The bell is the tool of Craster's abilities, serving as the control point for all reanimated corpses, shepherding them in their actions. ♦ [i]Apothecary Satchel[/i] A sack of medicinal herbs, trinkets and poisons; the source of Craster's trade. [b]Other:[/b] Craster bears a strange, acute sense of smell. He can smell even the earliest stages of disease and infection, and seems to be able to detect dark creatures some time before they make an appearance. In the wilderness, Craster is also able to tell apart edible fauna from poisonous fauna, and makes a point of collecting both. Though his affinity for true fire has long dwindled, the former archmage is still highly knowledgeable on arcane subjects, and is sometimes still able to create sparks which can be used to kindle torches and bonfires. [hider=Example Post] The monologue of the man before him seemed tiresome, but Craster listened intently nonetheless. He perched against the door frame, distanced from the others, his arms crossed loosely upon his chest. Through the narrow eyes of his mask, he ran his vision over his peers, and for a moment he could not grasp the reason for his summoning. His talents in doctoring were astounding, but after listening to the long explanation given by the apparent head of the posse, he concluded that disease would perhaps be the last thing they needed to worry about. But as the head spoke more of the impending enemy, things began to make sense. The necromancer had been summoned for his knowledge of dark magic and blood rituals. It was almost off-putting, but the concept of someday obtaining a demonic sample was undeniably [i]enticing.[/i] "What is there to gain?" A selfish question, but a simple one. Such was the way of Craster. Whilst he was perfectly comfortable with following orders, he had no desire for fame or glory, and felt no commitment to preserving the realm from the grips of this terrible enemy. The magus sought after nought but knowledge and thought ill of trying to prolong the inevitable. Craster understood that the age of men and their kin would not last forever, and desired to know what he would gain from assisting this rabble in pushing it back. [/hider] [/hider]