THE PLAYER CHARACTERS
Behold, the backgrounds and life stories of the motley crew of adventurers currently wreaking havoc on the world of Nehwon!
DARK VANDEN
Background:
Dark Vanden was born under extreme circumstances. His mother, Valanea, a strange, proud, and beautiful Lady of singularly striking appearance - pale skin, blazing red hair, and sparkling violet eyes- arrived in Lankhmar from the "distant north". She traveled at the head of an apparently wealthy, mysterious, and heavily armed retinue of about one hundred and fifty, including family, servants, and her own soldiers. Her people paid the right taxes and bribes and soon settled in the city, taking possession of a large, high walled, and turreted manse in Lankhmar's spice district.
The wealth of these strangers attracted ardent interest from the Lankhmart criminal element, and there were those very willing and interested in plundering the manse of the Lady Valanea, as she came to be known, and make off with this strange woman's riches, despite the very obvious presence of liveried soldiers patrolling its walls and grounds. Lankhmar is Lankhmar, after all. Within a week, though, word on the street very literally had it that these strangers were not to be trifled with: the crumpled and broken bodies of several of the bolder of Lankhmar's independent thieves littering the alleyways adjacent to the manses' south wall bore witness to this grim reality, though whether these unfortunates fell by the hands of the Lady's household itself, or by that of the one of the Thieves' Guilds acting on their own interests or on behalf of a "protection" arrangement with the Lady's House, none could say with verity.
The Lady Valanea herself was the subject of much gossip, rumour, and suppostion among those of every station in Lankhmar. Who was she? Where was she from? Where was her lord? Many asserted her to be a great whore, fleeing the authority of some northern power. Others ventured her a black widow, replete with the wealth of her victims, now arrived in Lankhmar to choose a new object to prey upon. Certain answers were few, and hard-won. Members of her household offered little to any but each other. Her servants were seen on the street in their distinctive livery of black and silver, running errands, conducting her business, and accompanied always by one or more of her guard in their cloaks of fir green, but the Lady herself rarely glimpsed.
One occasion that has stood the testament of time reports the Lady in attendance at an operatic performance, whereupon exiting she was personally accosted by a strange man whose words caused the Lady herself to tremble, and to fly into a rage, and to curse him and beat him to death before several witnesses. The man is reported to have said:
"The stars will fall and bind us all in an eartbound constellation."
Naturally, the incident caused an uproar. The Lady, having expended her murderous ire, resumed her customary cool demeanour, and smiled and curtsied, and had her servants throw out coinage to the crowd. She sang a short song herself and won the people over with her charms. She traveled to her manse, leaving word with the authorities, such as they were in Lankhmar, that she would be at their disposal. The people trailed after her in wonder, and many assembled near her home until at length her guard were forced to drive them off with staves. Within an hour, the authorities, such as they were in Lankhmar, met with the Lady Valanea at her manse, and, after some 40 minutes had passed, left the way they had gone in.
What happened afterward was as shocking as what preceded it, if not moreso. The visit by Lankhmart authorities, such as they were, was unprecedented in that up to that time, no one but the Lady's staff and she herself had been seen to enter into her manse.
It is noteworthy that within an hour this information was sold and distributed from within the heart of the authorities, such as they were, in Lankhmar:
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The Lady Valanea was seen without her customarily worn formal outerwear, revealing that she was, in fact, nine months pregnant.
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The Lady seemed afraid of something, and flatly stated that the words the man had said to her was a threat to her and her child.
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She swore to treat anyone that threatened her the very same way, and that she would pay for any "inconvenience" the city felt it was due as a result of her having to protect herself.
This information swept the city, and rumours flared and shot like sparks through the imaginations of Lankhmarts high and low. Who was the father of the Lady's child? What connection was there with the man she had killed? What threat was she responding to? Who was this woman, after all?
Some hours afterward it was rumoured that the Lady had given birth to a male child and had been killed defending him from bizarre and horrific assassins that slipped the walls and penetrated the sanctum of the birthing chamber with the intent to kill the child. Terrible bloodshed ensued and the mortally wounded mother was able to protect her newborn before finally succumbing to her injuries. Thus was Dark Vanden born.
Dark Vanden learned about his parents from the books and journals of his mother. He was taught the family cipher, and with that was able to crack his Mother's personal cipher. He discovered that his mother was a warlock from the far North. She had come to Lankhmar to elude a cult that worshipped a mysterious being from beyond the stars known as Ananabraxus. The assassins of Ananabraxus wanted her child, Dark Vanden, for their own thus-far-unknown purposes. Dark Vanden schooled himself with the books of his parents on the art of best crafting a pact for power. He trained in the way of his famiily's house guard, the Red Scales, as his ancestors before him.
He has returned to Lankhmar, the city of his birth, to make his fortune. His family's manse in the spice district stands vacant and shuttered, abandoned and unclaimed since that night so many years ago.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Dark Vanden is quick and quiet. He can be audacious and irreverent. His hair is stark white and his skin is likewise pale. It's said his hair went white at birth when his mother died. When asked about his name in reference to his colouring, he replies with a direct look and a smile, "Look inside, mate."
He is an insomniac and his tendency at night is to sit outside and listen to the stars, and think, and ruminate. It was at night that Dark Vanden first connected with the power with which he has compacted, and it is at night that he deepens the connection to that part of himself. If he cannot be outside, he reads. If there is no light to read, he goes quietly bonkers, thinking to himself. By day he reads book after book, and trains his martial readiness.
He has been told since birth of the expectation there is upon him to "re-establish the House" of his Mother, and to "keep the bloodline flowing". To that end, he has made it a minor quest to have sexual intercourse with as many women as possible, and impregnate any willing to carry forward the family bloodline, with the caveat and understanding that he is a penniless charmer who will nonetheless take them "sideways into pleasure". He is a charming and handsome being, unlike most encountered in Lankhmar, so he enjoys a strong and varied rate of success with many "return engagements". Dark Vanden makes no pretense of fidelity to any single one, and honestly pledges undying desire for all. He has said that Love is his Goddess, and he lives his life in pursuit of her rewards.
Dark Vanden wears black leather armour and bears a longsword on one hip and a dagger on the other, along with a brace of daggers baldricked across his torso. He prefers to work with a mask on, so as to keep things as discrete as possible.
EMMANUEL ZARA
Background:
As some of you may be aware, my father was a great lord in Eevanmarensee. (he pauses for effect) Ah, yes, the hair. As simple a disguise as has ever fooled border guards across the land. I'm afraid my family's reputation is somewhat tarnished as of late, and that there may be people looking for me.
I will be blunt: my father was a great man, but not a good one. He had unspeakable plans which he never spoke of, unthinkable, even, though oh yes, he thought them. All politicians are ambitious, by the nature of the game itself. Many are corrupt and more corruptable, but who can say what they really think? Ettiquite prevents their true opinions from ever being heard, and the spies of rival lords prevent many a warmongering fool from waging war.
I can. I can tell you what they are thinking. I can tell you what you are thinking. Or you, or your wife. I don't want this. I never have. I certainly never wanted to hear my father recall how he murdered my mother and got away with it, or watch him rape my sister. Nor did I want the secret that brought me to Lankhmar, and that may well take me a good deal further. My father has a gift; a gift which I seem to echo, a gift for implanting memories, desires, hopes, and dreams in people he meets, and a gift for removing all memory of his interactions with them. And so, despite being unaware they have ever met him, my father has sired a bastard by every queen in the known world, bastards believed to be legitimate even by the kings.
It is only when he tried to enlist me to oversee the heir to Quarmall that my father realized his gift did not work on me, that his psionic tricks only opened up his mind for me to explore. And, incidentally, this sword opened up his skull a few moments later, for the silly man had left his guards in his chambers, and I protected mine from his mental coercion.
And so, leaving money and power and murder and ruin behind me, I glued this wretched fur to my face and came west to Lankhmar. I fear approaching any nobility anywhere, because I don't know what my father's death has done to the webs he laid in their minds, and I do look a bit like the man. I also dread ever explaining to any of them what my father had planned, and I know not what will happen to the children. So it is to you, the rats and ruffians, lost and broken, that I come to now, for shelter, aid, and a new life. I already know you'll accept me, for that is why I chose you, but I thank you nonetheless. The Red God willing, we'll all get through this alive.
And Sly, good luck using the coinage in that purse you lifted off of me when I entered anywhere within a thousand leagues of here. In Eevanmarensee it could buy a castle, but here it wouldn't pay for a horse. But it's just as worthless to me, so feel free to keep it.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Zará is of average to muscular build, with piercingly bright blue eyes and ornate, obviously expensive armor and clothes. His sword is similarly ostentatious, and almost comically large. When in its sheath, it appears entirely mundane, but when Emmanuel wields it, it reflects light almost too-well, taking on a pale sheen slightly reminiscent of his eyes.
He looks tired, above all else. Travelworn, but more than that, mentally exhausted by the experiences he has been through. Ready for a rest he knows will never come. And, for someone so-wronged, he looks overly-trusting. Perhaps, as a telepath, he has learned how to screen for trustworthy folks. Who would have thought this group of ruffians would classify as trustworthy?
GRYM
Background:
Grym never did like his twin brother. Perhaps it was the magic, the power that came between them. After all, Grym was the first in generations of his family not to have the magic, while his twin Krostel was the most gifted member their family had ever known.
Or maybe it was his brother’s face, an angelic visage according to everyone who gazed upon his features. Grym, on the other hand, started out with a face that might have been acceptable on a good day. After years of mercenary work though, calling it anything other than a scarred mass would have been a blatant lie.
If Grym was being particularly insightful-a truly rare occasion- he might come to the realization that his problem with his brother had been simple. Everything Krostel wanted, Krostel got. Women, food, money, recognition….everything. Of course Grym was jealous. Of course he’d want his day in the sun.
Of course he’d take on the contract to kill his brother.
It helped that in less sophisticated circles, Grym the Cleaver had every bit as powerful a reputation as his brother. His glowering countenance and hulking physique promised pain, and his enormous blade made sure those promises were kept. As a mercenary and a swordsman, he had amassed a good deal of cash and contacts in the underbelly of the region. So it made since that the rival mage approached him.
Apparently, someone else had grown tired of Krostel, and was willing to pay handsomely to get rid of him. For as much gold as Grym could carry, Krostel would be killed. Grym felt the last of his reluctance snap under the weight of so much gold. He never got the other man’s name…for that much gold, he didn’t care.
Grym marched into his brother’s home. He was still family, even if unwanted, so the guards gave him little trouble. There was some issue with the servants near Krostel’s lab, but they were quickly silenced. Grym made his way toward the laboratory, making no effort to be silent. As he kicked down the door, his eyes were drawn to the object in the center of the room. A roughly egg-shaped object sat, radiating colors of every hue and shade.
“Do you like it, Brother?”
Grym, turned and looked his brother, who was smirking (of course he was smirking; the smug bastard was always smirking,) and walking towards the object from the corner of the room.
“I recognize that someone as…untalented as you can’t understand the full power this planar egg possesses, but surely even you can appreciate its beauty?”
Grym had entered the room with little patience, and at this point lost the last remaining restraint he had. Since his brother was so enamored with this “egg”, he would destroy it, and let that eldritch light’s disappearance be the last thing Krostel ever witnessed.
His brother had always been soft and pampered, so he was caught off guard when Grym ran for the egg. His surprise quickly turned to outrage and Krostel attacked his brother with the savagery of a cornered rat, his powerful magic apparently forgotten. They fought over the egg for long moments…until it fell.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl…as it hit the floor, Grym swore he could see every fracture in the shell. That was normal. That was rational. What was not normal, not rational, was the flash of color that exploded outward, and the wrenching, stretching sensation that accompanied it. The pain, the lights, and his brother’s screams of rage and terror quickly overwhelmed him, and he blacked out amid a feeling of falling.
He awoke, an interminable amount of time later, in an alley. In a place he didn’t recognize. A quick check affirmed that he still had blade and armor in place, though nothing else in the room seemed to be around him. Nor was his brother…where was the insufferable bastard?
His quick survey of his surroundings noticed one more thing. A grinning, dirty man bearing a long knife in his hand and a predatory gleam in his eyes approaching quickly. Grym drew his own blade.
“Bad luck for you, neighbor. You picked the wrong mark, and I’m not in a forgiving mood.”
Moments later, his blade cleaned, he began collecting information about his surroundings. He quickly discovered he was in Nehwon, and that no one had seen his dramatic teleportation, nor anyone who matched his brother’s description. He didn’t ask about returning home. Now that he was here, away from family ties, away from other pompous magelings, he discovered he was rather pleased with the city. Finally, he exulted, a place without family, ruled by strength of arms. I think I’m going to enjoy this town.
Once I wipe my dear brother from existence, that is.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Grym is a fairly tall, sturdily built man, with unkempt brown hair and dull brown eyes. There are two remarkable things about his appearance. The first, and most obvious, is the scar down the left side of his face. When asked about it, he simply responds "Neighbor, you should have seen the other guy." The other, and perhaps more remarkable thing, is the huge blade strapped to his back that appears to be almost as tall as he.
Grym is not particularly vocal, though he also takes no pains to be quiet. When he speaks, he tends to preface his comments with "friend" and "neighbor", an affect he claims to have picked up from the individual who taught him to fight. His face, already intimidating due to the scar, is almost permanently set into a scowl. His voice is a deep, gravel-laced growl that less determined individuals claim is intimidating in and of itself.
While in battle, his face is serene and peaceful, and his voice detached; a sharp contrast from his typical demeanor. He lives for the fight, and as such comes across as something of a deathseeker.
KELLOGG, DOOMED BUTCHER OF KOS
Background:
Year of the Feathered Death, Lankhmar month of the Lion, day of the Crab, during the Murderer's Moon, two Northerners belonging to the southern tribe, Dan and Arnora Gillason, reserve the normal elation of parents. Starri Otkarson, their tribal bard divined that Arnora will give birth to a son (Kollskegg) who will become a harbinger of misfortune and tragedy for himself and those close to him. The clan Gillason had received a curse of Kos, Kollskegg to be precise. This news was kept a secret from the rest of the tribe, and Dan and Arnora raised Kollskegg with subtle heed to the condemning prediction. Throughout his formative years, Kollskegg learned from his father to respect the god, Kos and adhere to his strict credo. Arnora, his mother tried to instill patience and faith in his own will.
Thorgils Farulfson, king of all Northerner tribes, had become infatuated at first sight with Arnora, still wife to Dan, a raider for the southern tribe. Kollskegg, a newborn when the barbarian king visited the tribe had inadvertedly drew the attention of Thorgils with an incessant cry as he rode through the village. Enraged by jealousy, Thorgils sought to dispose of Dan by ordering that the southern tribe continually attack the easterners. The devious tactic did not rid the wanton king of Arnora’s husband, but eight successive years exhausted the southern tribe of able warriors and resources. Dan, battleworn sustained serious injury to his gut in the last raid. Arnora pleaded with Dan to promise that he would stay from the next raid.
At the tender age of nine, Kollskegg was spared certain death. However, Johan, Kollskegg’s older brother by five years, was recruited for the next raid as their tribe had not adequately replenish its ranks. The lament of the tribe’s women echoed for days into the night. The southern tribe could not refuse the king’s behest, so Dan joined his eldest son, Johan on this suicidal request. After bidding quick return to both his father and brother, Kollskegg lied to his mother that he would go hunting on the outskirts of the frozen tundra.
Hastily, the brash youth pursued his father and brother for a couple of days and made a large fire to stave off the encroaching blizzard winds on the far perimeter of the south tribe raiding camp. The naive boy’s decision was the undoing of his family. A superior enemy army of the Eight Cities was redirected to investigate the smoke rising from Kollskegg’s diminishing fire which led them to the raiding camp. Kollskegg witnessed the majority of the southern tribe get slaughtered, more importantly his father. Eventually, Kollskegg was caught and traded into slavery.
Separated temporarily from his brother, Johan, both were enslaved, tortured, and endured hard labor in the fire mines by horse nomads of the east. Their younger sisters, Dalla and Greiland were traded to robed figures with symbols of Tyaa. Kollskagg mostly remembers thousands of flying birds dimming the already looming gray skies.
Pit fighting in the Eight Cities, honoring Red God was a popular distraction from the prevalent suffering and hardships of the common people. Kollskagg and Johan shortly after working the mines for three years, were handpicked to fight in the pits. Kollskagg proved a natural fighter as he quickly slew a wild boar with a strong thrust of an animal bone he found in the pit. Impressing the pit master unable to pronounce the Northerner tongue, renamed Kollskagg as Kellogg which translates the Pig Butcher.
For five years traveling the circuit of pit fights, Kellogg and Johan ,now Ivan the Terrible, earned the privileges of prize fighters. Kellogg adopted this new way of life and became overconfident by uttering seemingly harmless words to guards eavesdropping,
"Brother, there is no one better than Kellogg the Butcher and Ivan the Terrible! Save ourselves. It would be glorious if we were to meet blades inside the pits."
Even his brother knew such things should never, EVER be said; the greedy pit masters would exploit such a suggestion and more so the gods. A guard shared this information with the pit masters, and the two brothers were separated, unaware of the tragedy Kellogg had set into motion.
A week transpired, until the brothers met again in the greatest pit fight in recent history held in Kvarch Nar. A new arena had been erected to sport the event. Ivan (Johan) tried to use word of mouth to warn Kellogg (Kollskeg) that together the brothers would make a last ditch effort to rebel against their masters. To no avail, Kellogg ignorant to the main event was shocked hearing that he was to fight his own flesh and blood. Ivan tried to inform Kellogg of his ulterior plan, but Kellogg frightened and intimidated by his captors raised his weapon as Ivan turned to charge into a squad of pit guards. Ivan fell turning his head behind to realize Kellogg had betrayed his own brother. Kellogg dropped his axe in guilt and his face transformed into tears begging forgiveness.
The pit masters who gained from siding with Kellogg rewarded him with more weapon training over the course of a year. Kellogg returned to the fighting pits besting all opponents, both men and beasts effortlessly. Finally the day came when the pit masters could not yield substantial wealth from Kellogg's victories, a relatively easy match for his retirement. Ceremony announced the end of his reign
over the games. Kellogg revisited the arena; that day was the anniversary of his brother's death.
Soft whimpers were heard coming from the corpse of a pregnant dire wolf which Kellogg had earlier dispatched. Pulling from its distended belly, Kellogg found a surviving dire wolf cub. Sable black, the color of its fur reminded him of Ivan's hair and beard. A smile, then a sudden burst of joyous laughter consumed Kellogg, an unfamiliar sensation.
"Heill!" (good omen) named and cared for the cub which Kellogg signified as a change of his own fortune. Kellogg was given his freedom. Four more years passed, Kellogg had no interest in fighting, only concern for raising the dire wolf cub, Heill. Many decisions were predicated by Kellogg following Heill's whims.
Trekking westward to return to his homeland, Kellogg reunites and frees some Northerner countrymen when he entered Klelg Nar. Among these freed barbarians, an oracle relayed to Kellogg that his past action of cowardice had warranted all his misfortunes and earned the ill attention of Kos, god of dooms. The soothsayer conveyed that Kellogg must right his wrongs and reverse the sentiment of Kos. An epiphany incensed Kellogg to quest for his sisters who he was informed are alive and to seek cult of Tyaa possibly in the Mountains of Darkness. He now vehemently opposes everything affiliated with Tyaa, especially flocks of birds.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Kellogg the Butcher dons a stoic demeanor desensitised to most atrocities that transpire throughout Lankhmar.
Kellogg is a cynic in regards to his general outlook on life and rarely amused masking any outwardly expression of happiness.
He opposes every effort to accept his cursed fate of loneliness and despair. Like most male Northerners, Kellogg exhibits common traits of a large jowl, prominent lower canines, and coarse body hair. His skin has an aged leathery skin, scarred from flogging mainly on his back, wounds berthed from battling all manner of beast and men, and hard labor in the fiery heart of a mountain. Occasionally, Kellogg sulks in a depressive mood and bellows a haunting dirge recounting his doomed fate of loneliness and suffering.
NAZVAROTH, WRATH OF GODS
Background:
Nazvaroth was born - or reborn - in the Year of the Feathered Death under the Ghost Moon; born not of womb and time and childhood delights but of a swirling vortex of astral energies. He awoke in a fog-laden forest in the dead of night surrounded by squawking ravens. Ancient symbols were burned into the trunks of the ancient trees surrounding him. The writing was vile and twisted as if penned by the hand of chaos itself. Just viewing the horrible writing was enough to touch Nazvaroth's mind, imparting a small knowledge of their meaning and banishing any memories of self that he may have previously possessed. In place of memories, he was left with The Words - pronouncements from the powers behind his birth to be used as weapons and death sentences.
The Words drew themselves to him like tide of crawling scarabs burrowing up and into his skin like terrible tattoos. The writing strained to be released from the confines of flesh as the dark tattoos crawled and wormed their way over his arms and chest. It was clear that all was not right, but Nazvaroth could hardly find a reason to care. He felt so... ALIVE! As the words crawled up past his neck, images began to flash just out of the range of his sight. Names whispered from the dark trees and for each name a word found life in his flesh - the shadowy magic searing into his arms and chest like a brand.
He wandered aimlessly through the forest in a fugue as visions assaulted him. Pain blurred his vision until finally a single image coalesced before him with an urgency he could not ignore. From the shadows a name slithered from the aether: "Caleb Durr." His footsteps became more solid, his path straighter as he was guided towards the city of Gnamph Nar.
After hours of tiresome walking along the docks and through alleys festering with garbage he came to a quiet inn. The Silvered Tongue greeted him from the sign above the door along with an image of a dagger piercing a human tongue. Inside, thieves and scoundrels gambled the night away in shadowy corners. The innkeeper wandered into sight and everything clicked into place; the rotund little man matched his vision perfectly. Bile rose in Nasvaroth's throat just considering that such a vile creature was allowed to live, though he knew not why he should feel any anger towards the man. On an impulse he motioned to the innkeeper - Caleb - that he'd like a word in private while jingling a bit of coin in a promise of compensation. Caleb obliged, and leaned in conspiratorially to find out what the bribe might be buying. Nazvaroth whispered a single word... the word that had been nagging at his senses for hours:
Skavolt!
The word shot forth like a bolt, tearing at the confining flesh which held it in place and expending its terrible energy. A wave of scathing, chaotic energy and rage careened outwards through Caleb's head showering the inn in blood and brains. At the same time, one of the words on Nazvaroth's arm faded to a pale pink scar. Everyone nearby was knocked backwards and stunned by the display, but none were more stunned than Nazvaroth. He was horrified by the carnage, and even moreso by the implication that he lacked any free will in the act. On the other hand... the power was entrancing.
He should have never escaped Gnamph Nar in one piece, but a series of fortunate diversions kept much of the guard occupied that night. The locals remember that time as the Night of Festering Blood and point to The Silvered Tongue as a cursed establishment. None seem sure of what exactly transpired that night, but surely the Gods of Trouble had a hand in it.
Twenty-eight words remained after that night, calling constantly for release. Nazvaroth spent many months learning to fight back against The Words so that he might deny their call until the time suited him, but he knew that in the end he would have little choice but to follow their pull. He came to understand the Words as both a blessing and a curse. The power was incredible, but came at great cost. Nazvaroth yearned for his freedom, but the only way to achieve that end was to eliminate each word one by one.
Over several years, he took a winding path along the coast, always traveling closer to Lankhmar as he dispatched one Word after another. Always he was trailed by a distant murder of ravens nagging him to continue his journey. There was little pattern or commonality to the targets given to him by The Words; all walks of life and professions were accounted for. There was even little to tie together the way in which The Words manifested when targets were eliminated. Some burst forth in a torrent of dark feathers while others flared as brilliantly as the sun. Clearly, the list originated from a patron or patrons of varied tastes...
Along this path, the followers of Tyaa sometimes lend aid or shelter. They take the presence of ravens and the inevitable chaos left by his passing as a sign that their faith will soon be rewarded. They understand all too well the terrible needs of the gods and how difficult it can sometimes be to hide the blood left behind. Several have promised shelter should he reach Lankhmar City, though they clearly want something in return that they've yet to put words to. Clearly, they are not to be trusted, but one must accept whatever aid they can in this world.
Now there are but 13 Words remaining as he continues towards Lankhmar. Though he has not yet reached the fabled city, another Word is nearby. An image of a warrior with bald pate and spiked armor haunts the periphery of his vision. With every step, the name "Thren" whispers into his subconcious. Another reckoning is at hand... one more step closer to freedom.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Nazvaroth is tall and pale with a silvery sheen to his skin. At a distance, he passes reasonably well for a human, but closer it becomes obvious that he is something more. The essence of the Astral Plane swirls through his eyes tinged at the edges by the darkness of The Words. The Words appear to be a series of arcane tattoos covering his arms and upper chest just to the neckline of his robes. The symbols on his forearms have faded to pale scars and continue to fade as he deals with each Word in turn. He takes great care to cover himself in the robes of a priest to cover his appearance. He walks hunched with his head tilted downward to avoid notice if at all possible.
Age is something of a foreign concept to Nasvaroth. He has only experienced about 8 years of this new life here in Nehwon, but there are hints at the edge of his conciousness that lead him to believe that he may have been here before. He sometimes loses track of the concept of time and is startled to see that others age a great deal when he ages fairly little.
The Words represent both terrible compulsions and incredible power. They ache as if on fire and yet fill Nazvaroth with such profound life. There's a duality to them that he can't quite explain and has learned to simply ignore. At this point, he's content to simply do as The Words bid him in order to be rid of them sooner. He's not evil, as such, even though they often lead him to terrible acts of destruction. If he had a choice, he'd much rather choose his own path but such a thing isn't in the cards for him. He's often struck by a sense of fatalism even in circumstances where he might be able to fight back.
Clearly there are higher beings at work here. The list of Words he has been burdoned with is imbued with too much power and mystery for it to be otherwise. Though he's quite sure Tyaa has a hand in the creation of the list, Nasvaroth is convinced that others also play a part in some fashion. Not everything that The Words drive him to do is an act of evil, so perhaps there may be some redeeming quality to them yet. In either case, he's driven to complete the list in order to gain his freedom. He can sometimes seem like quite the fanatic, even though he doesn't know which god he serves at any given time.
SLY, RUFFIAN OF LANKHMAR
Background:
Sly was born in the Year of the Basilisk in Lankhmar. This poor Lankhmart passed his youth in the back alleys of taverns and inns his mother used to frequent. Born of an unknown father, Sly is the bastard son of Marseille, a miserable prostitute from the South Dock's district. He became an orphan at the age of 8 when his mother was found strangled to death in a client's room on Nun Street. He then lived of the streets as a beggar up to teenage where he started to pick pockets for a living. Being a lazy ruffian and a scoundrel, Sly constantly seek companions to work with, for he knows too well he won't survive alone in Newhon. One rule the street taught him is the strenght in numbers. Sly recently stole a strange puppet in a residence he can't recall where as he was too intoxicated, and has him completly fascinated by it. Its a small wooden figurine representing a crudely sculpted man with strings, that he pretends can move by itself and speak a foreign language. He is not sure of what it is and think it might be haunted. He is wanted for this crime and the theft of a Holy Symbol of Ilala in the Temple district he hasn't been able to resell yet so he tries to avoid this part of town.
Personality, Traits, Mannerisms, and Appearance:
Sly is a slender man of average height with long greasy black hair he likes to keep untied under a bandana, which is the last thing he has left from his mother. Inside is an inscription almost erased ''Inixtvs Kramvs'' that has troubled him for years, wondering if its the name of a person, location or a code of some sort. He has milky hazel eyes and a short unkept beard. His ragged cloths are as dirty as him. A scar run down his right cheek and he has ugly teeth, all bent and unhealthy, making him speak on the tip of his tongue, often doing whistling sound. Sly is a vile and shady man with great ambitions to acquire more wealth and power and survive to enjoy it. He is a coward but vicious fighter when he must resort to violence. Selfish by nature, he avoid killing for dead people don't profit him, instead relying on ruses to trick people into thinking its in their best interest to do his whims. Therefore he doesn't usually go out of his way to hurt anyone unecessarly, but will take advantage of the weakness of others to get what he want, using subtle schemes to manipulate them. He support laws and other dictatures as long as they are benefiting him and he also avoid stealing from people he work with, for it's another street's teaching he learned early on. Sly is a freelance thief that has gone under the radar of Lankhmar's Thieve's Guild so far but trouble always seem to find him sooner or later...