Reintroducing NPC: Daerid! (Qoorl and I are going to share this NPC)
Name: Daerid Galadrid
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Health Points: 150
Power Points: 14
Build: Well muscled, but lithe as a blade.
Eyes: Icy blue
Armour: deep red shirt, black pants, black boots
Jewellery: Signet ring of his deity.
Weapons: Various throwing daggers, Ashandarei (A long, thin, black spear with a sword blade curving at an angle at the top, the blackness of the blade seemed to drink the light. Twin ravens were embossed on both sides of the blade, and the following words decorated the haft: Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades. )
Galad is physically very attractive, and he knows it. He is sadistic, realizes it, and enjoys it immensely. This once Cleric of Freyr's life goal is to assassinate all the members of the Band of the Red Hand individually (with the exception of Siren.) He is more than a little insane, and utterly devoted to Siren and his new goddess. He fights dirty, he enjoys torture and inflicting pain, he'll kill you as slowly as possible and laugh with glee as he does so.
Combat Arts or Spells: All Cleric Spells. Plus a few baddie type spells I'll work on later.
Skills: Captivating the ladies, horsemanship, juggling, swordsmanship
History: He was once a member of the Band of the Red Hand but Cho'kar killed him after he nearly killed Camilla. Now his soul has been inserted into a new body and he's up to no good.
As the last of the flames flickered and died away, a laugh sounding on the brink of madness echoed down the hill from the Tor. A booming female voice hammered at their ears, seeming to come from all directions and none, “Older magicks than you can realize dwell in this land, in this Tor. I thank you for the sacrifiiiiice...” The word dwindled away into a shrieking cackle as a unseasonably cold wind blew through the glade.
“Orc!” Daerid screeched inside Cho'kar's consciousness, “What are you doing?! I can see ever more dimly, why? You need meee...”
Some force clutched and pulled at Daerid, it seemed his entire essence was being squeezed in a vice-like grip. Strong fingers tipped in razor sharp claws seemed to rip him away from the warmth of the orc's mind.
“Noooo!” He tried to scream, but he found that he once again had no voice. He had lost touch with the orc's mind. He was once again in utter blackness, this time without the dim glow of the bubbles of light. He spun, frantically searching, or he tried to. There seemed to be no movement, no force, he simply was.
A sultry female voice whispered, “Do you not wish revenge?” It seemed to stroke his very core, pulsating all around. The voice was the blackness. “The orc, your murderer, will misuse Camilla and toss her aside. The human will defile her mind, her soul. She is unfit, they are unfit. Do you not wish revenge?” She asked again and he tried to answer, he tried to focus, but all he could do was listen.
“Do you not wish to fulfill your oath?”
The blackness fogged with light and he could see a vision play before him. A boy no more than 12 years of age stood over a cradle, fumbling with a sword that was made for a man's hand. Inside the cradle a newborn babe slept, downy white hair blending into the pristine swaddling. The boy cut his arm and swore to protect her with his very life, protect her from herself and from others. Guide her, love her. An oath nothing could break. The boy extended his arm, and clenched his fist. Drops of blood oozed from the wound to drip onto the girl's face. They were connected deeper than life, it was an oath stronger than death.
The fog swirled, and he once again floated in the blackness that was a voice.
“Do you not see?” The husky voice whispered.
“I see what I must do.” He could speak, wonder of wonders!
“You must kill them all.”
“I must kill them all. I must avenge what cannot be saved. She cannot be salvaged, they must all die. Except Siren, she can be saved, can she not?” Daerid responded.
The voice purred a laugh. “She is already my creature, she has been touched by chaos. She is an agent that has yet to be activated. As were you.” The blackness laughed again. “I can give you revenge, I can give her power. The plan has been set into motion.”
“Where am I? You say many things, wench. How can you fulfill these promises?”
“Trust in my power. I can give you a new body, you can walk among men again. You will wield magic greater than the pitiful healing powers of Freyr. You will serve a new goddess, you will revel in my divine glory and beauty!” The voice broke off into mad cackling laughter. “Do you swear to uphold my name and fulfill these promises you have made this night?”
He hesitated. He was unsure, he was a child of Freyr, he was sworn to uphold... Protect... But revenge would taste so sweet, and Camilla needed to be put down. Still, he was a Holy Priest...
“Swear it!” The voice thundered, pain buffeted Daerid, the blackness seemed to squeeze with tremendous force. “Swear!”
“I swear.” He choked out, and the tightness lessened. “I swear it by all that is Holy-” He broke off. “I swear it in the name of my new goddess, I swear I will see this task to it's end.”
The blackness trembled and shook. Daerid felt the horrible hand gripping his soul once more, he felt himself being pulled at as though being sucked through a humongous vacuum. The pain ripped and tore at his essence, the pain was all, it annihilated thought. Then it simply was no more.
He was crouching on a red rag rug in front of a flickering fireplace, completely naked. He ran his hands from his neck to his toes, marveling in the feel of his own skin. He could feel. He could hear the popping of the fireplace, see it clearly, smell the pungent smoke. He wagered he could even taste, if there was only anything to taste... He looked around the room. The walls were bare gray stone, completely sealed. There were no windows or doors. Panicked touched him, until he looked up. He was in some sort of pit, or oubliette.
His goddess would see he was released. She wouldn't waste her time giving him new flesh only to watch him waste away...
There was a bed with cozy patchwork quilts covering it, at it's foot was a small chest. A rocking chair rested in the corner, and beside it a stand mirror. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, the effects of gravity were hard to accustom oneself to after one spent much time weightless. He nodded to himself.
He stumbled to the mirror and smiled at his image. He didn't look much different at all, his hair was nearly the same. As he gazed his features... melted. He began to look more like himself. His eyes faded from deep chocolate brown to icy blue, his nose sharpened, his skin paled, his cheekbones raised. Wait... Something was off. He was shorter! By at least a foot. This was not right. He was a tall man, women had to look up to him. It was the way of life. He looked down at his body. He would bet his life that he was no taller than Camilla. “This is not just! I am a tall man!”
The voice that had been the blackness purred laughter from behind him. He spun, and there she stood. A slender vision in black gossamer silk, even as short as he now was she barely came up to his chin. Her dark hair fell down her back in glistening waves, and her obsidian eyes seemed to drink his soul. Her skin was as dark as tea, and glimmered faintly in the firelight. Her exotic beauty was breath-taking.
“What is wrong? Do you not like the body I have found for you? The limbs are straight and perfect, you are young and fit for battle. I assure you, this was the finest body that could be found on such short notice. The orc is not one of my creatures, and I had not planned for you to end in such a way. Never fear, the body adjusts to the mind, but the soul adjusts to the body. Soon you will forget you were ever taller than you are now.” Her voice flowed like honey, it soothed and relaxed.
“It is a fine body, I beg forgiveness if I have offended. My mistress is kind. If I may ask... What is your name?”
She laughed again, a noise filled with malice. “Yes, a faithful dog should know his mistress's name. You may call me... Frigga.” (Note to self: remember to check if that really is Odin's wife's name. Also verify Odin's ravens “thought” and “memory.”)
Daerid bowed, and effected a flourish with an imaginary cloak. “Great mistress, I am yours.”
“I know.” Again with the laughter. The bloody woman laughed more than any two wenches he had seen to date. “You may dress in the clothing you will find in the chest. You will wear my livery once more. You have ever worn my colors. Did you not find your desire for dark colors odd, for all that you were a 'servant of the light?'” She laughed even harder at that. “A fitting weapon rests in the other corner. Once you dress, lie down on the bed holding the Ashandarei. Do not be alarmed if when you awake you are in a room in an Inn called the Golden Dragon. Wait in that village, your old 'friends' will cross through there soon. Have faith.”
Daerid turned toward the indicated corner and spotted a long, thin, black spear with a sword blade curving at an angle at the top, the blackness of the blade seemed to drink the light. Twin ravens were embossed on both sides of the blade, and the following words decorated the haft:
Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades.
“Is that what you mean by Ashandarei?” He asked, indicating the spear, but when he turned, she was missing.
Seeing no alternative and never being one to waste time he went to the chest and dressed. When he was finished he stood once again before the mirror. He wore tight fitting black pants, black boots with sheaths beside the ankle and small daggers tucked into them. His shirt was the color of blood, and his cloak was black with deep red scroll work embroidered around the edges. A pouch tied at his belt contained quite a lot of gold.
Daerid smiled at his image. He may be as short as most women, but his features were still perfection incarnate. Truly, he was a wonderful looking man. He winked at his reflection and flexed an arm before retrieving the strange spear and lying down on the bed.
Sleep was long in coming, but finally darkness closed over his mind. Dreams of floating weightlessly in a sea of lights, without form assaulted him. It was terrifying.