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Favius Daark
Favy

Race

Forsaken

Alignment

Chaotic/Evil

Title

Loremaster/Lightslayer

Name: Favius Daark

Guild: The Cult of Shadow

Age: Unknown.

Height: 1.8M

Body Type: Tall, thin, has the familiar stance of the Forsaken.

Face Type: Oval shaped, haggered.

Complexion: Rotting.

Eyes: Sunken, lifeless, uncaring.

Hair: Sparse, long, matted and dirty.

Clothing Style: Dark leather armor adorned with symbols and crests of The Forgotten Shadow.

Speaking Style: Respectful, to the point, sometimes agitated and a little random. Brash and offensive. (depending on mood)

General Demeanor: Schizophrenic.

Career: Loots the corpses of those foolish enough to worship the Light.

Prejudices: Worshippers of the Light.

Best Qualities: Is true to the Three Virtues of Shadow.

Worst Qualities: Never washes the blood of his victims from his armor and weapons. Tends to lose interest in conversations.

Weakness: Vivid memories of his past life that sometimes enter his mind leave him weakened and confused.

Hobbies: Killing the living.

Talents: Assassination, spying, sabotage, potion and poison creation.

Biography Edit

Flames, screaming women and children running, dying, pleading for their lives. Shining armor, rearing warhorses and blood spattered cobblestones. Flashing swords, searing pain, darkness.

Favius falls to his knees, exhausted, confused, were these memories or nightmares? He composes himself. Concentrating on Deathknell and the Church, he found solace there, solace in his service as a Lightslayer of the Forgotten Shadow. He stands up and starts to walk towards the Crypt, slowly at first, his head hurt, it always hurt, a permanent headache from a rotting brain. He takes a small vial from a pouch attached to his ill fitting belt and pops the cork, he tilts his head back and lets one drop of green liquid drop on his dry and cracked tongue, the pain would soon ease.

The entrance to the Crypt loomed ominously in the moonlight as Favius approaches the Caretaker, familiar sounds of scratching come from the depths of the Crypt as the Caretaker holds his lantern high and at arms length to see who approaches. “Ahh Favius, is this a social visit? I do hope so, I haven’t spoken to anyone for days..” Favius shakes his head “Unfortunately not, Caretaker, I am here to guide the fallen to Shadow Priest Sarvis so they may embrace their existence”. The Caretaker nods and gives his lantern to Favius “Pity.. I could do with a little conversation, it’s been pretty quiet around here just lately”.

Holding the lantern in front of him, Favius descends the steps into the Crypt, soon enough he finds the source of the scratching sound, a freshly risen Forsaken, a female laying face down on the damp and dirty floor, he kneels beside her remembering the confusion and fear he felt when he first clawed his way out of his Coffin. Rats scurry and squeak excitedly around the living corpse, waiting for the chance to snatch a small morsel from the decaying body. Favius gently rests his decaying hand on the Female’s shoulder, encouraging her to turn and face him, he sighs as she does so. Her head had been cleaved from crown to forehead, revealing a sliced, rotting brain. The Female’s hands clawed slowly at the ground around her, her body seemed to rock uncontrollably, her mouth opened and closed and her eyes stared blankly ahead, Favius knew what he had to do, this corpse was useless, an act of compassion was needed to put her out of her misery.

Stones from the derelict Crypt scatter the ground around Favius, placing the Lantern on the ground he picks up the heaviest stone he can find, lifting the stone above his own head he brings it down sharply, smashing it repeatedly into the unfortunate female’s head until there is no head left to recognize. Dropping the bloodied stone to the ground, Favius stoops to pick up the Lantern, all is quiet, the Female’s body still rocked as it lay, prostrate on the ground, as he ascends the steps back to the surface he whispers, “Lay still Sister, your passing shall not be forgotten..”

Favius stands at the top of the Crypt steps, looking out over Deathknell and towards the Church, he sighs and rolls his neck, cracking the bones as he does so, without a word he gives the Caretaker his lantern and walks slowly towards the Church, feelings of hatred towards the living barely contained within his frail looking body, “How can they do such things to their own kind?” he mused as he walked, “The Light, a false religion with false values, an excuse to persecute what is unknown to them, blindly following like sheep”, he grins to himself, “They all end up here eventually..”

His head hurt, it always hurt, Flames, screaming women and children running, dying, pleading for their lives. Shining armor, rearing warhorses and blood spattered cobblestones. Flashing swords, searing pain, darkness. Were these memories or nightmares?...

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