Description
A peculiar apparition crouches low near the ground. His huge eyes
glow with intensity staring intently at his surrounding. Tiny
cuts and scars, long since covered by a thick mat of hair, is barely
seen through the sheen of perspiration evident on his skin. Thick
powerful jaw bones proudly show themselves through his toughened skin.
A thick mantle of dark gristly hairs swings braided from his face. His
hair, a darker shade than his beard, is disheleved, looking as if
he had just been struck by lightning. A circular patch of burnt skin
is on his right cheek.
His body is covered with a light sheen of black hair. Traces of silver
linens can be seen in random places. Powerful muscles rip from beneath
his thick brace of crafted armor. His left hand shakes constantly due
to various scars long since cracked over resembling a mithril hand.
Beneath his armor is seen a dusty apron, ripped and patched in different
places through years of use. Dark spots of soot and dried blood
encompasses most of the once white apron. Covering what can be seen of
his body are tattoos of weapons and armors, each inscribed in duergar
letters and words, almost like ancient recipes to the forging of those
items. When connected, they look like jigsaw puzzles, pieces missing
of a grand design.
Role
Defilement
Added Fri Jun 16 13:35:38 2006 at level 18:
A fierce look passed over Rektath's eyes as he glanced at the
burning village around him. Traces of magic swiveled in the air,
slowly descending to the ground and transforming the ironworks
that took aeons to mold. What was once a blacksmith had been
turned into a gruesome creatures, spitting acid and fire as it
destroyed the masterpieces of the old craft: weapons, armors,
and murals depicting heroic deeds. Crouched around him are the
remains of the village, battled hardened warriors bristling
with menace. However, even their presence was diminished by
the aura of magic threatening to overwhelm their small corner
of sanctity.
"Yar! FER DE ANCESTORS! DEFILERS BE SENT TA DA ETERNAL ABYSS!"
Erupting from his companions, a cry of rage and passion for
what is lost nearly overcame the boisterous hums of magic
devices. In a great surge of defiance, the tattered remain
hacked and slashed at the multitude of tendrils threatening
to consume their existance.
As morning came, a single battered body was all that remained
of the destroyed village. Ashes fell upward towards the sky
and the ground was saturated by magic. One of the last surviving
villages of surface dwelling duergars had been utterly wiped
away, and with them generations of tradition. All except one
creature. Peering through bloodied eyes, Rektath regained
consciousness. He leaned on one distended arm and stood,
reveling in the pain and the splattered blood around him.
Grimacing in disgust, he wiped a spittle from his lips and
departed from the destroyed village.
The single greatest memory was the peaceloving mages who came
to their village, and with tendrils of magic, defiled their
heritage.
Beginnings
Added Fri Aug 4 18:23:04 2006 at level 51:
Rektath's past prolongs his practical views toward everything. As a
child, he viewed existance as simply just that: existance. There was
little ambition or lust for power, quite unlike a duergar. Rather,
he simply accepted that he was born to a family of blacksmiths
within a quiet little village cut off from the rest of the world.
While his friends would venture out of the dark woods within the
mountain, he was content simply pounding on his imaginary forge,
creating intricate designs and items for practical use. This state
of mind brought about both a fault and strength. His lack of
ambition often frustrated his elders. However, this lack of
ambition also diminished his fright, almost to the point where he
would be reckless and naive in pursuing his task. While others
saw this as courageous, he saw this just as it is, being himself.
It was during his early years that this practical view of existance
came crashing down. Recently taking over the forge of his ailing
father, a band of smiley and cheerful creatures came trolling down
the mountains. He had only heard of them in stories, only seen
pictures of them in paintings within the caverns of his ancestors.
While others were peaked with curiousity, he merely went about his
task, ignoring yet noting the differences between these creatures
and his village. Floppy hats and intricate jewels that hurt his
eyes spun in magical fashion as these newcomers bedazzled and
charmed his duergar brethrens into giving them a place to stay.
On that faithful night, the trees themselves groaned as the fires
of 'purification' danced into a blaze of glory around the village.
Elementals of various shapes and colors emerged alongside angels
shining a golden aura and struck down his brethrens. He had seen
these creatures painted into the caverns, creatures of times long
ago when his ancestors departed the dwarven captain by the name
of Boltthrower to live a life of peace and quiet. As always,
Rektath's practical mind took over and he gathered what remained
of his people. Most were enraged at this brutal outtake and
started to hack and slash at these apparently invincible foes.
Barely penetrating their magic, his men started dwindling away
until only a semblance of their existance were unharmed. There
they made their last stance, carrying with them centuries of
peace and quiet, forever ruined by those who would offer 'peace.'
The Aftermath
Added Fri Aug 4 18:23:27 2006 at level 51:
A gust of wind blew across Rektath's bloodied face. His eyes
gleamed with tiredness and anger as he surveyed his surrounding.
Unsurprisingly, none of of the village was left alone. Trees
glowed of blazing light, supposedly blessed by those who sought
to do away with darkness, and the huts were covered with freshly
grown trees. AShes of carnage from the previous night were no
where to be seen. In their place were radiance and 'beauty,'
proudly glamouring the sights of whoever witnesses them. In this
place of majesty, a single duergar stayed still, crushing huge
jagged pieces of rocks with his mithril right hand, and a snarl
of anger about him. "Dem fargin be destroyin me village. Be
taintin wut me 'ave." A loud grunt emerged from his throat
reverberating about his surrounding. Picking up the nearest
weapon, this lonesome duergar set out from the remains of his
village, which has been transformed into a peaceful and tranquil
glade. Besides the glimmers of metal seen by the refracting
sunlight, none would imagine that this glade held centuries of
'civilization.'