Triyan was born on a day of troubling signs, several of the underground
lakes his people drew water from were discovered to be fouled by disease,
all creatures inhabiting the waters were found dead floating in the lakes,
their bodies decomposing at a speed far beyond natural. Added to this,
several of the pregnant rothe in their herd had all birthed stillborns that
morning, and the female cattle themselves died terrible deaths, bleeding
from their orifices. While his clan was not a naturally superstitious lot,
terrible omens often brought back more primal practices, and several
newborns and virgins of the clan were sacrificed to the old gods in hopes of
appeasement. Triyan himself was spared such a fate, as his mother gave
birth without any aid, and concealed his birth for weeks, being of a much
more sensible mind than her fearful kinsmen. Triyan's father had been
killed several months prior, while escorting clan merchants through the
underground warrens of their out many of the able-bodied males of their
clan. Without Triyan, any sort of financial support for her lands. The
words spoken to her had been of an ambush by a neighboring duergar clan,
which had wiped from her husbands family would cease, so she concealed the
exact date of his birth more for her own benefit than Triyan's.
His upbringing and schooling was average in nature, his mother neither
cruel, nor loving, raised him with the intent of him helping support her own
comfort. He began instruction in the temples by their priests, as all
children did for some period of time. It was not uncommon for their gods to
answer the prayers of their people for simple things, such as healing small
wounds, or curing illnesses. Any particular abilities as an acolyte of
their gods was overlooked, as none of his works stood out particularly. He
received instruction in other fields, as a proper duergar would often find
themselves in different roles throughout their life, be it soldier,
assassin, or merchant. Triyan maintained his daily prayers to his gods over
the years, as did all of his clan, and often small signs were given, to let
him know his words were answered.
While serving as a bodyguard for merchants, much as his father did, his role
brought him to the surface world for trading with people of the open lands.
Daily prayers during his time on the service left him feeling empty, as if
no one was watching over him anymore, his gods offered him no signs of their
presence. At night, he prayed more fervently than ever, even practicing
self-flagellation, turning his back into a bloody slab of meat time and and
time again, out of pure desperation for a sign from his gods. Finally one
evening as he finished his nightly prayers, his thick blood pooling on his
back from his new routine of self-flagellation, something answered. Several
of their caravan's lizard mounts pitched furiously before spasming to the
ground dead, their blood spilling out of all of their orifices to collect
into a pool before Triyan. A humanoid form gathered from the pool, stepping
towards Triyan, it reached out and rested its hand against his chest,
leaving a bloody smear. Then with no warning it collapsed towards him, a
small flood of crimson washing across his ankles as it lost its form. The
commotion of dying mounts did not go unnoticed, and several others from the
caravan came upon him moments later, seeing him clearly involved in the
unnatural phenomenon layed out before them. Things as these never end well,
as the duergar people are often prone to assuming the worst of someone in
these situations, and it was all Triyan could do with fast words and fearful
threats of violence to force the compromise of exile over death from the
others he was with. He soon found himself walking out into the dark with
only what he wore, with caravan fires and the angry, fearful shouts of his
people at his back.
Following the Path
Being exiled in a strange land is hard, but as a young adult male, with
his martial training, and the presence of a new god filling his mind, Triyan
prospered. He etched out an existence in the surface city of Seringale,
avoiding hostile attention by heeding the expectations put upon its
occupants set forth by their laws. Taking his desire to shed blood in honor
of his new god outside the city proved little hindrance, finding much forest
life and settlements of savage creatures established nearby. Countless were
the bodies bled out in those first months, all in honor of his new god, with
each bloody death he felt further approval from his new patron, and the dark
powers blessed upon him grew in strength.
Yet, he still sought a closer connection to this god who had noticed him so
closely, and learned of a shrine dedicated to the surface worlds god of
blood and plague, hidden within a dark ancient keep. He never for a moment
had to question, that this was the same deity who now watched over him, as
he could feel its affirmation within his body and mind. Clearing through a
small cadre of guards outside the keep, he forced his way inside, endlessly
searching down black tunnels that seemed to run forever. He kept moving,
never stopping for an instant, until he finally felt a tug in his mind,
leading him down yet another passageway within the keep. Here stood a
shrine to the god Davairus, and he knelt and began to pray, and while he
could feel his gods presence, he could feel no sign of approval for his
worship here, in this place. Grimly he stood, stripping the armor off his
chest, until he was naked from above the waist. No whip did he have, in
order to honor Davairus with self-flagellation, but he did not hesitate for
a moment, picking up the blood crusted spiked flail he'd been using to
deliver offerings of blood through the massacre of his victims. Gripping
the haft of the flail with both hands, his first swing sent himself
sprawling to the ground with the spikes still embedded in his back, and the
taste of blood on his mouth. Undaunted, he stood, and carelessly ripped it
free from his back. His second blow was no gentler, landing in almost the
identical spot as the first, he could feel the spikes penetrate deep within
his body, and black spots swam across his vision, but he did fall this time.
The pool of his own blood around his feet was already a generous amount, but
again he swung his flail, his third blow striking close to his spine, and
nothing he could do would stop his body from reacting with spasms as he fell
to the ground again in convulsions, nearly biting through his own tongue.
Standing again, he picked up the flail and swung back again, with sheer
determination albeit weaker than before, landing the spiked flail head
across his back for a fourth time. His mind registered a flash of pain, and
the world went dark.
Triyan awoke, small braziers from around the shrine dimly illuminating his
surroundings, though his eyes had no problem piercing the darkness of empty
hallways around him. He felt physically weak, dizziness threatening to
engulf him in blackness again as he attempted to stand. Cold air flickered
against his back, and he could feel the pain of its contact against open
wounds. Around him though, the ground was spotless, his shed blood
unaccounted for. Nor did new blood drip off him, as severe as the wounds in
his body felt, nothing was draining from them anymore. Kneeling, his began
to pray anew, and now a rush of approval and acceptance flooded his mind,
bringing back some energy to his body. He shifted from kneeling to laying
prostrate, strange and unknown dark words spewing from his mouth,
extinguishing the lights around the shrine. A fresh wave of pain suddenly
rushed through his body as the skin upon his chest flared angrily, and the
smell of burnt hair and meat became apparent. The shock was too much for
his already weakened body, and blackness overcame him again.
Awakening yet again, he found himself no longer in the halls of Tyr Unguld,
but within the well lit streets of Seringale now, lying on his back in front
of a temple to the dark gods, his body aching as fiercely as ever. The
burning across his chest had not subsided, and for the first time he noticed
the new markings across it, of of a tarantula and a scorpion locked in
combat. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he saw an armed acolyte nearby
guarding a building connected to the temple, watching him closely. He tried
his best to straighten his back, and slowly brought himself over to the
entrance way. The acolyte stared at him with its crazed demonic eyes, and
without another word stepped aside. Without a glance backwards, Triyan
walked deeper into the entrance way.
Description:
Gray lusterless hair hangs off this dwarf's scalp, shaved on the sides
and back with only minimal length on top. Whereas the gray of his hair
is like dirty smoke, the gray of his skin is more like ash, with a heavy
overtone of white to it. Large wide ears hang off the side of his head,
angled outwardly enough to be sensitive to the gentlest of breezes, which
cause them to twitch violently of their own volition. His nose is quite
large with flaring nostrils, tufts of hair peek out from them. He has no
beard, but rather a mighty handlebar moustache with a small patch of hair
under his bottom lip. His red eyes are quite small and sunken into his
face, with dark discolorations around them. Short, yet quite thick arms
hang off his stocky frame, the palms of his hands are wide, but the fingers
themselves are quite short and stubby. His legs are short, even for a
dwarf, and one would be hard pressed to guess where his knees are, as a
slight paunch of fat hangs over his waist, partially concealing them.
Xenyar 0 , 0 , 0 . Glory Hole Douchebag reference ftw. Gwhahaha
[reply to Arunore]jaran 2 , 0 , 0 . This is why mortals think all Imm's suck at PK'ing :P
[reply to Phostan][reply to Phostan]