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"...and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming..."
- E. A. Poe

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Thread Status: Open | Suggested Soundtrack: Memoirs of the Forgotten

The lady was sewing.

She was seated by the fire, just outside a mud brick hovel with a thatched roof. Her handiwork the labor that produced the clothes on their backs. Around them was a small farm.

It seemed a simpler time. Not a dream so much as it was stepped back through a half-remembered memory of a time long ago.

He'd been a girl then. He'd been alive then. The woman by the fire was the girl's mother. She would raise her head and look over at her daughter, but there was no face. The haze of time shrouded the recollection. The girl could turn her head and see silhouettes out in the field, laboring, toiling with the earth, but couldn't discern who they were. They were just shadows.

The girl turned back to gaze at the faceless woman that was sewing by the fire.

She would hum while she worked, but the girl knew only silence. The melody playing just out of earshot, it's memory forever at the tip of her tongue yet never recalled.

The girl would return here -- this place, this memory -- many times. And on each such occasion it was the same. Shadows in the field. A lady without a face. Music without a sound. But this memory, however poorly remembered, was precious to her. This was life.

This was life as she knew it.

This was life as she had known it.

Art credit E. H. Macmillan & Massimo Carnevale.

Art Credit: Edward Delandre Art

Character's Name: Calmund Kennaldsson

Nicknames: None

Age: 28

Gender: Male

Species: Human (Undead)

Abilities:

Painlessness: After years of skin and flesh slopping off, rotting away, and tearing at the slightest touch, Calmund’s nerve endings have all but dulled to the sensation of pain by any measure. This also grants him a greater tolerance for both extreme heat and crippling cold. This is both a curse and a blessing. In combat, he is unyielding to many injuries that would break others, however, he is also incapable of properly assessing whether or not he has been hurt, and to what severity.

Mark of the Necromantress: When Calmund first awoke from the grips of death’s curse, one of his earliest goals was to seek remedies which would alleviate his suffering and the debilitating effects of the sickness he had been plagued with. With traditional healers, clerics and priests, and renowned mages at a loss, he sought out the last of his options. An isolated witch buried deep within the heart of Bera Forest who, in exchange for his assistance in deeds unsavory and a dedication to serving her when called upon, granted him a special arcane brand imbued with necromantic magic.

This mark allows his dying flesh to bind itself back together, and for him to sustain damage that would kill normal men. He is, from an arcane standpoint, a partial undead thrall. In exchange for this newfound strength, he is beholden to the call of the necromantress. Though it is rare for her to force her influence over him, there have been several occasions where she forced him to carry out her bidding and tend to affairs outside of her forest home. This mark also makes him easily detected by those sensitive to magic, and makes him radiate an aura of malevolent energy connotative with lingering necromantic essence.

Dead Flesh: Those cursed with undeath take on inverse biological properties. As a result, he is heavily resistant to the effects of healing magic, both beneficial and detrimental, due to the fact most of his body has rotten to the core. However, with this resistance also comes a vulnerability to necromantic magic not found in uncursed humans, capable of being both healed and harmed by those skilled in necromantic arts.

The nature of Calmund’s body can also interfere with those who to track and hunt via scent. Calmund exudes a pungent odor of dead, decaying flesh. Those with a sensitive sense of smell may be sickened by being too close to him, and those who attempt to track the man by his smell may struggle if they do not realize he lacks the scent of a living man and instead carries the aroma of decay.

Equipment:

Jagged Longsword: A blade scavenged from the ruins of his village, held by the town’s lead militia fighter, it was a coveted piece of equipment, and one that was well used. The blade is chipped and parts tainted with rigid callouses of rust. It’s a brutal weapon due to it’s disrepair, more akin to a serrated bludgeon than a keen blade, it bites into flesh with crooked teeth.

Adventurer’s Plate: A set of platemail found in the wake of the plague, belonging to a knight who had rested in their town the evening of the curses’ greatest bloom. He was killed by the plague, and left behind his battered old set of gear. Clearly worn for many years, it’s hundreds of scars each tell a story of a battle bravely fought for honor and glory. Now it serves as the battered bastion for Calmund’s broken body as he fights for survival. With the original owner no longer in need of it, Calmund claimed it for use on his journey. It is nearly as decrepit and decayed as he is. So far, he hasn’t encountered any who recognize it, much to his relief, but it often gives others the impression he is nothing more than a common brigand.

Wanderer’s Kit : Simple provisions for journeying: a backpack, fire stone and a bedroll.

Appearance:

A suit of mangled plate cloaked in evergreen rags, this is how Calmund appears to most. He wears the stolen suit of steel like a second skin, rarely ever removing it. Beneath the rusted, ragged armor is the hollow husk of a man. His body is busting at the seams, with chunks of flesh and ribbons of sinew and skin hanging from his body. Most of his body is wrapped thoroughly in bandages and rags soak stained with blood. His face is barely recognizable as anything but a skull, with what little muscle and flesh is left lingering around his mouth and jaw, eyes, and brows. His hair is short and matted, a gnarled nest of black fibers.

Personality:

Calmund is a man who lost everything in the blink of an eye. Cynical and somber, he wanders the world a broken man carrying on a vague and pointless quest in the hopes at some kind of closure. Calmund speaks with a wisdom and weathered pessimism far beyond someone of his relatively young age. While not outright malicious, he can be blunt, cruel, and unempathetic. This isn’t because Calmund has any definitive intentions of hurting others, but because he sees an optimistic and positive attitude as a crutch, and a weakness that he once held. He was hurt so horribly by his expectations of life before he was cursed that he fears seeing the same attitude in others.

The stoic plague knight will always attempt to take the path of least resistance. He isn’t one to be easily riled up by mockery or poor treatment. He has goals and he wants to reach them, as long as those he encounters aren’t likely to stand in his way, he will do whatever he can to avoid senseless conflict with them. However, everyone has limits, and when Calmund reaches his, he shifts into the wretched beast the curse has turned him into, prone to brutality and unrelenting attack in combat, the man is almost sadistically thorough with his brutal retaliation against those who stand to challenge him. He is not the noble knight his stolen armor makes him out to be, he is a ruthless fighter who will do whatever it takes to secure himself the victor. He fights to take down threats, not for glory or renown, and so, whatever ends the battle the quickest is his go to option.

Despite his general demeanour, Calmund is a charitable person. He knows what it is like to be left with nothing and have every person turn their back on you. He has suffered the slings of judgement and selfishness, and wishes to avoid inflicting such cruelty on others. Waywards, the downtrodden, and the less fortunate can easily find a kind friend in Calmund.

History: 

Humble beginnings are abundant in the world. Calmund was not exempt from this normalcy for most of his life. Calmund was born into a family of 5. He was the youngest of his siblings: a brother named Cyndred and a sister named Raina. They were a farm family, as most common born people are. They worked their fields, tending to crops for most of the year and even managing to keep a small collective of animals to bring in money during the winter. They maintained average production, providing enough to feed them through the year and maintain good reputation with their lord. It was a difficult but simple life. Calmund, Cyndred, and their father spent their days slaving away under the scorching sun while Raina and their mother tended to the animals, maintained the farm house, and handled the daily chores.

The family went on like this for years. As he came into his own, he began to volunteer with the village militia as a town guard. He was strong, noble, and had a good reputation. Many of the village folk had encouraged him to get involved, and his father gave him the go ahead, figuring they could easily continue to manage the farmland with him gone every so often to run patrol. It was a fairly simple, if intense job. Like many small townships in the outskirts of East Sleibte, they suffered their regular problems. Dangerous wildlife, brigands and bandits, and the typical conflicts that came with maintaining a community. Calmund was always one to take the job seriously, tackling issues head on, ready to strike with spear or club and fend off anyone or anything who hoped to threatened the villagers. He was also quite skilled at mediating conflicts within the city. He garnered a good reputation for both himself and his family as a brave and dedicated man.

Sadly, things could not remain so idyllic for long. No matter how bold and brave he was, no matter how proficient he was with pike or blade, there was one thing no man could hope to challenge. Sickness, and more specifically, divine sickness.The pleasant grassy knoll that their village was founded on turned to a stomach turning vista of decay. It happened so fast, far too fast for anyone to react. People got sick, and their families got sick, and, being such a small village, there wasn’t an expert healer who lived in town. The priests and the clergy did what they could, but once they fell ill, the town crumbled to chaos. He did what he could with the few guards who stayed to stem the collapse. Moving bodies, fighting fires, chasing off bandits and petty thieves who saw the crippled state of the community as an opportunity to steal all that they pleased, but even they soon fell sick. Eventually, so did Calmund.

He awoke next to a stacked mountain of dead. Clawing his way out of the viscera, he crawled to his feet. He looked down at his arms and legs, only to see the flesh dripping off of them like a dead animal left out in the summer heat. Flies bit at his flesh, swarming in the hundreds to strip away at the dessicated meat. He had died, like the rest, but he was still walking. Still breathing. It couldn’t be real, this couldn’t be happening. But no amount of slapping or thrashing his skull shook him from the dream. Fear bubbled up inside him, twisting a dagger into his gut, he empty his stomach onto the side of the road, and sprinted towards home, stumbling and staggering as his frail body broke apart from the strain of such vigorous movement.

Dead. Every single one of them dead. His parents in their beds, his brother, lying in the field, his sister in the kitchen. Their bodies like they had been dug up out of age old graves, swarming with flies and festering with maggots. It had been a day since he last saw them alive. This wasn’t possible, this was no normal sickness. Calmund scavenged what he could from the village, packed his bags, dug 4 graves for his family, and set out towards the nearest major city. Someone had to know what was going on. There had to be someone who could help. Who could fix all this.

When he arrived at the outskirts of Yfarsel and saw the sea of white canvas tents clumsily constructed like a field of ship sails sprouted from the earth, he knew it was far, far worse than he could’ve imagined. A refugee camp, with people plagued by the same horrific decaying flesh he had awoken with. Families, crying children, screaming and squabbling and fighting, the iron clad clattering of military men attempting to maintain order at the sudden arrival of hundreds of unexpected arrivals left with no work, no supplies, and no homes. It was a disaster. Calmund did not remain amongst the other undead for long. The healers and clerics and herbalists who had come to try and help, though few that they were, had no answers nor any success at curing the condition. Many who sought answers could turn to only one conclusion: the gods had punished them. Whatever they had done wrong, whoever they had angered, whatever they had failed to achieve, they were being punished for transgressions against the gods. The refugee camp quickly turned into a frightening religious refuge. People flogging themselves, talking about making sacrifices, screaming in repentance, begging for forgiveness from the gods. It turned his stomach even more than the horrors and stench he left behind at home. If the Gods were responsible for this, truly responsible, then he would curse their names for the rest of his life. For beings meant to be their benevolent creators, their proverbial parents, to torture children, innocent people, and the unassuming for the repulsive, vile actions of a few was a crime unto itself. It was the kind of misguided authoritarianism associated with tyrants and malicious lords, not of those who were supposed to watch over this world.

Calmund left for Xira. He wanted to get far from the wake of the curse, and he had heard stories from travelers of mystics and druids deep within the sprawling forests of the continent. Following Blodet river, he made his pilgrimage to Xira. News of the plague had reached the cities by the time he arrived, and many met him with fear, scorn, and disgust. Forced to proceed with his mission in hiding, he camped alone underneath the stars whilst he continued to trek into the brush, in search of those infamous dark magicians that called the frightening, unforgiving forest home. Eventually he came across a small hut carved into a massive oak. It was here he met Adella, the enchantress witch. A slender woman whose age far exceeded her physical appearance. She claimed she knew he had come in search of her. She claimed they could strike a deal. A remedy for his curse, in exchange for his servitude. With few other options, and the misplaced trust of a farm boy who had met so few mages in his life, he agreed. She branded him with a mark of necromantic power, that would grant him capabilities beyond even those he held before he was cursed. It was no cure, which sent the boy into a rage, but with some coaxing, she convinced him it was better than nothing.

In exchange for this service, he would be expected to handle the witch’s affairs outside of the forest. Tasked with collecting for her magical objects, the power imbued remnants of great beasts, among other things. If he could meet her needs, then she would continue to research future remedies for his condition. With a goal in sight, and another burden shouldered, Calmund set off once more, in search of that which the witch needed to further his treatment, whilst also hunting down any possible explanations or other solutions on his journey.

Calmund now wanders the world, tracking down requests from the witch who imbued him with strength, seeking counsel with the wisest and greatest of given lands, and picking up work as he travels town to town, trying to maintain some normalcy and make ends meet. With nothing but blade to offer, this often means mercenary work.

Roleplay Sample:

Sample taken from this thread: http://www.demon-realm.com/showthread.php?tid=6116

Dubravka folded one leg over the other before hugging her knees gently with her hands as she stared down Evelyn and listened to her explanation. It was a good one, even if she didn't fully believe it. However, perhaps the girl had a point. There was certainly something to be learned from all of this. But she had her own data, and could analyze things herself. Increasing Invidia's security wasn't in her interest in the slightest. It wasn't against her best interest, but it played little part in her own success. No. Dubravka would want to sweeten the deal. She would also not be seen folding on her requests.

"Your purpose is irrelevant. Either those two leave and we continue our discussion, the three of you walk away, or I blow my dog whistle, and a hellhound comes charging through those doors to drag you out of here." She said, standing firm on her request. "I don't care what you plan to use the information for. It's those two's possible intentions I worry about. Here's the first bit I'll teach you for free: You can't trust a single fucking person when it comes to operations like this. Not even my driver was informed of my purpose in taking many of the actions that led me to where I sit right now." She said, looking down the bridge of her nose as she waited for the girl's answer to her ultimatum. Dubravka did not fold unless she had a good reason to. She let a stagnant silence usher them to the next topic.

"Secondly. If we're going to have this talk, I'm going to get something actually fucking useful out of it. Do you think I'm a retard, Evelyn? You get to sure up your family security, I give away my result proven methods for free, and you get to spit my words back at me and try and tell you taught me everything I already know? You must be fucking joking right now, because if someone walked into my office and told me that was their sales pitch in such plain English, I would blow their fucking head off." she growled, speaking quietly, to make sure the girl had to hang on every single word she said. Dubravka's true colors were shining through now. It was more than clear that the time for pleasantries had ended. She unfolded her legs and lurched forward, leaning over the desk.

"I want Azumi's good favor. Now I could easily get that by giving her a call right now to let her know one her captains came to me asking for the details on how I planned a coup to unseat Altair. I'm sure she'd be very happy to hear that information." She said, taking an almost patronizing tone. It was clear that was a threat, that Dubravka was making it clear Evelyn had put herself in a dangerous circumstance. She tugged on one of the cuffs of her shirt, straightening the stiff fabric.

"However, I think there is much more value to be had in her thinking of me as someone who has her best interests in mind. That's why you'll be telling her that all the information I send you home with, if we really do continue this discussion, is courtesy of Acedia. That it should be viewed as a shared wealth of knowledge with a valued ally. You're not going to kiss my ass, but you're going to become my one woman circle jerk. My name is gonna be in your mouth more than cock, and you're going to tell everyone at Invidia that I've been giving you amazing tips that will help ensure nothing like what happened here, will happen there. Because at the end of the day, reputation is the most valuable thing to me right now." She explained in full, her voice still that haughty superior tone she often spoke with. She spoke as though she had Evelyn in the palm of her hand, whether or not the girl would find that an agreeable position was yet to be revealed. Dubravka slumped back in the seat, satisfied that her delivery of the conditions had been sufficient and her end of the dealing was done.

"So, what shall it be Ms. Dunn? Want to chat, or should I be calling someone to show you back to the lobby?" She asked, her hand sliding towards the phone resting on the desk nearby, her index finger hovering over one of the buttons as she expectantly watched her guest for an answer.[/b][/b]