Xoregh Xarg'aran the Bearer of Imperial Strength, Bloodoathed of the Empire

Role

Chapter 7

Born deep in Aran'gird, the duergar known as Xoregh is the son of a slaver of
some renown and his torturer wench. Born with a malevolent streak that would
make Cyradia proud, this duergar revels in inflicting pain on the weak. From
a young age he favored strength, and yearned to test himself, soon finding
that he could best every other duergar his age. Bringing pain to those less
strong then him was one of the few joys Xoregh culled from his youth, and
certainly eased the fury that grew in him from his own misery in life.

His father frequently beat Xoregh to ease his own anger, and his mother
actually enjoyed seeing if she could make Xoregh cry out in pain with her
torturous ways. In time he became her favorite pasttime as he struggled
against her desires to make him cry out, and his stubborn insistence that he
never would. His father knew of the torments Xoregh endured, but his own
selfish pride at his son's toughness insured he would never step in to stop
the beatings and carvings his wench inflicted on Xoregh's flesh. Secretly,
Xoregh enjoyed testing himself against the pain, and his only true fear was
that he would one day grow so old and weak that he might give in. He would
shudder at the mere thought and promise himself that he would die in a river
of blood with his enemies corpses at his feet.

Known to always follow his father's orders, Xoregh never forgot the day he
left Aran'gird. The day began as typically as any other. A host of new slaves
had been purchased in the underdark bazaar and lashed into submission. Only a
gray-cloaked, shaven headed human seemed unconcerned with the beatings and
beginning of a life of servitude. Herding the slaves into their pens, it was
Xoregh's duty to provide what meager food and water rations these slaves
would now be sustained upon. Taunting the slaves was another of Xoregh's few
joys, and yet another task at which he excelled. Accidentally 'dropping'
their water dishes, giving the weakest among the slaves pieces of bread that
even the maggots wouldn't touch, all brought joy to Xoregh. After listening
to his father rant and rave for the last few years, as Xoregh grew older he
could see his father had grown more wary of him, sensing the strength that
grew in the almost-comical mass of muscles surrounding Xoregh's shoulders.
Both could feel the tension building as the boy grew from a youth into a
young adult. Soon the beatings and torturing would end entirely, Xoregh knew,
and when that day came, the blood would be spilled in earnest. The thought
alone made Xoregh nearly smile. A smack from his mother's barbed flail
quickly returned him to the harsh reality of his current life as she noticed
him drifting into a daydream. Reaching his hand up to the bloodied line on
the side of his neck, he turned to face his father as he ordered Xoregh to
feed the slaves and have the pens cleaned before returning home.

Cleaning the pens. The mere thought would make Xoregh's stomach wrench and
knot in frustration at his station in life. If he was a slaver, he would
force the slaves to do his bidding, Xoregh often mused. A meager, joy free
life awaited him if he continued on his course, he could see. The only power
he would gain was control over the pens when his parents no longer drew
breath. In his rare free time, Xoregh would alw

Role

Chapter 6

Xoregh would never forget the day that he began to live the dream. From the
moment he was able to take the Oath, he made sure to ask every blessed
Citizen if they would administer it. Many refused. He knew the other sects
did not wish to aid the blades by bringing Xoregh into the fray, so he knew
he would have to wait it out until the Warmaster or another blade would be
available. Finally the day came when the mighty fire giant Mongothka entered
the realms. As was typical, Xoregh immediately beseeched the giant to offer
the Oath to him. He was ready to live the dream. "My heart, my soul, my life
for the Empire." With the words leaving his lips, Xoregh felt the power in
his voice, proving to speak it was to feel the true calling. A mere oath, he
knew he made the first step in his ascent to the Throne. With that, he
deposited his small 'war chest' and assured himself that he could hone his
skills for a time without worry of letting the Empire down financially. When
his training is done, he will begin growing in his guild, as he wishes to put
forth the best skill possible, rather then aid the Empire with poor,
untrained defense or tactics.

Role

Chapter 5

Even by typical standards, the battle was a hard fought one. The fire giant
Djial had sought Xoregh's head each time he saw him, and had managed to catch
Xoregh training his choking skill but was unable to seal the kill. After
resting and recovering, Xoregh encountered the fire giant on the Eastern
Road, and the battle began anew. Surely the giant had to be an Outlander, or
stupid enough to be seeking a place in that elf filled refuge. Yet, again
Xoregh was forced to flee, the flurries of the giant landing with heavy
force, although not quite enough to finish the resilient duergar. His days as
an Imperial were certainly not boring, though not hard enough to crack his
stoic facade and this day was no different. As he rushed off to lick his
wounds, Xoregh felt a sense of pride as he ascended through the Imperial
Ranks, finally becoming that which he had sought for so long. A Blade, no
longer a mere Oath, now truly living the dream rather then seeking it. With
his advancement he heard the orders of the Father of Anger, to mind the laws
of the Sect, and to mind his donations. Xoregh knew he would die before
letting down the Empire. Perhaps not all meant their Oath when uttered, but
it was something Xoregh felt at the deepest levels of his soul. Loyalty was
not something he took lightly.

He remembered the shame like a burning sensation deep within his pride, his
soul. Falling to a dwarf! He was thankful now that none had borne witness to
his defeat at Iuvuk's hands. For now the berserker was stronger. For now. Let
him enjoy his triumph, for he would not hold the tightly gripped VainGlory
forever. And when the time came Iuvuk did not have every advantage, Xoregh
would be there to seize the opportunity. It was his first defeat at the hands
of the hated dwarves, and Xoregh would do all he could to insure it would be
his last. Defeat as well, was not something he took lightly.

Role

Chapter 4

Xoregh wrapped his hands around the flails, feeling their weight. He had
grown so accustomed to their feel, they were now like an extension of
himself, reaching out to strip the weapons from the enemies of the Empire
with ferocious strength. He remembered the first time he had ever picked up
his father's flails, a matched pair of red-headed adamantite, with darkened
mithril grips. It had been something of a family reunion. Xoregh, his cousin
Ghurgar, Xoregh's father, his uncle Skurgul, the alchemist, and their brother
Oraeg. Himself and his cousin were brought with the elder males of his family
for a hunting/training/get-away-from-the-wenches exercise within the
Underdark. They had been sitting around a makeshift camp, roasting a rothe,
when the conversation had turned to weapons. Xoregh, feeling especially bold,
had inquired why his father did not use the whips with which he was
startlingly proficient with upon the slaves, upon their enemies in the
Underdark. Turning with a look of utter shock, that signified his fathers
belief that no child could be so stupid, Xoregh was surprised when his
father, Bhurog by name, spoke the words that had helped bring about xoregh's
use of the flails ever since. "What der hell can a whip do dat a flail nae be
better at?". The stinging hit from his father that Xoregh took to glean this
tidbit of knowledge was just one in an endless series of beatings that Xoregh
endured stoicly. Clan Xarg'aran was known as flail users, and Xoregh knew
that he would not buck this tradition when he looked upon his fathers favored
weapons. Someday perhaps, he would return to Aran'gird and commission a pair
for himself. His uncles just nodded their accord, not wishing to anger
Bhurog, for he was the oldest and strongest of the brothers. Foul-smelling
and bubbling, Uncle Skurgul passed around one of his concoctions and Clan
Xarg'aran continued their meal through bleary eyes and broad smiles. That
night when Xoregh drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were upon weapons.

He had been in charge of cutting up the dead slaves even as one of his
earliest jobs. The other slaves could not be trusted to do it, and Xoregh had
grown quite proficient at it. Long bouts of boredom had given Xoregh time to
hone his craft, and the razor-sharp scalpels his father had purchased at the
bazaar were both light and nimble. Giving Xoregh plenty of time for work, and
plenty of time to see the effects the scalpel made when it incised the flesh.
Xoregh could see the damage they did to the unliving, and he grinned
lasciviously as he imagined the pain one would feel if they were to have
their tendons or arteries sliced while still drawing breath. Yes, he
imagined, if ever the chance came to expand his weaponry abilities, Xoregh
would learn more of these tiny knives. They were perfect for the close
quartered combat of the Underdark.

Xoregh looked back down at the flails and then to the new row of daggers
bound to his belt. A long, bloody path he had walked to where he was now. A
student of both flails and of daggers. The time had now come to test these
daggers against the living flesh Xoregh had curiously wondered of before.
Malevolent glee filled his heart as he began to train once more. The
proficiency he now knew with flails, he would need learn with daggers as
well, if h

PK Gank-O-Meter

Role

Chapter 3

Xoregh's pride swelled as he ascended to the title of Elite Blade, moving yet
another step closer to his final goal of Emperor. Still the Blade Sect was
without a War Master, and still the Empress had not chosen. An interview,
Xoregh had undergone, questioned at length by Kharghurln, the Empress, about
why he was the best choice for War Master. Was the Empress blind or just not
smart, he wondered to himself. Did she not see the strength in Xoregh's
devotion, tactics, and discipline? He had never been a duergar of words.
Preferring to simply lead by example, through Strength, his tactics were
those born in his past. He gave orders, and expected them to be followed, as
the slaves had, many moons ago. Failure to comply would constitute
insubordination, and would require suitable punishment. Thankfully, none of
the Empire yet had forced his hand. He would not beg to appointed. If his
Empress could not see his Strength, perhaps she should be removed...

Several days later, Xoregh made his way up the darkened mithril steps of the
Temple of the Macalla hidden deep in the Underdark, near the outskirts of his
homeland. His thoughts whirled as he wondered which master he would study
under. He recalled the few defeats he had taken. The bard Emmot had sung a
nasty tune, and delivered Xoregh his first honorable defeat since Iuvuk, many
months past. He would not study merely to defeat the bard, but the battle had
reminded him of his inability to effectively stun his enemies who he could
outdamage in straight battle. Even lashing the feet of his foes would provide
enough opportunity for an assassin to break his wrist, or a bard to flee and
return. This was unacceptable. If this was his weakness, he would study under
a master who would provide tutelage that would help cover said weakness. With
a grim nod of finality in his decision, Xoregh made his way to the
black-skinned duergar master who assumed the stance of 'Greeting the
Avalanche', and prepared to literally hurl himself into his new studies.

Role

Chapter 2

It was right after he had become a Blade. Xoregh's loins burned like the fire
doubling in his guts from an invoker's immolation. All the killing had made
him randy, and he sought a wench. Making his way to one of the Underdark's
many establishments of 'ill-repute', he sidled up to the bar of one, ordering
its largest ale, and quickly motioning for the Matron to address his needs.
With grace belying her position, the woman slithered through the crowded pub
to whisper in Xoregh's ear that she had many wenches who could provide what
he desired. Xoregh snorted and produced a pouch of gold that would make
Qaledus curious, and nodded in the matron's direction. Telling her he wanted
a duergar wench, he frowned as he saw her response.

"The duergar wenches are newly arrived, and not yet....broken into
submission", the matron informed Xoregh. With a snort of contempt for the
woman and minute respect for his kin, he glared harshly at the matron,
ordering her to send the best of them to his room. Handing her a princely
sum, he saw her nose wrinkle with disdain even as she finally produced a nod
of acquiescence.

After a half dozen minutes of drinking, he made his way to his 'room' and
awaited the wench. It was not long before she arrived, escorted by a rather
large, oafish-looking bouncer. Xoregh snorted. He would make the bouncer into
a skeleton if he wanted, but for the time, he sought carnal pleasure, not
destructive.

Immediately, Xoregh noticed she bore the inner fire in her eyes that would
soon fade as her work wore on her. He smirked at the bouncer before closing
the door in his fat face, and motioning the wench to the bed. Her insouciant
glare only fueled the fires burning within him. Lust burned in his body and
he knew the only way to quench this fire was to have this wench. Just as he
grabbed the wench by her arms, the door burst open, and an identical wench
rushed Xoregh with a shiv aimed straight for his neck. "No one touches my
sister, you sod!" she yelled even as he easily sidestepped this new wench,
and easily took her shiv as she blundered past. The bouncer still stood in
the doorway, looking dumb and little else. Again, Xoregh smirked in his
direction, then looked between the two wenches. Identical twins, clearly, he
noticed. One a veritable ball of rage, and the other, a silently brooding
woman of inner fury. Xoregh pondered his course, before peering into the very
large pouch of gold hanging at his belt. Well, some things were worth
spending money for, he thought.

As Xoregh made his way to the Palace, a bounce lit his step, and clearly, any
man could see he was walking taller. Back within his room in the inn of
Balator, two duergar wenches slept peacefully for the first time in many
months, a pair of darkened mithril wedding bands on each of their fingers,
that matched Xoregh's band upon his own ring finger. Two wives would be twice
as good, he chuckled aloud, even as he continued on his course to the Palace.
Life in the Empire had its benefits, indeed, even if his purse was forever
going from fat to empty.

Role

Chapter 1

His ascent to War Master had gone just as planned. Even his gross
incompetence under Grurk's questioning had not been enough to mar his
confidence. His first battle after however, had not gone as planned.
Nreisshe, a slave of a felar, had managed to ambush him and loot some of his
finer items. Xoregh would not suffer the same mistake again. This Nreisshe
would pay, he vowed, if only to himself.

Xoregh's thoughts turned to how he would wrest the Throne from Kharghurln.
Xoregh was unsure if the other Council members backed the Empress, but he
could not believe many did. The difficulty lay seizing it rather then being
voted in. Tact had never been his strong suit. Time would be required to
formulate an effective plan.


Only the Chronomancer's quest had drawn his interest beyond the Empire. The
Tower of Silence, home to beings of terrible power, had been a bit of a hobby
of Xoregh's. Through trials and tribulations both melee and mind-borne,
Xoregh began to grow more experience in this quiet, alien realm. This quest
he then undertook would be unlike any other before.

Xoregh nearly gasped aloud as he looked upon the collection of valuable
items. Each artifact looked as if it could purchase kingdoms. Xoregh made his
choice and knew he would certainly seek further work from this Nethlaaric.
For now he must concentrate on the Blade Sect, and more importantly the
Throne.

Xoregh remembered the dreams of his youth, an army of soldiers forged into a
weapon to strike deep into the heart of the enemy. Himself at the helm,
legions of the dead who dared defy the Empire being crushed beneath the
booted feet of the Centurions and members of the Blade. It would be daybreak
before the reality set in that he now truly was, living the dream.

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