Dhaunnar Helvirahel the Spectre, Initiate of the Scarab

Role

Chapter 8

The years have not been kind: Dhaunnar's body has been battered and broken,
time and again, in his endless battles with the Blind. The pain of the old
burns combines with the agony of having his flesh hacked by blades, burned by
magic.

But he will never stop, not until time or the Elixir of Death return him to
the ground he once scrabbled and dug into for safety.

He has begun his research: there are a few beings of undead power strong
enough within the lands that may guide him toward The Becoming. The lich
Xoltrindar, resting in his blood-smeared hut in Barovia, K'teng's shade
sitting silently beneath the earth within her majestic halls. The Tol'Adn
Conservator lurking somewhere below the Desert City's sands... but his
research has revealed that the secrets lie within Arboria.

Dhaunnar spoke with Jharazoul, the Imperial High Priest and possible future
Emperor (whose unlikely friendship and assistance troubles Dhaunnar: although
a priest of another god, the dark-elf seems to be strong of will, and
committed to bending the slaves of Empire to his will, and to obliterating
the hated Maran. A valuable, if misguided, ally) and learned more of the
history of Arboria: how the Elven Cleric was the leader of the Golden Tower,
but was tempted by some unknown force from the Onyx Tower to betray his Order
and his people, and now resides within the shattered temple within the dark
graveyard of his accursed land.

Much research, much perfecting of his necromantic rituals remains to be
completed. But Dhaunnar will find a way through the maze of the graveyard, to
find the undead lichmaker, with Scarabaeus' blessings. The Undeath is within
his grasp, if he can use his Will and wits to seize it.

Role

Chapter 7

Many of the Profane have fallen, as has Dhaunnar. The work of an Initiate is
never easy. As he has traveled, as he has cut the misguided, misbegotten of
mortalkind from the cord of life, he has been prompted to reflect.

The followers of Thror hold Purity as one of their tenets. They believe that
through pain, obstacles, and tribulation that the Smith may shape another
into their own likeness.

Nothing could be further from the Truth. Beating a slave until they are
obedient is of no use. Pain must be used to give them understanding, if they
have the capacity for it. It must be used to show them that their present
paths, their identities as "good" men, whether saving the world from "bad"
men, or magic, or "defilers" is of no use.

All are the same, and those who will not open their eyes, bend the knee
before Father, and stretch out their bloody hands in supplication must be cut
off.

But Dhaunnar has a new goal: as his understanding of mortalkind's common
darkness deepens, as he preaches Father's Truths to those who can hear, he
has realized that he is one of few Initiates walking Thera's face.

The Cult must be re-established. He will preach and slay with renewed vigor,
he will pray unceasingly, he will wrap the darkness about him like a second
skin. As he scours the flesh of the blind with his new gift of flame, those
who might dare to awaken will see, will hear, will step forward from their
dreaming.

Dhaunnar is now working with all his power to bring more into the Cult, that
the gates of the Temple may swing wide, and the Cult work Father's
collectively in Thera once more. He will seek Father's instruction in this
monumental task.

Role

Chapter 6

Father had come, had risen from the cold ground and hovered there before
Dhaunnar, with his three shadows. They spoke at length about the lie the
world has stumbled into. About the foolish dream of a good man.

Dhaunnar was ready. He had slain so very many of the sleepers, the Blind.
Scarabaeus raised his skeletal hand, and the bolt of ruby lightning carved
the mark of the scarab into Dhaunnar's throat, while the human trembled with
ecstasy.

Then the lich asked: what will you do now?

He is one of the Chosen, an Initiate. Dhaunnar will spread the wrath of
Scarabaeus throughout the mass of useless flesh wasting their lives in lies.
He is a pure being of cruelty, baptized in fire, pain, and blood. All
mortalkind will tremble at the name of Scarabaeus and the Cult. Some will
cast off morality and join as enlightened Initiates. All others will die.

Role

Chapter 5

Isarbin's voice reached Dhaunnar: it was time to meet. A most glad occasion,
a chance to meet and speak with one of the blessed, the Marked: an Initiate,
now Father's Voice. They spoke there, on the steps before Scarabaeus'
mausoleum.

They spoke of the Profane, of the Maran most especially. Isarbin taught
Dhaunnar a most precious thing: what does a child of the Father of Devils say
to the lost? How do you awaken the Sleeper, and bring him as a brother to the
Cult?

Play upon their desires. Incite rage within them. Use the Truth to crumble
the barriers, the lies and illusions they cultivate within themselves. Let
them see, once their rage is past, the devastation they have wrought, and
then name them brother.

Isarbin also tasked Dhaunnar: each day he awakens to walk Thera and work his
Will, to spend a full day in prayer at the Mausoleum: begin and end in
darkness. Ignore all hunger and thirst, instead be sated and filled with
Truth instead of bread, let the anticipation of quenching thirst with the
blood of the Profane in water's place.

Role

Chapter 4

The Father's eyeless gaze still made him tremble as he cast himself,
exhausted from the work of reanimation, on the cold floor of the guildhall.
The whispers still echoed, maddening, in his brain: "How do the acts of a man
determine how we think of him? What is the lie the world has stumbled into?"

The whispers... the whispers from the empty skull reverberated within him. As
he rose from preparing another corpse, his robes and hands splattered with
blood, the stink of disease, pus, and excrement grasping at his senses, his
stomach, the questions were what tormented him most.

Dhaunnar has caused much death and has fallen himself to the hands of others
as he attempts to perfect his dark art, to create new, stronger corpses of
powerful enemies to study and reanimate. He is becoming stronger, wilier, and
more powerful as he perfects the difficult arcane rituals of reanimation, of
The Art. He will continue his work. He will wrestle with these questions,
attempt to understand just what it is that Scarabaeus is offering.

Role

Chapter 3

Dhaunnar's mind has been somewhat twisted by his transformation: he now
revels in experiencing and freely dispensing pain. He attempted to fit into
society as a regular, respectable human, and was murdered for the crime of
having dark-elf blood within his veins. That is when he realized that
morality is a weak, thin veneer attempting to hide mortalkind's base
impulses. It's a "sometimes" thing, facilely discarded when threatened or
given the opportunity to indulge one's darkest, deepest, denied desires.

The pain is what taught him: deny that you are different, deny that you are a
creature of darkness, and you will destroy yourself. Denial of self is the
most foolish and pathetic illusion. Be what you are! With all of your being!
Do not let any law, proscription, more or ethical consideration stop you from
being fully and unashamedly, purely thyself.

Dhaunnar's warped mind compels him to eagerly pursue the art of Necromancy,
to spread havoc, pain, disease and death throughout this world of lies.
Tribulation is what deforms the shape people try to fit themselves into, pain
burns away the fog of illusion.

He will. He will kill, he will laugh, and he will exult in his new life. He
will pray to the Father of Devils, Scarabaeus. His Will shall be done.

PK Statistics

Role

Chapter 2

The ashes smoked softly, the pops and hisses few and far between. Autumn was
coming: second harvest was nearly complete. The night air was smooth and
deceptively cold now. A pile of cinders and blackened chips stirred, an
upside-down cauldron shifted. From a deep pile, a blistered hand, nails
broken and bleeding, slowly rose, kicking up small clouds of ash. The rest of
the former doctor ascended painfully from a shallowly-dug pit.

His hair was a hardened web of melted, burned crinkles less than an inch
long. His hands, arms, back, and buttocks all blistered and scarred from the
heat, from the flames licking the cauldron he managed to shield himself with
as he ripped up floorboards, and dug frantically at the hard earth. The
cauldron saved him by giving him some air, but the burns from accidentally
brushing against the sides seared deeply into his muscles. With a pathetic
cry, the wretched creature staggered stiffly into the waiting woods.

He found enough plants to salve his wounds, and he searched through the ash
and rubble the next night to find a small stash of gold. The doctor was dead,
after all: he wouldn't be needing it. In the days to come, the new, scarred
creature, born of fire to his true nature, began the study of his new art:
the difficulties and intricacies of necromancy. He'd now seen the gratitude
of the weak, the superfluous. Their weakness and fear had erased his own: he
was gifted with this new skin, tempered by the burning of a timid shadow.

So the young apprentice, Dhaunnar Helvirahel, emerged from the shadowy
recesses of the guild, armed with an unchained heart prepared to help the
weak, the mass of life see how feeble their grip on this world, to relish the
gift of death. He was prepared to use his beautiful new form, to continue to
reforge it with wickedness and fire, with the whispered, dying curses of each
pale victim of his plagues. Through the fire of their fevers, in the cold
plunge into death, they shall be made pure. Here now is his life, most
abundant, made strong and useful, blazing brightly in the death-dance.

Role

Chapter 1

He was a doctor. They said that as a child, he'd emerged from the womb
terribly scarred and disfigured, but strong and hearty, with an innate gift,
wisdom for healing and medicine. He lived in one of the small farming
communities east of Voralian City, they said, in a modest little cottage, his
frightful skin wrapped head to finger to toe, ministrating to the good people
and all who came. He didn't go out much. They said he was deeply affected by
his condition, and the people delivered food regularly, since he accepted all
manner of payment: fruit and grain, a kid or lamb, a few hard-earned and
religiously saved coppers, or just a solemn promise. He preserved the life of
the people, and for this, they were grateful.

The reality was much less pitiable. He was a bastard half-breed, cursed with
curious dark skin and iron-gray hair. He was driven by shame and fear of his
lineage, by the omnipresent specter of discovery. So he lived, swaddled.
Hidden.

Then, of course, he fell in love. A pretty thing that visited often, for more
medicine, and for him to listen to her recovering lungs. It was summer. He
was hot beneath the bandages. She asked to see him. He showed her. Stupid.
She saw his glittering lapis eyes set in his dark face for the first time,
for what they truly were: not the intense blue of earnest love, but an icy
azure poison. The girl ran. The mob came within an hour. They caught him as
he crashed out the door, and tried to burst through their line.

They caught him, tore all his precious, protective clothing off and beat him
till he went limp. They tossed him in his house, and set it afire: a fitting
pyre for a base deceiver, an enemy of their people. So he burned. Once his
screams stopped, the mob slowly turned and headed home: most to their houses,
some to look over the ripening fields, one to Loch Grynmear to ask answerless
questions of the silent waters, and a few to the inn close by, where the
barmaid (whose bout with the consumption was nearly over, her breathing had
markedly improved over the Spring and Summer) overheard their story, and
became hysterical, sobbing and moaning gibberish, attempting to flee to the
scene. But the men held her down until the madness passed.

Thus died Drostan, Healer of the Fields.

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