Vhalorn the Smelter of Cold Iron, Initiate of the Jaguar

Role

Chapter 5

*** Everytime I pray, I feel my soul becoming icier, and the chill of the
Cold Iron tightens its web around me even more. But in my dreams, I see a
white jaguar within a misty ruins, swiping away at the web of frost that
threatens my soul. I see a fortress of purity, illuminated by a choir of
angels. I see hope. ***

Sagging with exhaustion, Vhalorn wiped the icy sweat that trickled down
his brows. The mists of black ice seemed to rise from the corpse of the
duergar before him.

For months he had tested himself. He had seen agents of the Cold walking
freely in Galadon, slaying citizens of Voralian. Enough was enough. Even
if he had to embrace the sermons and prayers of the Cold Iron, he would
empower himself to purify their agents. However, with each prayer, the
icy chill around his body seems to swirl exponentially. And his mind
slowly became void of thoughts of feelings with each affliction.

There were moments of clarity in this haze. Gazing northward, he could
see the Fires burning brightly like the sun. A Fortress of Light, they
call it. Gazing eastward, there was an inkling of something more. Perhaps
the jaguar in his dreams, the jaguar that sought to release him from his
icy confinement.

Perhaps something else.

Flapping his wings, he set forth eastward, his curiousity piqued. And his
redemption dangerously at stake.

Role

Chapter 4

*** She was there, lying in a pool of her own blood. Although the
thought of her as my mother had been locked in the deep recesses of my
mind, tears emerged. As did my love for my mother. As did ANGER. And
that ANGER cleansed the coldness instilled in my soul with the flames
of retribution, as if the SERAPHS pierced my body. ***

He was tested in his 16th year as an apprentice of the Cold Iron to
become a Priest. He had survived the other tests, had given sermons,
and the same wintery chill that engulfed the other priests, the same
black snow that seemed to emerge out of nowhere, had engulfed him.

Ira'k Kr'near looked at his adopted son with pride. And he looked at
the icy cold statute of the drugged body of the Queen, tortured and
disfigured, clad with the ritualistic garments of the Cold Iron,
with no emotions.

"Kill her."

Licking his lips, Vhalorn shooks ever slightly as he held Ira'k's sword
in his hands. Just one plunge. Why does he hesitate? This was just
another person, another test to overcome to become a Priest of the Cold
Iron. A simple motion.

His heart screamed that something was wrong. However, he stopped
listening to his heart a long time ago.

He thrusted the blade into the body as it became limp.

The veil came off. The eyes opened, looking at him accusingly. A single
tear trickled from the left eye. The same eyes that were full of mirth
and warmth so many years ago.

He screamed. He yelled profanities, the likes which even the most
raunchiest prostitutes in Hamsah would blush to. And he screamed some more.

Anger. Vengeance. The Cold around him seemed nothing.

Ira'k was clearly displeased at this outburst. He was more displeased
when Vhalorn sought to cut off his head. The ensuing "battle" was but a
child's game to him.

A day later, the unconscious body of Vhalorn was carted away, full of
other dead bodies, maggots and flies. Ira'k resumed his duty as the Head
Priest of the Cold Iron, sitting within the Sky Shrine of Ayr'Trinil.
Disappointments were fleeting emotions to a Priest of the Cold Iron.

Role

Chapter 3

*** There are periods of my lives that define who I am. The Cold
touches all those periods ***

Vhalorn was raised to be a disciple of the Cold Iron. Since his birth,
the Queen gave her entire body and soul, and even those of her
child's, to her new faith. The Cold Iron teaches that pain is another
ephemereal poison that must be ignored. Righteousness is a fleeting
concept - instead, it is the will of the Cold Iron that must be
embraced. Basking in the winter chill, keeping a rigid and cruel
demeanor, and accept the ice that threatens to harden the soul.
Enjoyment was an emotion to be quenched.

Perhaps it was the loving gaze of his mother in his early years.
Perhaps it is something else. Yet, Vhalorn never succumbed to the
beliefs of the Cold Iron. As a child, raised to be a priest of the
Cold Iron, he would often tarry far too long in the constructions of
Ayr'Trinil. He would enjoy the multitude of people coming to and fro,
assisting with the construction. He would even enjoy the lessons and
his mother's frigidity, to the extent they were possible.

If the mind could not be molded easily, the body must be molded. As a
result of his "outlandish" and "mischievious" ways, his master would
often torture him. First it was nicks and cuts. These physical ailments
seem to change Vhalorn's behavior, but ever so slightly. Then it was
plunging daggers throughout his body, only to heal his wounds. The
physical sense of pain exists, as did the wanton ice that threatened
his soul with every lunge.

Torture of the soul is torture in the highest degree. Vhalorn was well
on his way to become a priest of the Cold Iron.

Role

Chapter 2

*** A warm smile. How I long for it. In my dreams, it is the smile
of an angel. It is the face of an angel. Eyes of love, wings of
pristineness. Eyes full of joy and tear. It is as if the SERAPHS
took a hold of my soul and protected me. ... Until the cold
banished it away. I will find that smile once again. Somewhere.
Someday. ***

The construction of the new arial city Ayr'Trinil had begun. It was
meant to be a place where the sky demons would not reach and corrupt
all within. The Queen had grown tired of the threat of the sky
demons. To protect her citizen, she had subscripted the mightiest
of dwarves, the wisest of elves, and even professors of the rock
- the svirfneblins - to ensure that the new city stood against the
passage of time.

A cadre of priests were also hired to assist with the needs of the
citizens while the city was constructed. Blessings were abundant
throughout the entire City. As were curses. For many of the priests
had their own motivations and goals. One such priest, whom the Queen
heavily favored beyond all, was Ira'k Kr'near.

Like many stories go, it began with loneliness. A void in the daily
life, a void in the soul and minds of loved ones. The Queen had long
been lonely in her role administering the City. In her heart, even
the construction of Ayr'Trinil was meant to be a way to keep her
mind off her lonely life.

Even her new child, whom she aptly named Vhalorn, was of little
consequence to fill the loneliness that threatened to sweep her away.
Certainly she loved her child, but was that enough? Without any
conviction or faith or belief, the Queen was constantly in doubt
with herself. A doubt that manifested itself to the keenest eyes,
particularly, Ira'k Kr'near's eyes.

Ira'k Kr'near brought a religious fervor that none other brought. He
was charismatic and captivating in every aspect of his presence.
The Cold Iron that he represented appealed to the citizens because
of the rigorous structure it brought to their lives. In a time of
chaos and strife, where crime was running rampant amidst the great
upheavel forced upon their lives, the citizens turned to the Cold Iron.

First it was a sermon. Then an invitation. Then fanaticism.

The warm loving glow of the Queen's face had become icy. A chill
seemed to emerge from wherever she walked, whenever she talked.

Skill List

Role

Chapter 1

*** A scowl and steely blue eyes gazed haunts my dreams. Perhaps
it is regret, perhaps it is ambition, perhaps it is longing for
a master. Perhaps it is wishing and wanting the torture that I
grew accustomed to. But the face persists. Ira'k Kr'near's face,
examining the brutish mark that he left on me. The cold iron
used to stab me endlessly so that I may know the pain, so that I
may favor the pain and be acknowledged as his prize pupil. The
pain persists. ***

Writhing and moaning at the illusory pain plaguing his nightmare,
Vhalorn woke up, screaming and gasping, hurriedly grasping for a
safe ledge around him. The frigid cold plagued him still, seeking
to destroy and remold his soul into a priest of the Cold Iron.
However, the robe of the purest phoenix protected him from the
winter chill, as it has since that day he escape from the
clutches of his master.

A recurring nightmare, every night, plagued his dreams. Vhalorn
knew that it was the curse of the Cold Iron seeking to corrupt
him and taint him. His faith was unwaivering, but at what cost?
The constant struggle within was a testament to his faith, a
burden to be carried as he waged his war against the Chill gleaned
in every soul of a dark creature. At the Chill held at bay within
his own soul.

Swiveling his head around, he recognized his surrounding. His new
home, the city of Voralian, a place of righteousness, where the
fires of the citizens apparently kept the cold at bay. He had come
here, seeking and looking for companions in his quest. But even
here, it was frought with agents of the Cold Iron.

A single tear emerged from his steely blue eyes, softening his
strict expression. It was a dream, wasn't it? Or was it fate?

Immortal Comments

PK Gank-O-Meter

PK Statistics

Title History

PK Wins

PK Wins

PK Deaths

Leveling History

Timeline

Mob Deaths

Edges

Flaws

Racial Edges

Class Edges

Edges