Dhramghuul the Holy of Faith, Imperial Priest

Role

Chapter 7

A brightly lit hall appeared in front of him, and in front, the regal
figure of that whom it serves. Lord Destuvius, with all his might and
grandeur, graced him with a stern gaze.

"For what reason do you come?"

Dhramghuul hesitated. For what reason did he truly come? Was it that
of Zeszaul's tome or her preaching ever so often in the night? Was it
the fact that he lived his life skinning and wearing the faces of his
enemies or his missions, only to take another step further into his
goal? Was it the fact that he felt Zeszaul's guidance over his soul,
similar to how her face was now etched onto his?

"I do not need an empty shell."

He was a faceless, often times a husk merely required to fulfill
orders. With Zeszaul's words, he retained some measure of his being.
But these words struck a chord. What truly was his goal in the surface?

A flash of anger entered his mind, a feeling that he had long forsook.
No longer was he beholden to his Mistress. No longer was he a soldier
within a meaningless war. No, he had joined the Empire with a newfound
purpose. He had learned that Order without Darkness was as chaotic as
if there was no order. He had learned that obedience without dominance
was as meaningless as a zombie beholden to a necromancer.

In front of Lord Destuvius, he had gained a measure of his youth back.
In the Empire, he had gained a renewed purpose, introspective of the
teachings he had within the Underdark. He was a faceless, but he was
not. He was a soldier, but he was not. He was a slave, but he was not.

Within the Grand Design and before Lord Destuvius, the duergar knelt
deeply and affirmed his oath to the Divine Asylum. He would lead where
there were no leaders and spread the teachings of the Divine Asylum
through war and pain.

Dhramghuul shall emerge within the true War of the Grand Design, and
to demonstrate his initial worth, shall bring the faces of five heathens
and barbarians as tribute to the Divine Asylum.

Role

Chapter 6

Darkness. Order. Often times Zeszaul spoke of them in her
words. She spoke of obedience, of dominance, that these
meanings are far beyond the demands that the Mistress
required. Obedience in the sense of unadalterous
understanding of the acceptable ways, without a stray
thought. To be obedient in such way requires an
understanding of the purpose and the end goal, and each step
along the way. A tried and proven path. But yet, in such a
path, who is the mastermind? Who is to determine the ending
and the purpose?

Dominance. That is the mastermind. Dominance of the mind, of
the spirit, of the body, of the soul. An understanding that
that who dominates shall be the one to whom obedience is
owed. In the Underdark, this is evident through the destruction
of my Clan. This is also evident through this accursed brand
on my face. But, in Zeszaul's death, I question whether the
physicality of this is true. For while she is obedient to me
in accepting her death, even afterwards, her spirit and ways
dominate my soul.

Within the surface, this seems less tricky and chaotic. There
is a single dominance in the lands, with others quelling and
quarreling against it. But I sense it. The ways of Darkness
and Order. The teachings of the Lord Destuvius.

They come in pair. Darkness and Order. Dominance and Obedience.
One cannot exist with the other. This is where my Clan failed.
This is where the Mistress's plan fell. This is where I will
continue.

I often feel it. The power within. The more I understand, the
more I feel the power, and the more I am drawn to the Divine
Asylum and His calling. I will reach out to him to employ all
my considerable skills in his Grand Design, in his great
War against those that despise Darkness, Order, Dominance and
Obedience.

Role

Chapter 5

Dhramghuul grated the face of the elite duergar guard onto
his face. Had he been but a minute slower, he may not have
been alive. His scalpel was still hidden within his robe
and he had to utilize the strange power lurking within him
to shut the mouth and carefully remove the face.

It had been two months since he had left on his mission.
Two months since the event day where he took the skin of
Zeszaul, his only friend and confidante. Two months since
he decided to adorn a mask on his face at all time to hide
his pain, and embrace his pain, at killing Zeszaul. Two
months since he has been plagued with dreams of a titanium
kite and the words written within Zeszaul's book, which he
keeps with him every time, reciting the contents like a
mantra.

Day by day, his concerns regarding pleasing his Mistress
seems to waiver. Secret orders were lost in translation or
transition (as he often kills the messenger) amidst his
growing desires. Not of revenge, not even of establishing
his Clan anymore. He looked around his own palace without
any feeling or despair, only a silent contempt that there
must be more out there. His race and Clan were of little
value and importance anymore. Only the consistent ringing in
his head demanding obedience and order.

While he was one of the key pawns in this war between Teth
Azeleth and Aran'gird, there was something amiss. Not at
the corpse of the elite duergar guard before him. Not at
the direction of the throne of the King. No, he gazed
longingly up, through the rocks and the caverns.

With a heavy grunt, Dhramghuul removed the face of the elite
duergar guard. Beneath it was an oddly human face with a
small smirk. He carefully, ever so gingerly, placed a
blackened mask over his face again. Carrying only his prized
possessions, that of a scalpel and a pouch with a tome of
flesh, he wistfully opened a secret chamber, leaving the
city of Aran'gird and the war for now, to chase after the
demanding voice.

Role

Chapter 4

Slash. Thrust. Dodge. Parry. The clangs of the scalpels
reverberated through the air as both contestants squared off
against each other. Trained not only in the art of skinning and
slicing, each contestant also carefully weighed the other's
actions and movements with years of experience in not only
personal training, but in the forefront of experiments and
missions in the dark-elves neverending war against each other
and the world. This game was a challenge to mental and physical
fortitude. The loser would lose his or her skin, and the
winner would receive freedom, tied to the leashes of the
dark-elven masters and mistresses.

While Zeszaul was more conniving, she could not overcome the
fierceness of a noble duergar. With a roar and a flurry of
movements, Dhramghuul caught her unprepared. He sliced her
thighs, hamstringing her movements, even as her quick
reaction nearly cut his eyes. They both knew it was done.

"Well done slave. Claim your prize."

Zeszaul appeared strangely calm. Her freedom was not
available, but she knew she was returning to her Lord
Destuvius forever as his servant. She felt as peace. She
stared at Dhramghuul, at the forlorn but wistful expression
on his face as he weighed his options, at the eternal
branding on his forehead of a slave. She knew there and
then that her life's goal was complete - she was a pawn to
bring a knight to Lord Destuvius's fold. Only the night
before had she given him a black mask to hide his slave
mark and her diary and thoughts.

Her smirk was forever etched onto her face as Dhramghuul
cried out in fervor and summoned an unearthly power that
he had only recently learned learned after enduring years
of pain and torture and listening to Zeszaul's sermons.
He touched her head, and, without jerking, the skin on her
face sloughed off like a chameleon, perfectly frozen
for all time.

Role

Chapter 3

The dark-elves had concocted a plan to sabatoge the other races
through subterfuge, but releasing their own venemous spiders to
positions of power. Chaos was often their trait, as with millenias
of life they constantly struggled on the simplicity of survival.
What of other races, other terrains, or worlds? While there were
many with such ideas, these ideas often fell to dissolution as
the chaos of the dark-elven society took over.

The minor house of Nez'tyraul thought differently. Resources were
scarce within the underdark, where danger lurked around each
corner. Even the overworlders would come by and raze some of the
houses and resources. Diplomacy was the answer, in the dark-elven
way, with subterfuge and a spy to emerge victorious in warfare.
The house of Nez'tyraul were spymasters and assassins within the
Underdark and key components of any siege or war, and they would
train select few from other races to be their agent, to be their
spy, to be their family. This required a deep understanding of
the anatomy of different races, from the house of Nez'tyraul
were also skingrafters and master camouflagers, taking the face
and appearance of others as their disguise.

Thus occurred the fateful meeting of Zeszaul and Dhramghuul. A
human slave captured from the overworld as a child, she would have
been a beauty in human standards except for her slavery. She was
raised in the same group as Dhramghuul, with the same brutal
training, the same mental conditioning, and the same pain. The
endless torture that both she and Dhramghuul faced as they
succumbed to different arts of pain and pleasure often caused
both of them to lose their minds, only to be reconditioned
against the the sisters of Nez'tyraul.

Where Dhramghuul often had revenge in his mind and the pain of
the burned brand, Zeszaul was ... calmer. She relished in these
pains and pleasures, and sought to overcome them. As the child of
a zealot of a priest of Destuvius, she had indoctrinated into
the teachings of the Divine Asylum. To find order within the
chaos of the world. To endure, speculate, and understand. To be
conservative when necessary, and be brutal when the time arises.
She had found solace in these teachings, even scribing some of
her own thoughts in the skins of one of her victims and creating
a flesh bound book.

As she and Dhramghuul were within the same cohort, as time
passed, they became closer. They balanced each other well,
learning the strengths and weaknesses of the others together,
learning how to skin cadavers in the most efficient manner.
Where Dhramghuul brought a level of ferocity, Zeszaul balanced
his desires with calmness, resolution, and precision. Dhramghuul
became more beholden to Zeszaul as he became more enthralled in
the spider's web.

Role

Chapter 2

Dhramghuul itched the brand on his forehead. In his dreams, he often
recalls the cruel slobbering face of the torturer branding his
forehead and the ensuing magical searing pain that lasted for months.
Even now, his forehead often throbbed, resulting in him losing
concentration in the simplest of tasks.

But now was not the time to lose concentration. His life belonged to
his mistress. A minor noble of a House, she had bought him as a
slave, tended to his wounds, cooed him to sleep and treated him as
her own by clothing and feeding him. She had saved him from the
life that he would have received as a slave in Aran'gird. Although
the hatred and resentment laid in his heart, she had urged him to
suppress it by training his mind and body. She had taught him the
eloquence and culture of the dark-elves, many of which resembles
that of the Clans but a political game that was played at a deeper
level.

Had the Clans of Aran'gird understood the temperence and
deviousness of his mistress, perhaps they would not have been
so easily swayed to let loose one of their own for mere adamantinum.

Dancing nimbly alongside of path full of blood and cadavers,
Dhramghuul nimbly avoided the onslaught of poisonous darts and
arrows. He grimaced as a few of them grazed his naked body, but
continued the path, tiptoeing to ensure that he does not fall into
the pits that claimed the life of so many other entertainments.
Across from him similarly dancing on the nimble edge was his
opponent, wielding the same type of scalpel that he wielded, with
the similar smirk engraved on his face. Across from him was his
final challenge before he would be released as a hound, causing
terror amongst his enemies as he would masterfully infiltrate his
old home and obtain his greatest revenge.

Role

Chapter 1

Crash! The blood curling screams of a war torn palace reverberated
even amongst the body filled halls of the palace. Scents of decaying
and burning flesh intermixed with bloodstained walls adorned the
once pristine Clan of Aran'gird.

Amidst the hollering and battlecries, huddled in the center hall was
a group of duergars, young and old, chained and shackled. Tears of
hatred and rage streamed from some, others had an bewildered
expression, while even others had an expression of vengeance. None
of these emotions mattered as the unknown Clan was falling into
shambles, a victim to the plot by five other Clans.

One by one, each duergar was lead to a now disheveled and molted
throne by a group of ruthless elite duergar warriors. Almost as if
it were another day (and to the Clans of Aran'gird, it may as well
have been). A large duergar torturer was humming to himself as he
heated up a slave's brand with magic. The slave's brand was infused
with the blood of an ancient dragon and left a permanent scar.
Cruelly, one by one, almost like the dance of elves, each of the
now prisoners were branded - some in the chest, some in the arm,
and some in the thighs.

For the head family of the fallen Clan, a slave's brand on the
forehead was the norm. A sign of disrepect, a mockery of lineage,
and a reminder of the fall of a great Clan. Only one remained, a
young boy, who glared with the vengance of a demon, as the
brand inched closer to his forehead, permanently marking his Clan's
failure.

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