Appearance: Tall (6’1”); muscular; scarred, notably a pair of slashes on his left cheek
Fashion of Choice: Comfortable, hard-wearing clothing, Hasla ronin robes Armor of Choice: Leather Weapons of Choice: Dual sabers
Special Talents: Too stubborn to die (or stay dead) History/Biography: Vrekka was born on a farm in Solzreed, one of many children. His childhood was dominated by the farm life, though the occasional traveling bard ignited his imagination with tales of knights and warriors and terrible beasts.
When he reached his teenage years, he decided he would set off on his own to become a famous warrior. He soon learned that before he achieved this goal, he would have to learn how to fight with a weapon and earn coin for food and shelter. He stumbled about for roughly a year before coming across Milo Cross, a veteran bounty hunter. Milo decided to take Vrekka on as a helper to clean weapons and armor and care for the horses.
Milo was getting on in years, and Vrekka's help made things easier for him. After some time together, Milo started teaching Vrekka the basics of swordplay and hunting. The farm boy took quickly to the lessons, and quickly proved that he was a powerful fighter, if lacking in finesse. Eventually Milo made Vrekka a full partner in the bounty hunting business.
Years passed and Milo decided to retire from bounty hunting before the business ended him. He gave Vrekka funds, equipment, and his trusty horse Brick, and retired to a small homestead in Halcyona.
These days Vrekka works on his own, filling bounties and hiring his sword out to others. But now he's finding himself haunted by memories that aren't his....
Alignment: Neutral, good-leaning Motivations: Coin for the next meal and drink, the need to right wrongs when the law fails common folk Disposition: Easy going until riled, focused when on a hunt Outlook: Life is good, as long as you don’t stare into the shadows too long
Religion/Philosophy: Not particularly religious, though he’ll pray to Nui every so often
Positive Personality Traits: Loyalty, humor Negative Personality Traits: Stubbornness, fight first, drink now Misc. Quirks: Isn’t off put by children
Guild IC: Devigard Guild rank IC: Initiate Guild OOC: Out Of Character West Guild Rank: Leader
Likes: Feminine form, a hot meal, good liquor, gardening, Vahn Dislikes: Bullies, liars, contract-breakers Favorite Foods: Pork ribs, roast potatoes, pumpkin pie Favorite Drinks: Beer, liquor, tea Favorite Colors: Blue, green, brown
Vrekka paced barefoot across the tatami mats that padded the floor of Vahn’s cottage. He was alone at the moment, as Vahn was away to check on things at the Open Palm. Anxious energy scraped along his nerves as he considered what he was about to attempt.
A dive, on purpose, into his alternate self’s memories.
Vrekka didn’t want to do it. The memories were disorienting, confusing, painful. But he didn’t want to lose Vahn either. What he had gleaned from this other Vrekka’s memories was that he was a man of power and means. Surely he knew someone who could help Vahn’s condition, and maybe they could be found in this version of reality.
Vrekka stopped and forced himself to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the hearth. If he didn’t do it now, he’d grab the liquor bottle waiting on the table and promptly drown himself in it. He needed to do this, for Vahn’s sake. He turned his thoughts inward, focusing on every face, every name that had stirred these outside memories.
Then he whispered aloud, “Shesmetet Duametetys.”
The storm of lightning and fire erupted in his thoughts, flooding them with images sharp with pain. But instead of running from them, Vrekka threw himself into them, searching.
A tall elven man, with long black hair, smiles and reaches out to shake his hand. “Hello, I’m….” Standing on a cliff, palm throbbing from a cut made during an oath. “--Ironsworn!” At attention, in full plate armor, before a crowd of officials. “Warden of the Court…” Arrows, fighting, blood, pain. Sorrow. Sorrow. Sorrow. A shadow with claws, grinning, tearing, manipulating. Barely holding onto the neck of a horse, sick with fever, and seeing a sign pass beside him. “The Slaughtered Donkey Tavern….” Holding onto a bar counter, knees weak, staring at a man who had just named him lord. Perched atop his horse, wearing polished black armor, staring down another lord. Staggering as a ghost reached into his mind with skeletal fingers. “Blood and the land, one and the same, boy.” Watching a woman dance--his lady, his pain, his love--spooling magic in her hands, in her limbs, her tail lashing as she readied to fight magic-with-magic--
The hazy flashes of memories solidified into a moment, one too clear, too sharp to be memory. The firran woman, hair longer now, gazing down at him with worry in her eyes. Another woman, pale with short black hair and cold eyes. The eyes widened in shock and she snapped, “No! You should not!”
Her hand slapped down on his forehead--the other him--
--and Vrekka fell onto his back, his lower face streaked with blood from burst vessels in his nose. He gasped for air, tasting blood, then coughing when it entered his throat from his sinuses. He rolled onto his side and spat blood onto the mat. Then he reached up to touch his forehead. It burned as though it had been frozen with ice.
Occurs just after the events of the Nook and nearby, 1/9/20
Vrekka moved through his forms, the scimitar gleaming in the scant lantern light in the farther end of the garden. He’d decided against going to the Jungle Nook with Vahn tonight. His resolve to stay clear of alcohol felt thin tonight and he didn’t want to go somewhere it could be broken easily. Though admittedly it was harder to drink when he knew Vahn was watching. He didn’t want to disappoint him by falling off the wagon.
His skin prickled as his instincts alerted that he was being watched, and a voice called from the cottage, “Hello?”
Vrekka turned with a shaky breath. He knew her voice though this was the first time hearing it. Shesmetet Duametetys. He stepped through the trees to the cottage until he could see her. She looked unwell, face pale and her hands shielding a bloody hole in her leather jerkin. Blood? Worry shot through him and he started, “You--”
Like a hammer had smashed into his mind, the sight of her flooded his mind with memories. Not his, but the Vrekka of another reality, another world. He staggered as the multitude washed over him, almost too much to keep up with. Flashes of a life together, a farm, a home. Intimacy, love, then loss and grief. He caught himself before he fell, overwhelmed.
“Vahn’s been hurt!” her voice shouted.
Her words were the wind scattering the fog. The memories vanished with the spike of adrenaline and worry, and he said, “Where is he?”
“Mahadevi, on a rocky outcrop south of the Jungle Nook. He’s not alone, but he needs….” She trailed off, staring at him, her face twisted with emotion.
“Right.” He sheathed his blade and quickly retrieved a hereafter stone from his belt pouch. He held the stone a moment, unease and worry fighting in his heart, then glanced back over to her.
Shesmetet took a step away, her expression decidedly green. “I’m fine. Just go.”
Vrekka wasn’t sure if he believed her, but Vahn’s safety was more pressing. He fed the stone a bit of his meager arcane energy, directing it to the hearth of the Nook, and the portal cracked open. He leapt through to go find his love, leaving the memory behind.
#14289377 Jan 16, 2020 at 10:08 PM · Edited 8 months ago
The figure moved along the small path that curled and coiled past the cliffs, a fisherman’s path, far below the main one. Darkness was his ally, the shadows of the cliffside shielding him as he slowly moved. Time, he had time. So much of it.
The pain chewed at him, as it always did. But the hatred fueled him.
He paused to gaze up at the small island, more a mountain peak in the fast moving water. The current home of his enemy, of his target, of his obsession. One eye narrowed--there was a most curious ward set around it, a most curious ward indeed. One that blocked all magic. How dangerous. The world thrived on magic. To cut it off was to invite disaster.
A strange noise reached what passed for an ear. A clicking? Something metallic sliding into place, far overhead.
Movement on the island. Something had jumped off the edge, something protecting itself with what appeared to be part of a door.
The metallic sound again, and the evening lit up with sound and fury. Fire exploded on the side of the island, tracking the falling form.
Laughter bubbled up from the figure as he watched the form fall, bounce on rocks, leaving a splattering of blood, then crash into the wild water below. Then as soon as it had come, the laughter vanished.
“No,” he snarled. “No, no, no, NO.” This was not the place, this was not the time. That man was his kill, his alone! A fist curled weirdly, obscenely.
He stepped forward and slid down the slope into the water. Time to fix this. His plans would not be upset by foolishness.
Vrekka woke up to pain and nightmare. The fall had been hell, but he’d already said he’d go through hell for Vahn. But it looked like he was still in it.
And it felt all too fucking familiar. The face that leered at him overhead, he knew it from the memories of his other self. Only there was just half of it, the rest squirmed and moved like something from the deeps. Vrekka tried to press himself deeper into the ground he laid upon, but he couldn’t get away.
“Awake now, are you?” Onouris hissed, voice oily and soft. “What trouble you are. I had to put you back together.” He motioned with a twisted hand.
Vrekka looked down at himself. His Haslan robes were riddled with holes and tears and stained red. Pain flashed through his body as he moved, and he looked back to Onouris.
“Tell me what happened,” the necromancer demanded.
“I d-don’t have to t-tell you anything,” Vrekka retorted through chattering teeth. He was freezing. How much blood had he lost? “You’re d-dead.”
“I told Vahn, death is only the beginning. And I wasn’t asking,” Onouris hissed, then a mass of tentacles swept over Vrekka’s face and he fell into darkness.
In another world, another reality, in a broad tent on the plains of Windscour, another Vrekka abruptly pitched forward, holding his nose.
Beside him, Shesmetet, his wife, looked at him with alarm. “Vrekka, what is it?”
He pulled his hand away, looking at the blood that covered his palm. “I’m not sure what it was, but I think something really bad just happened on the other side.”