Viktor Achivir

[*Annoying Git]

Basic Information
Name: Viktor Achivir
Aliases: None as of yet
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 25
Profession: Mercenary/Work for hire
Languages: Common (obviously), Infernal, Undercommon

Physical Information
Height: 6'5"
Weight: 210
Body build: Broad, Muscular and toned
Skin type: His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard work, yet the rest couldn't be smoother
Hair style: A deep, dark brown, almost black in color. His hair is somewhat unkempt, almost always getting in the way of his eyes.
Scars: Nothing that would show when wearing his usual clothes or armor.
Tattoos: Despite a symbol of a shield with a bloody sword on his left arm, his skin is rather unblemished
Colouring:

[b]Hair:[/b] Dark brown [b]Eyes:[/b] A startling Icy blue [b]Skin:[/b] Warm colored, tanned to a point approaching a light brown color. [/li]

Mental Information
Alignment: Neutral Good
Philosophy: Knowing your opponent is only half the battle. Beating him is the easy part, but the hard part is beating your own self.
Deity/Beliefs: Does not outwardly worship any particular god, though he does follow them in his own way.
Personality:

[u]Resolute and Firm[/u] [i]Has an open mind and hart, but is not easily deceived.[/i] [u]Silent and Introspective[/u] [i]Tells as little of his intentions and himself as possible.[/i] [u]Careful and Cautious[/u] [i]Thinks before he speaks, calculates before he engages [/i] [u]Avuncular:[/u] [i]Feels he's learned life's lesson and is eager to heap advice on any young person who will listen.[/i] [u]Battle-ready:[/u] [i]Always prepared for a fight.[/i] [u]Lonely:[/u] [i]Wants the PCs to be her best friends.[/i] [u]Fatalistic:[/u] [i]Usually willing to help the PCs because nothing really matters, anyway.[/i] [u]Efficient:[/u] [i]Usually not one for small talk, and wants to cut to the heart of the matter, resolving it as quickly as possible.[/i] [/li]

Additional Information
Gear: Simple, functional clothing is the mainstay of his wardrobe, and is never seen without his great sword, or at least some sort of serviceable blade.
Jewelry: A tarnished pendant is worn around neck, and along with a ring or two, a small silver stud in his right ear.
Habbits/hobbies: If not training in some way or meditating on some problem, which is most often the case, he would most likely be seen in the nearest tavern or off searching for knowledge or wealth.
General Health: As perfect as can be, despite often expressed sicknesses of the heart to that special someone.
Favorite Drink: Having tried many drinks, he has yet to settle on a single one, yet prefers stronger drinks. Just buy him one, and you might find out.
Weaknesses: Always the tactician, he may seem to be too cautious at times, spending too much time on the details instead of the broader picture. Not much of a public speaker, yet not afraid of attention either. Despite his withdrawn nature, he is a bit of a womanizer; his eyes canÂ’t help but be drawn to the curves of a woman.
Dark Secret: You have some sort of secret that, if revealed, would make you an outcast amongst your society and companions.

[*Annoying Git]

Reaching high,
in the shadow of the spire,
the night is nigh,
bringing nothing dire.

Narrow road,
through sleet and snow,
the light of home,
hidden beyond.

Striding though gate of stone,
finally reached home,
having trudged along,
the road of life.

Sword put away,
the fire burning strong,
forged of stone,
forever my home.


The room is dark. The shades are drawn and only a tiny tendril of light makes its way through the fabric, shining on the lone man in the room. His large body is sprawled lazily on top of a bed not quite big enough for someone his size, and his armor is cast about around it as if it had just fallen off him as he crawled onto the bed. Some pieces are even still attached to his sleeping form. His boots and leggings hang loosely from him as the room is filled with the sound of his breathing. Caught helplessly in a deep slumber, his body jerks about as the dream takes it course.

The same damn dreamÂ…

The sound of the rain is deafening. The tightly packed trees that stretch for miles in all directions slip by as he runs through the forest, the clatter of his armor just barely audible. Twilight has set in, as the sun slowly descends into its nightly slumber, and the moon begins its own vigil. Deep foot prints are left in the mud quickly turning into pools of water as he thunders through the trees.

If I can just find the roadÂ…

A path! Just through the trees there on his right. He picks up his already swift pace, and breaks through the tree line with a crash of metal and low-lying branches. He emerges on a small high, overlooking a road about forty yards away. Another forty or so yards are clear on the other side until the forest continues again. The rain has turned the dirt road into a muddy mess, surely trapping anything caught in it. If he continues north he would find the city; a safe, dry haven from the rain and encroaching night. Yet, he is pulled south by some unseen hand. South, which would stretch for hundreds of miles before any other dwellings would be seen. Sensing urgency in the air, he quickly makes his way down the hill. Finding better footing in the grass besides the road, he sprints down it.

It is just up aheadÂ… I know it. IÂ’ll find what IÂ’m looking for thereÂ…

Minutes go by, and he continues to run. What seems like an eternity passes before he rounds the bend in the sodden road.

It has to be here, it has to! Â…

His feet stop in his tracks, almost before his mind realizes it. What lies before his eyes could not accurately described by words. What was once a trading caravan now lies smoldering in the rain. Bodies lay sprawled as their mortal wounds continue to stain the ground around them a dark red. Because of the slope of the terrain on both sides of the road, the life force of hundreds of people drains into a small river of betrayal. His sword forgotten at his side, he aimlessly wanders the carnage. Even the mercenary core that was attached to the caravan lay dead at his feet. The same core he had joined up with. Movement catches his eyes. A small band of men make their way through the bodies, searching the dead for valuables.

Looters! Â…

An ear shattering roar of rage rips forth from his throat, louder than even the thundering rain. The bandits jump with fright, as the sound floods their ears. Hurriedly, they back up tightly against one another, brandishing rusty weapons with unskilled hands. His blade now in his hands, he bursts through the wreckage and into their line of sight. They all but break apart at the sight of this crazed monster of a man brandishing a blade larger than they have ever seen. The bravest of them, or perhaps stupidest, jumps into action and rushes him. A flick of his large sword and the man is instantly torn in two. He is washed in the manÂ’s blood. The next two also try this, and are also ended with a swing of his sword. The last one, the smallest yet smartest of them, quickly drops his weapon and flees into the forest. Less than a second later, his giant sword plunges into the tree mere inches from the banditÂ’s head.

Weaponless, he sinks to the groundÂ… face to face to the motionless bodies of his family.

He awakes with a start, the dream waning in strength until he is able to tear away from it. His body is drenched in sweat, and shivers slightly as it cools. He lays awake on the bed staring out at the lone sliver of light from the window.

He shall get no more sleep this nightÂ…

[*Annoying Git]

Journal Entry, dated Kythorn 1, 1374 DR

*Written in surprisingly neat script in Viktor's journal, the black ink is a stark contrast to the previously empty yellow pages.*

It has been so long since I have written in this journal, and I despair. I feel the faces of old slipping away, and I have no mention of them. Percival, Lorien, Escobar, Nath, Lucien, Sophia, Nandra, even those whose names I cannot recall. I despair because the one man I have ever trusted with my life is gone from my sight, and yet my mind cannot even summon his name from memory. But, such is life, as they say. As new faces come, the old must go, just as the beckoning jaws of oblivion await us all.

I feel my grasp on sanity and reality slipping. I have been gone for months on end, yet why do I not remember a single moment of all that time? It is as if another part of me has awoken from a long slumber. The other day, I found myself in the bazaar drunk. The others thought me a merchant and sign maker. Yet I had not taken a single mouthful of any alcoholic drink.

Something happened during those months absent from memory, something. Perhaps something horrible enough to make my mind turn in on itself? I don't believe that is the case.. If I were that weak, I would have died long ago while I lived in the Hive. No, something was taken from me... Something small, yet deceptively important.

It is as if there are two people inside me, two personalities fighting for control of my body. I find myself in situations of which I have no recollection. I am beginning to fear that the façade I shroud myself in daily has become something more, something real. The others believe me to be a simple barbarian whose intelligence is comparable to that of razorvine, whose speech is that of the Nishrek Orcs from Archeron. I do not begrudge the dignity and respect such an appearance would receive. I value such protection this shroud affords me. I do not wish to bring undue attention to myself during this critical time.

For now I must continue to use it, and wait for answers to questions I have only begun to ask. Perhaps in time I shall find such. I only hope my deception will escape the WhispererÂ’s attention for nowÂ…