BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Character Biographies, Journals, and Stories

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Darradarljod
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Joined: Sat Jan 22, 2011 7:15 pm

BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Unread post by Darradarljod »

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Commander of the Zhentarim at Darkhold
Templar of the Church of Bane
Former Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard
Appearance:
This man's physical body has surely broken the laws of nature to stand before you as it does. An aurochs of a man transmuted from his youth to achieve abominable strength and muscular mass.

An antique longsword is tightly fastened on a black leather swordbelt. The blade is unholy, thrumming an never ending sigh of negative energy.

Medals and badges of military service that once decorated Boris as a veteran of the Thayan Army have been put away.

Thick legs encased in steel tower upward from meticulously polished boots. Boris' torso is armored in interlocking plates of blackened steel intricately engraved so as to depict the denizens of the abyss squaring off with the ranks of hell in battle - the Blood Wars. His chest is broad and his physique clearly a priority. A strong back perfects a strict militant posture.

Wide shoulders and a low booming voice lend this Thayan male a commanding presence among other men.

Above his herculean shoulders, rested upon a bull-neck, is a strong jawed skull that may draw likeness between his man and a pit-bull dog, or a shark. His face and skull seem to have suffered extreme surgical processes and are scarred from what he underwent.

His hands are encased in talon-fingered battle gauntlets. If his hands are bare, they are tattooed and ringed with heavy silver bands - ornaments of demonic faces and skulls. All in all, a brooding menace of a man who's composure brags of harsh discipline and authoritarian severity.

Race: Mulan-Thayan Human, of Lake Mulsantir, Surthay (Thay)
Age: 30
Height 6'9''
Weight: 180kg
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Bald
Facial Hair Style: Clean Shaven

Personality Profile:
General Health: Impeccable.
Deity: Bane
Initial Alignment: Lawful Evil
Profession: Warrior
Habits/Hobbies: History, War, Politics, Tactics, Discipline, Skill at Arms, Music
Languages: Common, Thayan, Infernal
Weapon of Choice: Longsword
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Last edited by Darradarljod on Fri Sep 25, 2020 9:38 am, edited 28 times in total.
DM Gogo
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Retired. If you have any questions or requests, please send them to the DM team, and not this account, as it will not be checked. Stay classy, BGTSCC.
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Darradarljod
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Joined: Sat Jan 22, 2011 7:15 pm

Re: Boris Vyacheslav

Unread post by Darradarljod »

The Curse of the Hathran
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Women are standing over me in a circle under the moon. They smell like earth and unclean magic and I can't see their faces.

Why can't I see their faces?

Its because of their masks.

Their horrible masks speak a language I don't understand. But a language I know, and a language I hate.

Witches of Rashemen!

Enemies of Thay!

I try to tear up the roots that hold me to the cold earth. But I don't have the strength of a man any more. I can't save myself.

I am a child again.

Its futile.

Hot tears on my cheeks. Hot blood in my veins. My skin feels like it is crawling to get away from me. My bones - I watch them turn themselves out of joint!

They're cursing me! They want to kill me!

I stare at the witch leading the circle. Hatred overwhelms me. I feel as if Bane himself has taken me under his cloak. There is rage within this hatred. I am generating wrath that I cannot uncage.

It builds like a castle that cannot be completed. It rises like a tide, but may not overflow.

I can't scream any louder than I am, but my voice seems so distant ... so hollow.

"My brothers ... Where are my brothers?"
[The chanting of women grows louder]
"Father, the witches ..."
[Terrifying masks flash before his eyes]
"... the witches have caught me!"
[Deafening chanting builds to a crescendo]
"Where are my br--"
[Sudden silence]
Boris' eyes open abruptly like those of a vampire disturbed from its unholy rest. Terror urges him to act. It doesn't care what - just do something!

Strong legs thrash, finding themselves without any restriction. Powerful arms are thrown, turning him on his bed to clutch blindly for a weapon. One bare hand has constricted the black leather grip of his eternally near longsword. But as he gained his bearings, he found no occasion to draw it...

He is not under the moon.

There are no witches here.

Boris sighed, releasing the blade. He rolls back to rest on the flat of his back staring up at the familiar ceiling above his bunk. All the while his heart beats like a war drum in his chest. Despite it pounding in his ears he listens to the familiar surroundings.

He knows where he is.

All is calm within the Enclave.

It was just a nightmare.

The steady flame of the bracketed torch at the door causes the sweat drenching his triumphant musculature to glisten like fresh blood. Of such incredible bulk, and these muscles still burning from his last battle, it is a brief struggle for the warrior to sit up in bed. Hunched there in the low light of the knight's quarters he rubs his shaved head and wipes down his wet face with the hands of a warrior - calloused and blistered, rough and swollen.

Sweat salt stings his hard brown eyes and he blinks it away, staring at the nearby fire. Adrenaline subsides, but in his mind he remains haunted.

Once more he is forced to reconcile with this truth: it was more than a nightmare.

It was a memory.

He kneels his massive, unclothed body beside his bunk. He kneels in prayer.

Prayer to Kossuth.

At first it seems a concentrated effort for Boris to comfort himself by recalling the conclusion to that horrific ceremony. Soon, however, the grace of Kossuth meets him with that vision he desires; the only pacifier his cold soul knows - that fiery revenge of his brothers.

The smell of Rashemen witches burning became the fragrance of life for Boris that night. An aroma he could taste in his memory if he hungered for it badly enough. Tonight, Boris arose from his knees without the burden that brought him to them.

The horrors of Surthay's borders aside, our fighter's sleep had not been broken in years. A conscience drowned to death in other men's blood had no voice.

Returning to his bunk he entered into a state of rest that some would surely say a man of his character does not deserve.
The Illusion
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"Squire, have you understood everything I have instructed?"

"I heard you," Boris' baritone rumbled from within his helmet.

It was a sufficient answer for the Red Wizard apprentice who's thin lips curved into a pleased smile.

"Let us begin."

Those words might as well have been a spell. With them the whole of the empty storage cellar faded to black but for a white spotlight where Boris stood - now alone. Or so it seemed.

For a moment this transition came with an otherly sensation of being suspended in a void. He could only hear the labor of his own raspy breathing.

A voice came from all around him - it was the Wizard. "The sensation will pass. When you are ready we will begin."

"Do it."

Was he seeing things? Colours... swirling colours all blending together like the paints of an artist before his very eyes.

They were taking shape - the shape of a man.

No, not a man. A creature! A hobgoblin! It lurked against the empty black backdrop, like a wolf stalking its prey, crossbow in hand. Nearer and nearer it came toward Boris.

Boris wondered at the sight, amused. He drew his sword slowly and let the point hang at his heel.

Birds. They fluttered away startled from lush undergrowth as the hobgoblin now crouched between two bramble bushes and tried to conceal itself.

Boris found himself sheltering behind a tree, sword in both hands. He could smell the hobgoblin. It smelt like rotten eggs.

Boris peeked around the tree and made out the red skinned goblin against the lush green foliage. But the hobgoblin was waiting for him! Just as soon as Boris presented his head a quarrel was fired, striking the tree with a terrible CRACK!

Adrenaline surged as the fighter jerked his head back into cover, sinking low against the buttress of the tree. It was then he noticed he was up to his knees in sodden marshland.

The clacking of the hobgoblin's crossbow mechanism alerted Boris' fear heighted senses. He knew he only had a moment to act!

Bursting out from behind the tree the 130kg musclebound swordsman staggered like a drunken ox in his full platemail toward the enemy. The hobgoblin shrieked, lifting its crossbow and firing blindly.

Boris felt the bolt pierce him in the chest, despite his armour, but he was so full of wrath and lust for battle he charged on and met the goblinoid sniper face to face. The first chop of his sword disarmed the arbalest. Now one black gauntlet siezed the throat while the other drove its longsword in a deep thrust, shearing the beast through the ribcage and twisting to break its bones.

Seconds later the hobgoblin was gone, and so was the marsh. Everything swam together into a nauseating blur of colours and sounds. Then, perfect silence. Perfect black.

Boris stood alone in the void again, panting from the thrill of the brief fight. He removed his helmet and stowed it under his arm, waiting. Shade by shade the darkness dissipated giving way to the low light of that rented dock warehouse.

The Red Wizard apprentice spoke, but surprisingly his voice was now behind Boris, who found himself quite turned around, "Believed it, didn't you?"

Boris hand fell to his side from feeling his chest where the bolt should be protruding. He glared at the wizard.

"I had expected more of you, Boris, for all your reputation of holding an iron will!"

Boris grinned, thumbing the edge of his sword as the wizard continued.

"... After such a thorough exposition on the basic principles of illusion and not once but *twice* explaining the mechanisms of this particular spellcraft, I didn't anticipate you responding like an ape unleashed when faced with such a cantrip..."

"A fine game, Wizard," Boris interrupted in rolling Thayan accent, "but hobgoblins don't smell like rotten eggs."
Augmentation
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The small port town of Surthay was behind him. A young man of fourteen winters Boris had essentially travelled the length of Thay to come to Bezantur at the wish of his father. He did not question the family patriarch at his command, though inwardly he resented being uprooted from all he knew and loved. It was in this tharchion of Bezantur that Boris' father and uncle laid the foundations for Thayan Knighthood in Boris' life. A quest he could not yet appreciate, nor desired for himself, but a quest would come to define his mortal existence absolutely.

Seasoned Thayan Knights themselves, Boris' father and uncle were well aware of the demands every young Thayan man must satisfy to fulfill his duty to the Wizards. It did not require "much", it required everything. So why Boris and not his elder brothers?

Boris of all his siblings was the most zealous for love of his country. Some called him the only man of integrity among his father's sons, for he showed discipline they lacked in regard to worldly pleasures and vice. His quiet love of knowledge and learning Thayan history and spellcraft, though not to an extent justifying apprenticeship, was likewise commendable.

There was only one concern with Boris. It was his temper.

Boris thrashed like a young bull resisting a yoke. His father observed impartially while Boris' uncle and two other men overpowered his pre-pubescent rage easily and bound him to a rack with leather belts around his wrist and ankles.

It was futile for the underfed fourteen year old. His smoldering gaze was locked on his father with a sense of betrayal.

The father stepped near, gripping Boris by the jaw to fix him with a dominating stare and spoke, "You are the worm of all my sons. You've taken after your mother. It is a cruelty toward our Mulani bloodline that you are the only male spawned in this generation that has the Vyacheslav spirit,"

The man leaned in, whispering harshly into Boris' ear with hot, bad breath,

"Understand, Boris, that you will never be a Thayan Knight without this augmentation."

"I don't want to be a Thayan Knight!" the youth rebelled.

The father shoved his son's face away, mildly disgusted, not minded to dignify his son with a response.

He turned from Boris to the man in red who had been patiently waiting for the situation to come under control and advised him, "He is ready."

The red one stepped forward, a blackened tome spread open and balanced in one of his hands. Boris couldn't help but notice how warped and long this man's fingernails were as he began gesticulating. The boy recognised some of these verses as draconic scripture relating to transmuting...

Fear in his eyes, Boris looked to his father. The patriach laid a steel gauntlet upon his son's scalp, "Be brave, Vyacheslav."

Suddenly, pain wracked his body. He would have thrown himself across the room if he were not bound to the wooden rack. The wizard's chanting was doing something to his body - it had power, and the power was increasing.

Vascularity emerged on the young man from his shaven scalp to his bare feet. His body, bare but for a loincloth, began to sweat profusely. Every muscle was screamimg in protest as the Transmuter commanded it against its nature to grow.

Stretch marks split the earthy toned skin of the Mulani youth as musculature swelled rapidly, mutilating his previously flawless complexion. They continued to grow, a profuse and abhorrent growth upon a young man who could not even grow a beard.

With the musculature came strength. Boris defied the leather strops, pulling at them with all his might. They strained, groaning.

The wizard continued his spellcasting at the same pace, finalizing his transmutation with a spell of permanence.

Boris cried out in agony, his new strength bursting the belt on his right arm. He reached for the wizard, but his uncle snatched him and retrained him with violence.

The wizard quite apathetically declared a command word to finalize the casting;


"Sleep."

For Boris, that was enough. The rage of his tortured body had no choice but to subside. All became a blackened bliss and absence of being.
Crucible
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Under the ground in a vented hexagonal chamber a brazier of cast iron blazed. There was no fuel for the fire - it was not stoked - and there was no smoke. It was a self-sufficient flame that roared with a life of its own.

Within this oven sat a burly, hairless man cross-legged with his broad back against one of the six walls. He was unclothed. Perspiration gleamed on the abominable muscular bulk of his physique as the fire bathed him in its relentless heat. The sweat trickled down his face in streams from his shaved scalp to his chin and peppered the floor around him, sizzling into steam as it landed.

Beside this herculean Thayan on the dirt floor lay a longsword, almost too hot to handle. The controlled heat level tested the trained endurance of the fighter, but that was one of its purposes. Purification by fire was the doctrine of Kossuth.

Boris' eyes were closed and the lids fluttered as he dreamed dehydrated delusions. His body was wracked with pain at every wave of heat that washed over him, horrifying his mind which urged him to get up and escape this place. But his spirit would rise, subjugating both body and mind with an iron fist.

There was purpose to his presence in this place. The refining of his character. Remove the dross from the silver, and a silversmith can produce a vessel. But would Boris be a vessel for honorable use? Would he be finery, the preference of his lord?

It had been expressed by the Khazark that the squire was proved ready to ascend into Knighthood. Vows must be made - and they must be meant. If what Boris presented in oath to the Khazark at the ceremony of his tattooing was pleasing to the leader of the Enclave, he would rise a Thayan Knight, joining the prestigious elite of Thayan Society. A commander of soldiers. A guardian of Magus.

But should Boris' vows displease the Khazark, he would more than fail the purpose for which he now knew he was brought forth from the womb. If Boris' vows were not adequate, he would be executed.

The fighter's mind swam through a cold sea of self. He sought furiously to find what it meant to be a Knight. Was it in him at all?

The heat of the brazier without, the heat of rage within.

Boris' solitary devotions and soul-searching continued into the night, even as his stretch-marked flesh baked and his tortured mind elapsed into absenteeism...
Vows of Ascension: Squire to Knight
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The following script Boris has long brooded over. He recites from the parchment morning, noon and night. These are the vows of the Squire who looks to ascend the ranks of Thayan Knighthood.

I submit my mind to the power, authority and direction of the Khazark. I forfeit my will, that I may never resist his spellcraft. He shall not be defied, doubted nor disobeyed in any thing. His word is become my law. This is my vow of obedience.

I yield my body as a living sacrifice to preserve that of my Khazark. My life and all it consists of I entrust into his hands and oversight. I shall not fear his enemies - I shall reserve my fear for him alone. I shall protect my Khazark against enemies wherever they are found by my skill at arms in battle, and by integrity and loyalty in politics. Forbid he perish under my guard, I vow to avenge him bloodily and thereafter to fall upon my own sword. I shall never compromise the safety of any Magus by my action or inaction. This is my vow as guardian.

As a Thayan Knight I vow to protect this Enclave and all those of our nation who reside on this Thayan soil. I shall uphold Thayan culture and ideals, thereby setting forth our race as supreme. I shall war against those who war against us and I shall never surrender my arms. I shall enforce the Codes and Ideals of Thayan Knighthood within our ranks. With all solidarity, I shall uphold and set them forth to our squires by personal example. I shall obey the directives of our Knight Commander as his will is an extension of our Khazark's. This is my vow of honour.
Goal Achieved: Knighthood
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Goal Achieved: Thayan Knighthood

Two large black runes have been permanently marked into Boris' face - one on each of his cheeks. Anyone skilled in Spellcraft would easily recognise these as deactivated "Symbol of Fear", and "Symbol of Pain".

His whole scalp has likewise been chiseled with ink covering the basic Mulan designs he had when he arrived in Baldur's Gate with a skull capping visage of a horned Balor Lord glaring out of the back of his own head.

These tattoos have granted the feat Skill Focus: Intimidate, along other things (+2 Saves vs. Fear), and declare Boris Vyacheslav to have taken the vows of a Thayan Knight.


The Knighthood and Tattoo Ceremony of Boris Vyacheslav
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Left to Right;
Khazark Kahanak Habdilof, Sir Boris Vyacheslav (kneeling), Magus Zhar Quantoul, Apprentice Seteneptra Ma'u
The Church of Iron
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Boris lay flat on his back supported by a leather padded bench. Over his broad chest he gripped a steel pole in his strong, calloused hands. Several discs of iron weighed the bar on either end. He lowered it slowly until the cold bar touched his hot skin. Then, with violent exertion and a throaty grunt he heaved it up, only to lower it again and repeat the ritual.

The repetitions continued a minute. With a confident glance from Boris the assistance offered by the Squire who stood over him as a spotter was rejected. Boris settled the bar onto the framework above him and sat up on the bench. The Squire offers an uncapped vessel of water which Boris takes in hand and drinks from thirstily.

Boris locked his hands behind the low of his back, stretching his pectorals briefly before rising from the bench to pace around the gymnasium with the arrogance of the wicked.


Back in Surthay, his heritage estate was prospering. When last in Thay visiting the Zulkir of Alteration Boris had arranged to send money home to his mother. It pleased the Knight greatly to know that his frontier homestead was now doubled in garrison. Boris found it difficult not being there personally to ensure the safety of his mother and family assets.

Many slaves and taskmasters had been purchased to assist with the work and management of the land allowing his brothers more time to organise, train and equip the estate's soldiery.

Dumbbells are strangled in each of Boris' great hands, one curled and then the other. His horrifically scarred skin is increasingly wet with perspiration. Between the sets, weights are slammed and dropped. His muscles engorge with blood, both vascular and terrible.

Boris hated the trade initiatives that had scattered their Enclaves across the realm at large. What scraps of barbarian soil they held underfoot by negotiation, and whatever economic influence that came with their mercantile enterprizes he considered worthless compared to the potential for seizing entire kingdoms and enslaving whole populations by full scale invasion.

He had a love of the old ways - extending Thayan borders by aggressive military initiatives. Some Zulkir's still held to these opinions. It gave Boris hope things may one day resume the course he believed they never should have diverted from.

For now, Boris' main concern was bolstering the might of his Surthayan family estate. When the political realm of Thay was restored to right order there would surely be another war against the Rashemi. It was not a possibility for Boris - it was a certainty. The certainty that was the foundation of all his investment.


Men of Baldur's Gate skirt around the unnaturally large titan of a Thayan as he moves to the squat rack. The man who occupied it doesn't protest as Boris begins loading more plates on. Instead, he leaves. Boris takes the loaded bar on his shoulders and begins his next exercise.

Kahanak had been reclusive.

Rising, lowering, rising, lowering under the burden of the bar.

Zhar Quantoul was yet to be avenged.

Boris rises up one last time under the weight and hooks the bending squat bar back onto the frame. Coming out from under it he snatched his towel from the Squire that hovered about him and used it to wipe down his stretch-marked flesh and tattooed face and scalp. To conclude his exercises, Boris strode across the gym floor toward the baths.

The sooner their Khazark resumed his aggressive leadership and dictation of Enclave affairs, the better.
Mutilated
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When Boris arrived at the Enclave his wounds were so severe his enchanted armour was the only thing holding him together. Nights and days passed in several surgeries and in the infirmary. Flesh eating acid prevented his wounds from easily closing. His already brutal appearance was now even more mutilated from an attempt to carve his face open. An attempt that was for the most part frustrated by his open faced helmet.

Boris' anger simmers as he is forced to rest his tortured body. In the night hours he roars in agony and rage.

His report is published not only to the Khazark but to the entire Enclave of approximately fifty wizards. Before the reclusive Khazark ever responds, Boris is on his feet again. Sustained by much draught of healing and regeneration magics the fighter resumes his training regime in the local gymnasium and sparring in the Enclave arena - against the advice of the Thayan physicians. His performance is poor, and likely the knight does himself more harm than good by his diehard determination.

As the reclusive Khazark shows no sign of emerging from his den any time soon the knight realises he must come to stand alone against his enemies.
Mother
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Within the Thayan Enclave of Baldur's Gate, high in the tower, the Knight Boris Vyacheslav stands within a large steel barred cage. The gargantuan man is dressed sharply in a black gambeson, red pantaloons and polished leather jackboots. His tattooed face is mangled with a calculating intensity whilst dark eyes roam between two Thayan blackguards with him in this arena - one before him and one to his flank.

None of them move, yet.

Boris' longsword is pointed low in the Alber ("Fool's Guard"). His opponents blades are fixed in Vom Tang (the roof). Tension is thick in the room. It tests the patience of the warriors - none of whom seem obliged to take initiative. Suddenly, the first blackguard began his approach - quick, and overconfident due to the deceptive low guard of the Knight. Boris stepped forward at the right moment and lifted his blade to greet him - a foot of steel shearing through his opponent's abdomen. Instead of the powerful downward stroke his foe intended, the longsword simply dropped from the high guard - and from his trembling hands - to the floor, a clatter of steel on stone.

Boris tore his sword free from the body, freckling his own face with blood, and turned swiftly to the second of the blackguards who came at his left flank. An instinctive parry from the seasoned Thayan Knight met the powerful chop just in time to save himself - the swords were locked edge to edge at the impact. Thus bound sword-to-sword, the snarling Knight roared with vigor and stepped into the gap. With all aggression he hooked his foot behind the leg of his opponent, his arm barring across the man at the throat. A sharp turn of Boris' powerful upper body slammed the blackguard onto his back where he quickly yielded, laying winded in recovery.

Boris stood over the conquered man with sword in hand, relishing his victory until another set of hurried footsteps alarmed him. He turned sharply, fixing his longsword in the Ochs (Ox) guard as if to meet an unexpected enemy. Instead, he met a servant bowed with her face close to the ground.

"Sir Boris," she beseeches, "a messenger from Surthay has arrived and requests meeting."

Boris lowered his guard and passed his longsword on to an approaching squire who exchanged the weapon for a towel. Drying his face the knight stepped over top the first maimed opponent who was curled into a fetal position in his agony, and dropped the towel behind himself into the pool of the man's blood where its white fabric drank thirstily. He marched briskly down the steps to the lounge of the Enclave.

When he emerged through the doorway he saw seated there woman in fine Thayan apparel accompanied by her servants. She had a beautiful and familiar face - but one grim with the burden of bad tidings.

Baffled at the sight, only one word escaped the lips of the herculean warmonger, "Mother."
The Di'Corvi Affair
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It was before dawn. Beneath the tower of the Enclave in the cold stone hallway of a sub terrain barracks a line of eight Thayvian blackguards stood at rigid attention shoulder to shoulder. Their breath was a mist. Bracketed torches cast fiery reflections in the polished black steel of their helmets and breastplates. But a passing shadow darkened each man momentarily. It belonged to Boris.

Steel boots clacked on the stone - slow steps. Boris took his time to walk the line. His analysis of the soldiers was critical - the blackish pits of grave-cold disapproval that were his eyes betrayed no satisfaction despite the perfected elitist posture and meticulous upkeep of equipment that met him.

As Boris arrived at the end of a line his gaze dropped like a stone to a servant bowed to the ground there, presenting the parcel to him in both hands.

~~~~

Boris sat at his personal station in the Knight's Quarters and turned the alchemical silver stiletto slowly in his bruised and burn-scarred hands. Over and over again he handled the token thus, and only in the low light of a flickering candle. It was as if he sought to appreciate the masterpiece from every angle.

Boris' eyes drift to his desk and skim-read the letter spread out there one last time.

"Purity By Fire", the zealot concluded with the mantra of Kossuth in a growled whisper. That single candle, his only companion in the chamber, illuminated a concoction of spiritual fervor, pride and amusement as its lonely light danced against his dark stare.

The missive was folded crisply and sheathed back into its envelope. It disappeared, along with the stilleto, into the top draw of his desk. A word of command activated a dull cherry red rune instead of a lock - a ward to guard the deposit.

The sun rose, and with it Boris rose from his desk. He took his sword, fixing it to his belt and resuming his duties. He could only wait for a report of her success, or for the equally telling absence thereof...
Crucible II
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"I'm scared."

The little boy with the shaved head wrung his hands anxiously. He stood under a great tree. Starlight pierced the rustling forest canopy above him.

The boy's eyes strained in futility staring into shadows overlapping shadows which darkened the way before him.

"Come back. I'm frightened," he pleaded again. Still no one answered him.

Fallen leaves scuffled. Footsteps. Growing nearer.

Hot tears of terror welled in the child's dark eyes. They rolled off of his bronze cheeks like diamonds and peppered the ground at his bare feet.

"Pomek?" The hairless boy questioned, "Ganau?"

The figure that emerged like a ghoul from the Surthayan shadows was not one of his brothers. Boris gasped and held his breath trembling at the sight.

Long black hair was braided in places. A full beard adorned his face. He was bare chested and war painted. Blood splattered his arms, chest and face - black instead of red in the night.

In one hand a langsax dripped and swung as he swaggered. Two tattooed scalps were clutched bloody and raw in the barbarian's other fist. Boris recognised them immediately.

The stranger strode right past, barely acknowledging the whelp. He stank of jhuild.

Boris had been too terrified to move. Even when the man was departed the child stared yet into those shadows from which the beast had emerged. His heart raced in his chest, fluttering like a wounded sparrow.


The sound of a bronze gong - muffled - somewhere a level or two above.

Boris' eyelids peeled apart despite the protest of scarred tissue to welcome in the brilliant white light blazing before him.

The ceremonial brazier.

Kneeling before it, Boris was suddenly aware of its extravagant heat. It washed over his blistering body in waves of nauseating agony. He could barely think but he could still taste the stench of jhuild from the berserker. It took much concentration to truly consider what he had just seen.

How had he so clearly recalled the memory of the forest track? It was as if he had been there now. The clarity of a vision, the immersion of a dream, the flavour of reality...

Whatever it was, Boris knew it was chaff. Chaff to be driven. Chaff to be burned. Kossuth's finger had touched his soul and revealed therein a cancerous weakness to be purified.

Fear.

Smoke whistled from burnt edges of his cracked and peeling skin. But Boris would remain within the bakery of flesh, mind and soul deeper into the night - wrestling with his god until he felt in himself that the purification was administered and his sin consumed by that relentless flame.
Goal Achieved: Knight-Commander
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The same week as the unexpected death of Zhar Quantoul comes the ascension of Sir Boris Vyacheslav. At the dispensation of His Eminence Khazark Kahanak Habdilof, Boris has attained the rank of Knight-Commander among the Order of the Crimson Guard. In regard to authority this positions the fighter above the apprentice magi and his fellow Knights, while rightfully below the red robed magi and of course the Khazark himself. It is the highest honour available to him.

"I, Boris Vyacheslav, ascend to the greatest honour and responsibility. I stand tall above the Knights that serve Thay and lead them to battle, train them perfectly and die with them. Their failures are mine, their successes are mine. I live and die for Thay and the Red Wizards."

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Left to right: Squire Johnri, Magus Seteneptra, Knight-Commander Boris, Khazark Kahanak
Father
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Father, would it have pleased you to see this day?

Boris marches down a dark subterranean hall of the Thayan Enclave. Two Thayan Knights in full battle regalia bodyguard him. Their boots clack like furious blacksmith's hammers working steel on anvils - sharp and hard against the polished stone floor.

You did not only create me. You fathered me. You set me apart from my brothers and you forged me in the crucible of suffering. You chose me to become what you were. To be like you.

Bracketed torches gasp fiery, flinching and throwing shadows, as the brisk passing of the armed men robs them of a moments breath.

At YOUR request I was transmuted. Changed from what I was, what I should have been, into what I am.

The three militants trot up a tightly wound tower stairwell. Up, up, up they go - one after the other with Boris at the head. His sword is drawn.

This body, this ... weapon ... I am more than the man I was born to be. I am abomination!

The door is burst ajar. Two knights spill into the room dragging a beautiful elderly lady from her bed by frail arms. The woman is bald, tattooed, and she is terrified.

... and I am become more than you ever were, father.

Boris approaches the woman standing there in her fine Thayan bedgown. She looks up at Boris and he looks down at her with eyes like hers. She is afraid - but not surprised.

I am Knight-Commander.

The woman crumples in the grip of the knights who have siezed her. Boris twists and wrenches his sword free from her body.

Turning his back the fighter wiped the blooded sword dry with a black silk cloth, eyes roaming the furnished chamber with cold admiration of its decorating.

"Cremate the body," the purple cloaked fighter murmured to the Knights, "flush the ashes."

Consenting immediately the Knights carry the body past the Knight-Commander and down the stairs.

Left alone in the room Boris exhaled a deep sigh of satisfaction through his thin nostrils. He sheathed his sword on his hip and folded the cloth as he went to exit - but he halts at the doorway to the stairwell, looking over his shoulder at the blood pool there.

"Yes," the fighter spoke in gutteral Thayan accents, earth hued eyes lifting to the high window of the tower guest chamber where white daylight filtered in, "you would have been pleased to see this day."

Boris lifts the the blooded black silk cloth to his face, inhaling the scent of his own noble blood, then drops it to the floor. He is gone - disappearing like a ghoul into the dark mouth of the stairwell, leaving only the dust to settle in the chamber of the altercation...
Condolences
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It is a late hour in the Enclave. Boris sits alone at his desk in the office of the Knight-Commander's quarters. All the room is pervaded by the spicy scent of Kossuthian incense. He writes by the low magical red glow that permeates the chamber from a crimson rune of light upon the ceiling.
Zantus Vyacheslav,

Your brother, Boris, writes to you in glorious well-being and in participation of great prestige.

I report to you the untimely death of our mother who was visiting here. She fell down the stairs of the Enclave tower ...
Boris sits back in his padded chair with a scowl and broods over the parchment at mid-sentence. He tickles the peacock feather quill under his brutally scarred jaw, grimacing as the cogs of his mind turn and turn again.
... and onto my sword.
Leira help him if the foolishness of the confession didn't cause him to smile a little. But Boris sweeps a magical stone over the parchment, drinking the ink from the page, and begins anew under the inspiration of a greater and better lie.
Zantus Vyacheslav,

Your brother, Boris, writes to you in glorious well-being and in participation of great prestige.

Our mother, esteemed guest of His Eminence Khazark Habdilof, is gravely ill having contracted of the terrible blight that you may or may not have heard has swept this region recently.

She is under quarantine in the Enclave but is sure to die. A further will of our father remains in her possession and she will disclose nothing of its location or content to me. She demands your presence, Zantus, as the rightful heir of our heritage estate.

Therefore, I beseech on her behalf that you come urgently to the Enclave of Baldur's Gate - alone, or with those of our kinsmen who care to be with her at her death.

Sir Boris Vyacheslav,
Knight-Commander of the Crimson Guard
Enclave of Baldur's Gate
Picnic
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Knight Commander Boris Vyacheslav and Magus Seteneptra Ma'u enjoy the view of the green basin south of Nashkel. It is a moment of serenity before the booming of great wings from above...

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A Roc descends on elaborate campsite. It swoops, snatching a nearby stag and destroying the red silken tent in the process.

Thus, the outing is cut short. As hurried preparation are made to depart, the avian returns. After sheltering Seteneptra in a nearby cluster of trees the Knight-Commander steps brazenly into the open with sword in hand, bellowing and drawing the attention of the circling predator.

It is a terrible battle. The creature is fierce and great, but Boris is unyielding - with the Magus in danger he cannot balk at all. He greets every swoop with the point of his sword, hacking the talons that seek to grapple him. The screeching bird pursues the knight as he lures it further and further from the trees where Seteneptra prepares a spell to teleport herself to the safety of the Enclave.

Before long the creature is dead at Boris' feet and he stands alone in the basin, no witness to his triumph. His unarmored head and face are painted red by many sore wounds. Thus mutilated, but victorious, he makes a solitary return to the Enclave by foot.
Battle Royal
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Well dressed servants of Thayan nationality are dispersed across the Sword Coast to the orders and temples of the realm, each issued a written missive to declare to those who will hear, and to deliver into the hands of appropriate authority;

To recognized orders of knighthood and religion;

Be it known to squires and knights among you, noble and infamous, least and greatest, this declaration of the good intention of Sir Boris Vyacheslav of the Order of the Crimson Guard:

A battle royal shall be hosted, wherein our knighthoods may be tested against one another in jousting, skill at arms and sword dueling.

There will be one victor. To him shall be a reward of ten bags of gold and the honourable recognition among his peers as the greatest knight of this realm in 1352.

Register your interest with this servant and release him.

Sir Boris Vyacheslav,
Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard
Balduran Thayan Enclave
Sir Boris' intention to bring the knights of the realm together for a great melee and fellowship were not well received. Twelve days had passed since the Knight-Commander's couriers were dispatched and, thus far, there had been no expression of interest from any of the orders invited to participate. The only courier who returned with a response had brought missive to Boris from the Watchknight Sveta Asperan. That bold woman defied the knighthood of the Thayan and refused any peaceful engagement with him or his fellow nationals.

She might as well have spoken for them all.


Boris lounged in the armchair of his quarters with an ancient sword standing between his knees, one hand resting palm down atop its pommel - a blade that whispered a never-ending sigh of negative energy.

Tonight, the herculean soldier glowered into the fireplace while its radiating glow highlighted the musculature of his menacingly hulking frame. Powerful shoulders rose and fell with deep, angered breathing. The Knight-Commander was not pleased.

For the past six weeks the Knight-Commander had intensified the training of his Knights, proving them against one another and himself likewise in preparation for the Battle Royal - this would have given his men a four week advantage of preparation by the time other participants were only notified of the event... But the unpopularity of his people - the Thayan people - was a rampant reality.

In this backward Western realm, Boris had experienced first-hand that even half-orcs were better received than the Thayan national. Ultimately, and personally, this behavior communicated that the Thayan people were esteemed by some to be less than half-human.

That "bestial slave-race of half-breeds" had been given preference over the Thayan by some - even being defended from Boris when he challenged their presence so close to human settlement. It was rumored some half-orcs were knighted by orders of Baldur's Gate - even leading them!

It would not surprise the Thayan to learn it were true. In Thay, orcs were slaves. Here they were dressed up like men and paraded themselves as if they actually believed that they were!

Despite the violent and tumultuous history of the land regarding these monsters, ludicrous tolerances existed among some of these natives. Perhaps, Boris considered, these explained the constant resurgence of orc war-parties such as that amassing throng of Gruuman who threatened their kingdoms today.

Oh, these natives - how many times would history repeat itself before they learned the necessity of utterly subjugating such species as the orc, and rejecting all that comes from them? War was an expensive tutor whose tedious lesson Boris was quite untempted to interrupt in any way as it was meted out again on these "ignorant Western barbarians". It was for their own good, as he considered it.

As for the Thayans - the reputation for which they were collectively despised as a people was justified. They were slavers. There was no denying it, and no apologizing for it.


Boris silently lifts his empty cup from the arm-rest. A bruised servant steps forward out of the shadows to refill the vessel with a ready bottle of wine.

There would be no Battle Royal - and, as Boris considered, perhaps it was for the best.
Last edited by Darradarljod on Wed May 25, 2016 6:54 am, edited 8 times in total.
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Reports to Bentley Mirrorshade

Unread post by Darradarljod »

QUEST COMPLETE: Reports to Bentley Mirrorshade

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Darradarljod wrote:A bag of 20 gold coins arrives with this letter by the hand of a halfling runner.


To: Bentley Mirrorshade of the Friendly Arm Inn

This missive regards the defilement of your laws and hospitality on the evening of the 16th of Alturiak 1352; namely, my assault on the humanoid by moniker of "Crow" within your establishment.

I express my regret at the outworking of these hostilities, and acknowledge it was to your expense. I stand accountable as the instigator of the offence within the Keep and therefore acknowledge reparation as owing.

I propose the negotiation of a settlement that is agreeable in proportion to the damages to your establishment and its reputation.

A reply to this missive will reach me at the address of the Baldur's Gate Thayan Enclave in the East Gate region of the city. Find included with this letter the sum of twenty gold coins toward your courier expenses.

Regards,

Sir Boris Vyacheslav of Surthay
DM Ghost wrote:
Sir Boris Vyacheslav,

As recompense for your crimes at the Friendly Arm Inn, I'll ask that you for one ten-day patrol the road Between the Wyrm's Crossing, Beregost and Candlekeep to make sure that travellers to my inn are kept safe. If you find anyone heading towards the inn, offer to escort them.

I expect a brief report on each day's incidents at the end of that day.

Bentley Mirrorshade
Subsequent reports of Sir Boris Vyacheslav delivered to Bentley by courier;

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6th Tarsakh, 1352 DR
Patrolled alone from Baldurs Gate to the Friendly Arm Inn. Encountered no travellers but was waylaid multiple times by bandits. Defending myself against the lawless men I persecuted them to the full extent of my strength, seeking out those hiding in the hills and executing several before arriving at the Friendly Arm Inn territories. I returned to my camp.

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8-9th Tarsakh, 1352 DR
Travelled from the Friendly Arm Inn to Beregost without encountering any travellers. Occasional goblinoids were skirmished. I returned the way I came and patrolled the northern road on my return to Baldur's Gate for a meeting with the Enclave.

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Duties within the Enclave prevent Boris' continuation of regular patrols for two weeks. His intentions to resume patrols delivered to Bentley on the 23rd of Tarsakh via courier messenger and are enacted as of the 25th.

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25th Tarsakh, 1352 DR
Patrolled the Trade Way between Beregost and The Friendly Arm. Encountered no travelers. Slew one goblin. Pushing further north I patrolled the road between the Friendly Arm Inn and Baldur's Gate. Encountered no travelers. Slew two bandits and killed a pair of their attack dogs.

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26th Tarsakh, 1352 DR
Patrolled the Trade Way from The Friendly Arm Inn to Beregost. The rain was heavy and the weather made for difficult journey. One goblin strayed too near to the road and was slain. No travelers were encountered - likely due to the storm.

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11th Mirtul, 1352 DR
While patrolling the routes around the Friendly Arm Inn without incident or encounter of note I paused outside the keep for respite.

A woman confronted me as to why I was armed. I readily explained both my obligation and the lawlessness of these roads. Moments later, as if to illustrate my point, a gang of men and women in red hoods were upon us like a mob of vultures supposing there was conflict to be witnessed. Disappointed that there was not the trolls began goading us to fight each other and threatening to attack us themselves, preparing with spells. This encounter concluded without violent incident, however.

The woman is a half-elven Helmite soldier who also patrols the routes I am assigned to. It was her restraint in fear of the law of the land that diffused the situation, despite being slandered by the bystanders.

We may patrol the roads together while my obligation to your establishment continues.

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17 Mirtul, 1352 DR
I patrolled road north from Beregost, taking the Lion's Way west toward Candlekeep before backtracking and moving north to The Friendly Arm Inn.

Here I met with a woman Alessia whom I offered to escort on her way north to Baldur's Gate. She was joined by a man named Thomas who went with us. Before departing, I found an elf of Doron Amar who consented likewise for my escort north. In addition to these, an unnamed halfling took advantage of the safety in our numbers to go a part of the way with us.

These I escorted through the bandit troubled road north on their way from your Inn to the beginning of the farmlands of Baldurs Gate.

As I am sure you are aware, Master Mirrorshade, my dedicated patrols between the 6th of Tarsakh and the 17th of Mirtul amount to six days of service in total toward our agreement of ten.

I am also certain you will appreciate my duties as Knight-Commander to my Lord and Khazark and his Enclave have taken priority over this, which is a personal matter. Nonetheless, my patrols continue.

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20th Mirtul, 1352 DR
Patrolling north of the Friendly Arm Inn I encountered a woman a way off the road who had been beset by bandits but slain her attackers. I escorted the woman on a return to the road. There, we were beset by highwaymen, whom we dispatched together. Escorting the woman south she arrived safely at the Friendly Arm Inn.

I returned north toward Baldur's Gate, my intention to resupply at the Enclave before resuming a night patrol. On the bridge I encountered a noblewoman of the far north. An acquaintance of my Lord Khazark. She was seeking an escort south to the Friendly Arm Inn which is a hub for her to conduct business out of.

After resupplying at the Enclave I escorted this woman and her acquaintance south to the Friendly Arm Inn, and this safely, despite encountering an orc-blooded man and several bandits on the roads.

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A letter is delivered to Bentley Mirrorshade from the Thayan Enclave of Baldur's Gate. It bares the seal of Knight-Commander Boris Vyacheslav and is received exactly one month after the last report of his patrols;

20th Kythorn, 1356 DR

Bentley Mirrorshade,

Boris Vyacheslav writes to you from the Thayan Enclave of Baldur's Gate.

Greetings, to you and to your wife.

I ask that you forgive the absence of my reports over the last month. Though I have traveled the roads around your keep I would not dignify these to be patrols according to our agreement.

Despite this seeming lax in my oath toward you, I would that you rest assured in knowing that I am minded to see my obligations toward you met.

As Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard the security of our Enclave and her personnel is my highest priority. The recent death of His Eminence Khazark Kahanak Habdilof and addressing these hostilities toward our nationals have demanded all of my attention.

Soon I will personally escort the body of our Lord into Thay. I anticipate that I will be absent no more than three days.

I am confident that after my return I will find time to see our agreement through to its conclusion.

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23rd Flamerule, 1352DR

Several weeks ago I offered my services as armed escort to the Gate Warden of Candlekeep to any residents minded to brave the Lion's Way to The Friendly Arm Inn. Naught has come of this.

Today, however, I stationed myself at the Eastern Gate entrance into Baldur's Gate. Finding no travelers to the Friendly Arm Inn, after some time, I made my own patrol south to your keep through the bandit-lands.

Traveling alone I was charged by a bear on the road. A lesser man may not live to tell such a tale. Over the course of these patrols I have come to understand your concern for travelers on these roads to your estate.

In Thay, Mirrorshade, the diligent upkeep of the highways networking our nation prevent such lawlessness and wilderness which you suffer as common here in the Western Heartlands.

Though the jurisdiction of your guards and lordship ends at the gates of your castle it is clear to me by your commission toward me that your concerns go beyond the walls to these outlying roads.

Here in Baldur's Gate, I testify that you cannot so much as swing your sword without striking one mercenary company or another. When my services are rendered I would recommend you hire one of these adventuring bands, sprouting like fungi under the rotting log that is this city, in order to police the bandit activity and cull the bear population to the north of your home.

Continuing in your service toward reparation, for two more days patrol,

Boris Vyachceslav
Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard

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29th of Elesias, 1352DR

Master Bentley Mirrorshade,

For my continuing reparation toward yourself, I provided an armed escort for a woman traveling south from Baldur's Gate to the Friendly Arm Inn. I continued alone on the Lion's Way to Candlekeep. There I met with a small group, including the Gatewarden, meaning to travel north to the Friendly Arm Inn who accepted my services. Leaving Candlekeep we met a pair of inexperienced travelers fleeing from the beetles infesting the local lands. Together, we were able to cut a safe track north to your keep. There I left them, and returned to Baldur's Gate.

One more day remains to be served on the roads leading your keep.

At your service,

Boris Vyachceslav
Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard

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Boris escorts Xelarian, Isabella, Naomi

2nd of Eleint, 1352 DR

Final Report of Boris Vyacheslav

I escort a magus of our Balduran Enclave from Nashkel of Amn to the Friendly Arm Inn. On the roadside not far north of Beregost we discovered evidence of banditry - a waylaid wagon, and several slain.

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Arriving at the Friendly Arm Inn we were met with a party of mercenaries. I was pleased to learn you have hired them to deal with these bandit attacks in the region. I reported our findings on the southern roads to them.

I am reminded of earlier this same year when I served alongside the Flaming Fist in disassembly of the Toecutter's gang who lay in wait for blood between your keep and Baldur's Gate. It has always been my good pleasure to see thieves quartered.

This concludes the ten-day patrols you commissioned me as reparation for damages to your business. I trust you are satisfied?

These patrols have taken me from my regular duties, yet, or perhaps therefore, I have come to appreciate these acts of service.

Fare well, Bentley Mirrorshade.

Boris Vyacheslav
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

Unread post by Darradarljod »

QUEST COMPLETE: Fratricide


As the youngest son of his father and heart-set on securing not only the lordship of his family estate but the right to rule, Boris embarked on a grueling serial fratricide to see his brothers die. After the mysterious death of his father and the beheading of his mother, who failed to poison him at the Enclave, a joined effort between Boris and Seteneptra successfully saw the downfall of all potential heirs which leaves Boris the title to his family estate in Surthay.

The Seven Brothers of Boris Vyacheslav:

Bolgreth- disintegrated.
Bolgreth is a lawless rogue with no regard for the honour of his family, nor love his nation. He is led by his pleasures and flees from one tharch to another pursuing aristocratic lovers and evading the wrath of many a jealous husband. He took his share of financial inheritance while his father was alive and this has provided him a life of luxury to this day. His current sanctuary is Surthay, but Zantus will not tolerate him at the family estate. The most recent scandal involved impregnating the wife of a Red Wizard, Pevek of Pyarados who, despite many gifts, will not put aside his jealous wrath and has put a bounty on Bolgreth of 10,000 gold.

Erjesko- poisoned.
Erjesko never left the estate in any pursuit of profession or ambition or service. He is the favourite of his mother. He is widely popular for hosting great and expensive feasts for his large circle of "friends". He has a reputation for overeating on such occasions which is reflected in his morbid girth. As a result of his popularity, Erjesko is rarely not in the company of one group of friends or another.

Gextas - dead
Gextas is a secretive and private man. A Red Wizard - the only one of this generation. He never yet married or had children. Gextas has managed the Surthayan Estate's wealth for years. Gextas made great gains in influence and wealth from investment in the slave trade and great advances in magic are attributed to his torturous experiments on living subjects. Gextas accumulates wealth and properties, prestige and envy among his peers, but is never satisfied. He has begun embarking on risky ventures for greater rewards, which have so far all collapsed, and I suspect he has been embezzling money from the estate and his businesses. Gextas is of the Researcher Faction, rather than the Imperialist, which sets him against our family tradition and causes much contention between himself and Zentus.
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Darradarljod wrote:Plated weights dangled from a belt looped around Boris' waist. Clinging to the bars of a steel frame overhead he hung like a torture victim. After so long of hanging there his back arched and his muscles engaged, pulling himself up all the way. At the apex he lowered himself again and repeated the process.

When he was done, he dropped with like a great ape onto the padding below.... to the sound of a gentle applause.

Rising, Boris glared across the chamber of grunting Knights to greet the approach of the red robed Gextas - his own and now only remaining brother.

"Magus Gextas," Boris undid his belt and dropped it to his side with a clatter of large steel plates. He dust off his large hands and could not help but to regard the wizard suspiciously.

"Knight-Commander, isn't it? Well done, Boris. Truly. Well done."

"How can I be of service?"

"You're looking well. I'd say you're looking in the best shape of all of our brothers. Though that's not saying much any more, is it?"

Boris rolled a blood engorged shoulder with a series of cartilage clicks. His pit-bull jaw clenched and crow like eyes narrowed on the man.

"Should I thank you? For all of your hard work you've only left the Estate to me. I had presumed there would be an assassin for me, also, but you're really a Thayan Knight aren't you?" the extravagantly robed man circled the Knight slowly, admiring the transmutation that had resulted in his terrible form.

"So what was all and any of this? Some kind of sad little gift to me?"

"No. I want the Estate, Gextas. And I want more than the Estate; I want the right."

"Yes, yes, of course you do," Gexas stopped face to face with Boris, leaning on a slender obsidian staff that ended in a scaled claw clutching the petrified embryo of a doppelganger in fetal position, "But that right is mine."

"Now, I am not a scrooge. Truth be told I have no more interest in playing "Zulkir" of that toilet swampland than I did when we were children, watching you all fight to sit on daddy's sad, sad little throne. So I am open to propositions. Yes, I am open to making an ... arrangement."

A glimmer of hope in Boris' eyes was curdled with wary intuition, "Gextas - you are a Magus. I am a Knight. What do I have that you could possibly want, and is not yours already?"

"Oh Boris - don't wilt before the glory of my scarlet prestige - try keep your chin up when you talk to me!" Gextas laughed dryly, and used the grim ornament of his staff to push up the chin of Boris. Because of the Red Wizard's shorter stature Boris had to lower his chin afterward to look down at the man again anyway, "Its a simple trade I've in mind for you, baby brother. Something fair for family."

The Magus lowered his voice to an surreptitious whisper, "I have the right to the Estate - and I will give it to you if you give me the right to... oh, lets say, that titillating little woman of yours? Seteneptra? How such a beauty and so young settled for an old aurochs with the face of a dropped-pie is beyond me - but I'm glad to see you're looking your best," Gextas swiveled a gold ringed finger tipped by a weave-warped fingernail at Boris' regenerated face.

Boris' nostrils flared. He simply stared into the weasel like face of the Thayan brother.

"Yes... The rights of the Estate for your conjugal rights as a husband. This is my offer; I will take your place on the wedding night," Gextas elaborated the specifics, "and you, Boris? You will have your Estate to enjoy all the richness of a life and legacy together afterward. I will never trouble you again," the Magus smiled reasonably. Boris remained staunchly silent.

"Oh, hush hush!" the doppelganger embryo touched the Knight's lips, "Don't dare to answer now. Think about it, Bobo - but don't think too hard..."

Large and tattooed hands crept into bulging fists of sore wroth, with no where to strike out. Gextas looked to those hands, then to Boris' face, "...nor too long."

With a small smirk he threw up his crimson hood over his shaven scalp and trot out of the gymnasium with the aid of his staff, impishly unmolested by the death-glares of the Commander that pursued him.
Herisheft wrote:Beautiful in this ugliness, a tattooed sphinx cat, was lounging on gymnasium's parapet. Being unseen, above everything and everybody, he observed and listened to the conversation between brothers. Blinking slowly, like cats use to do, or maybe not to distort the eyesight of the "other", hidden behind its hetero-chromatic eyes.

Silent and raspy cat moan escaped it's throat after wizard's departure, turning Commander's attention and made him to look up onto it's obnoxious muzzle, before the creature disappeared like a morning dew, leaving several magical particles floating around.
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Herisheft wrote:-You did well... - Seteneptra stroked the cheek of a slave with tips of her fingers, smearing the drops of blood over his skin. Vile smile of satisfaction crawled on her face when she forced a scared man to look into her eyes, by grabbing him by his chin. - Tell me... what happened here? - She whispered and slightly licked her lip. - What will you confess?

-Mi... Mistress.-He swallowed saliva like a terrified animal and dropped the blood smeared knife on the floor.- I... I was serving wine to you and your guest, when... when, he forced himself onto you. Then I... I...I had to stop him, I felt like I have to, and it was reflex. You are my lady... I stabbed him with a fruit knife... several times. -Man started to shake and tried to look at wizardess’ bloodied metal claws touching his face. - I wanted to save you Mistress... Forgive me Mistress...

She tilted her head and closed his mouth by pressing fingers to his lips. -Excellent. That’s EXACTLY what happened. You did well...very, very well. -She closed her devil-red red lips while still smiling and gazing into terrified man's eyes. - But there is one more part to this story... - She pressed her hand on slave's chest, and before poor man could realize why she whispered words in language unknown for him, his ribcage imploded. - In his last attempt he tried to kill me, and you shielded me with yourself. - She just looked into those fading eyes, before the man slipped on his knees. With last reflex he grabbed on her robe and pressed it to his lips, he moaned with disappearing breath.
- I just... did... what you... asked of me... Mis...

She looked at the bodies of two men lying at her feet. One of high and mighty red wizard who in his arrogance wouldn't thought that just a mere slave can be a threat, while he was hoping for a happy end with a seductive and desirous woman, who managed to deceive him so easy. The other one, so tragically involved with the games of people better than him, poor man fooled and used as a tool in this gruesome spectacle.

Wizardess sighted with a satisfied moan before she elegantly pitched onto the sofa with a silent chuckle. She took her legs of the floor, where a growing puddle of blood could stain her feet. She enjoyed the obscenity of the situation for a few more moments while sipping on rest of her wine and purring silently to herself.
-Knights!!!

---
-Is that clear slave? - Set looked straight in the eyes of a servant from so close distance, it almost looked like she is about to kiss him, but for the poor man this situation didn't looked so delightful.
-Ye...Yes Mistress... - He breathed with relief when she moved back and released him from this horrifying stare of hers.
---

-I've heard every word... - She smiled invitingly at wizard who had his attention divided between her face and her deep, dress cleavage and after short second he managed to realize what she was talking about and grin back. What he didn't spot, was that slave was standing behind him, carrying an enchanted dagger. Waiting for a signal.

Slave hesitated for a moment , he was to attack a red wizard, but other one ordered him to do so, he speculated in his mind who is more important here before he sank the dagger into mage's back, right under the ribs. Gextas gasped in surprise and pain, spitting some blood on his lips and few drops on Set's face. His eyes, from passionate lust went into stare of passion for kill, when he opened his mouth and crepitate first syllables of incantation. She has spotted the wizard's attempt to cast a spell, and fastest counter reaction was to stab the side of man's neck with her decorative claws, thus stopping him from chanting by ripping straight into his vocal cords.

- You wanted a night with me...?! - She smiled at his arrogant expression turning into mask of even bigger surprise and pain - You just got yourself into a night to remember... -Removed her hand from man's flesh, splashing some blood on the couch and carpet. Another stab from the slave, and a man in red just couldn't scream. Another one. She leaned and cupped his face between her hands pressing fingers into his skin and looking into misery of his eyes, as he grabbed her wrists in some desperate, unknown attempt. - Don't worry, that will be a short memory.

She pushed him away with her foot, and moved at the end of the sofa with a smile, while stressed out slave, driven with adrenaline just couldn't stop stabbing the collapsing wizard. She just looked at this scene of abuse, with sinister fascination and excitement as the life once so treasured by this man was so brutally ended, accompanied by high pitched woman's laughter.
Jadmek- killed in his sleep.
Jadmek would have been a soldier in the Thayan Army, but a hunting injury disqualified him. All his friends embarked on military careers without him, and are now distinguished, dead or both. Jadmek's injury healed, but he nurses it still, and plays it up, with much self-pity, as though he were still incapable of anything more than reclining at home and enjoying the pleasures of privilege. He refuses to work. Jadmek is close to Erjesko.

Larnobov- killed by Surthayan knights being found drunk and wearing red robes
Larnobov is a born fighter. He led many skirmishes against Rashemi tribesmen around the Lake Mulsantir. He is aggressive, short-tempered and easily offended. Larnobov has many enemies in Surthay, and has been the cause of reparations paid by the Vyacheslav Estate for damages to persons and properties that were not our enemies. He is addicted to the Rashemi "jhuild", and has been since childhood, which fuels much of his rampant behavior.

Rahlet - murdered along with his family during a home invasion.
Rahlet is unremarkable, except for his earnest striving for the favour of our late father. He never achieved much for his self-loathing and lack of commitment. He was never as strong as Larnobov, never as popular as Erjesko, never as rich as Gextas, never as powerful as Zantus. Rahlet manages a tax checkpoint in southern Surthay and is quite removed from the family estate by his own decision after many bitter disputes. He raises a young family quietly in his own property on the border of our territories, but is a habitual drinker and his complaints border slander, drawing much wrath from Zantus especially.

Zantus- killed by a ghoul.
The eldest of our brothers and rightful heir to the Vyacheslav estate after the death of our father. Zantus is a powerful personality and very self-reliant. He rebelled against our father all the years of his life. He would have made a fine Thayan Knight, but his rebellion was unyielding. Zantus is incredibly vain of his personal appearance and reputation. He is a handsome man, and a fine swordsman. This brother is often engaged in duels because his "honour" is easily slighted. Zantus is an outspoken Imperialist, like myself. He does not care for the glory of the family, only his own. He neglects the consideration of our family's future, and refuses to take counselors. He ensures he is escorted by a bodyguard of two soldiers to formal and informal events, and these are proven loyal.
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Zantus entered the quarantine room wearing a breather mask, a black surgical robe and a grey apron.

Kohl marked eyes scanned the chamber - empty, compact. A shallow ceiling. Only one door, and beside it a viewing window - small and square. There against the far corner of the cell was a bed, veiled by a light gauze netting. There was a shadowy figure thereon, laying perfectly still on their back.

The sounds of the door bolting behind him provoked a glare over his shoulder. Zantus stood idle a moment in claustrophobia before turning his attention back to the bed.

"Mother. It is I, Zantus."

As Zantus began to approach the bed, something unsettling in the air caused a chill to run up his spine. A low magical thrum began from beneath the bed, accompanied by a green light that flared then faded. Wizards, the man murmured in mind.

"You sent for me?"

Zantus continued across the room to the bedside. The body on the bed began to stir behind the veil - shadowy movements, slow and clumsy. A broken groan.

He came to the veil and drew it apart with both hands.

Were he not wearing the breather mask, he might have recognized the stench of death as he entered the chamber. Were he as learned in spell-craft as he was in swordsmanship, he might have recognized the rune he triggered on entering...

There was no time for Zantus to react before the stone cold iron grip of the ghoul took him. The woman lunged at him, baring wicked teeth. Zantus, aghast, staggered back and collapsed on the hard floor. Winded, he rolled with the abomination, wrestling with all his might as it sought to take his neck in its mouth.

A burst of strength - the living shoved the dead off and scrambled for the door. But there was no handle on the inside. He beat the door in futility, then moved to the window.

Frantic. Blooded. Zantus' bitten hands slapped against the magical glass, wildly pleading but perfectly sound-proofed.

As the ghoul dragged the man out of sight Boris turned away from the window. Satisfied and, at the same time, disinterested. He addressed the apprentice Magi standing nearby with a knowing glance and departed alone down the long corridor of the Enclave ward.
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Gallery

CONCEPT ART (IN PROGRESS) - Herisheft
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SCREENSHOTS

The Banished Squire
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Knighted
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From the Balcony
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Rise, Knight-Commander
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The Courtship of Seteneptra
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Petrified
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Fellowship
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Weird Guys Walking Cat
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Goodbye, Zhar
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Got Beef? - Slaying White Minotaurs
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Portals
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Meeting the new Magus
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Teleporting toward Darkhold
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Duel at Darkhold
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Carnage on the Roads
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Birds of a Feather
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Dragon - its whats for dinner
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Boris and Seteneptra
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Bobo
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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The Return to Thay - Kythorn, 1352DR

(snippets of a larger co-operative between Darradarljod, Herisheft)
Resurrection
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Baldur's Gate, Thayan Enclave, 21st day of Kythorn 1352DR

The portal roared and burst into life illuminating the Enclave chamber in brilliant hues of crimson that radiated over every surface with a watery ambiance.

The steady din of magical energy thrummed in the ears of the Thayvian assembly who stood before this gaping vortex - the only thing connecting this Balduran Enclave to its Thayan homeland. Gestor Seteneptra Ma'u in her grieving attire and the Knight-Commander Vyacheslav in full battledress stood at the front of an assembly of Thayan Knights who bore on their shoulders the extravagant sarcopaghus of Khazark Kahanak Habdilof. Behind them, what seemed a throng of servants baring burdens of personal belongings and artifacts.

A grim and austere funeral procession they filed neatly into the portal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eltabbar, The Flaming Brazier (Temple of Kossuth), 21st day of Kythorn 1352DR

Instantaneous, the Enclave members arrived in Thay via the portal-dock during Waukeen's festival of Brightbuckle. The streets that greet their arrival are decked with finery - joyful and bright.

Double-doors of warm iron are thrown open by a pair of armed knights and the party file in after them baring the sarcophagus of Kahanak on their shoulders. Already at the head of the isle a sarcophagi of lesser quality rest, rites preceding cremation interrupted by their arrival much to the offence of those gathered.

As the young priest administering the ceremony approached to challenge the intruders, Boris stepped forward and planted his plated hand on the man's chest to prevent him, growling in their native tongue, "Fetch the Primate."

Spying the solitary Magus - centerpiece among their ranks - caused his eyes to widen. Obliging, the priest hitched his robes and hustled away into the inner cloister.

Moments later, an older man in extravagant but singed robes with face and hands covered in ash emerges from the sanctuary, accompanied by two other clergymen as well as the first.

"What is the meaning of this?" the elder barked at Seteneptra as he approached, none too impressed.

Boris' kohl-lined eyes glowed with fury. He bellowed in command, "Kneel before your Magus!"

A group of Thayan Knights advanced on the priests, siezed them by their bony shoulders to force them down hard onto their knees, although they themselves permitted.

With the clerics rightfully subjugated before their arcanist overlord, Boris stepped to the side of the isle to make way for the Magus Seteneptra's sauntering approach.


She looked at the priests and made a hand gesture for them to stand up.

"I have a delicate manner for you to take care of. Make preparations for resurrection ritual and waste no time with it. I want you to make a priority of it priest."

She moved slightly on the side to make place for grim procession.

"Lead my knights to a place where you will have the ritual performed."


The ash-faced elder bowed his head submissively. His acolytes helped him to rise and, without further objection, together led the procession of knights away to the inner sanctum where preparations were made with the body of Kahanak...
The Vyacheslav-Ma'u Covenant
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Tyranturos, Temple of Kossuth, 22nd day of Kythorn, 1352DR

When Boris stepped out of the palaquin it was much to the relief of the slaves carrying him. They took the chance to rest while he met the tremendous sight of the Kossuthian temple.

Like guards on each side of the tall steel doors great bronze dishes sat upon legs cast in the likeness of lions. Each brazier was as tall as a man and they burned together in lively fashion giving off a proud white smoke. Boris had to turn his face up to spy the heights of the temple spires that cut like black daggers into the Tyranturan sky - clear blue, other than the smoke pollution from this holy site of the Lord of Flame.

After a moment tarrying, the chief slave led Boris away from the temple to a small, domed structure. Together, they entered into a man-door and down a brief torch-lit corridor into the chambers of ablation - a mostly un-decorated chamber with a tiled pool as deep as a man's chest and big enough for two at most, masterfully craft into the floor. It steamed as if heated from beneath, which caused such a haze in the room it was difficult to see as well as warm to breathe.

Boris glared at the watery pit with disdain. Purity was by fire, but unfortunately, cleanliness was by water.

Meanwhile, the servants, carefully hand picked by Lenore and instructed for the ceremony to come, undressed the knight. He did not protest their assistance but rather held his arms aside to let them unfasten his sword-belt. Others unwrapped his sandals. Barefoot, he approached the pool, pulling off his own tunic and dropping it behind himself.

Boris descended the steps into the pool and stood there a moment, waving his hands through the warm water and feeling it move between his fingers. He dunked himself, completely underwater, then arose from the submersion like a predator - so silently and slowly that the water hardly disturbed. It trickled down the cut lines of his transmuted body and he blinked it from his eyes.

As Boris lift his tattooed face to the domed ceiling skin creased in folds where his thick skull and bull neck joined.

Again, Boris sank. He submerged himself completely, abiding in the water a moment before rising a second time.

His eyes remained closed. With a deep breath, he sank one final time into the deep. When he ascended this time, eyes opened, blurred by the water running freely into them over his hairless eyebrows. At the sound of shuffling feet Boris turned his gaze over his broad shoulder.

Stepping out of the ritual pool he was greeted by two servants baring towels who worked diligently and respectfully to dry the gargantuan fighter - and there was much of him to dry...

~~

When Boris entered into the temple interior he was met with all the fierce decoration and structure to be expected in a temple of the god of fire. The temple chapel was populated with various guests of varying prestige - but at the front line of audience, of course, the red robes had their presence.

It was a tall and otherly interior with far reaching ceilings decorated in beautiful mosaic and art, but stained in places by ancient smoke damage. Yellow banners of Kossuth decorated the walls proudly baring the holy symbol of a flame. Before the altar, blackened by burnt offering, stretched a bed of red hot coals. A great heat waft from this glowing trench causing a mirage and heating the entire temple like a dry oven.

Beyond the altar of sacrifice, where Amunhothep stood waiting in full ceremonial garb, a giant golden idol representative of Kossuth in his fiery wrath glared with menace on all of his domain. It was a masterpiece, craft in some terrible likeness between an efreeti and a fire elemental and it was the size of an ogre at least. Charred offerings of lambs and young goats lay around the feet on golden platters, some still smoldering.

The golden idol seemed to glow soft and fiery hues as if it were fresh from or even still within whatever furnace had forged it. This magical imbuing gave it some illusion of life, though its glare was surely blind.

Smoke from various holy braziers was fed through carefully placed chimneys so as not to pollute the temple with such filth - for indeed, the Kossuthian believes that smoke is the impurity leaving whatever object that burns.

The commander wore a flowing black headdress over his freshly shaven scalp. It was fixed at the brow with a golden circlet studded at the forehead by a single brilliant labradorite. The fabric hung on his upper back and covered his bulging shoulders. New kohl lined his eyes as black as sin. If he was nervous now, it did not show. He gave only confidence and even a subtle hint of pleasure to be here when he met the gaze of Seteneptra's stern father.

A mantle collar of black fabric and gold trimming overlay his broad shoulders and strong collarbone. The skin of the knight's upper body otherwise bare - smooth and chiseled as if from marble. His wrists were gold wrapped, his sandals black strapped, and around his lower half he wore a dark purple kalasiris ending just above the knee.

Boris approached the altar where the High Priest stood and bowed to a knee - not to the man, but to the representation of fiery Kossuth that towered beyond him. While kneeling there Boris, using his left thumb, touched ash from a small bronze dish at the foot of the altar. He marked a horizontal line over his brow, then his bottom lip, then his right palm. Only then did Boris rise from his knee and greet Amunhothep face to face - a pregnant silence. Boris looked over the crowd who spoke quietly among themselves then fixed his gaze on the great double doors patiently with his hands behind his back.


Chimes and rhythmic drum hits echoed inside the temple, filling it with semi-trance atmosphere keeping it pure from whispers forcing gathered people to stay in focus. Temple guards finally opened the door from the other side...

She stood until door were fully opened for her. Transparent curtains hanging from the portal moved, pushed by the twist of air making her silhouette blurry, but them also were moved aside after short moment. Golden headpiece based on ornamented band with inlay of lapis lazuli and onyxes, supported a waterfall of thin, jeweled chains in imitation of hair which were falling on her shoulders, shimmering with fiery reflexes with every step she took. Kalasiris made of semi-transparent, black gradient to red silk cambric, was draped on her upper part creating deep triangle cleavage and skew opening for her leg, it reached down to the floor and dragged behind her like a wide tail. Decorative underbust belt tightened around her silhouette, keeping the fabric together. Golden bracelets and bracers serve as hooks for black shawl spread between her arms and back like pair of wings. She walked barefooted having her ankles decorated with subtle jewelry made from thin chains, which accompanied her headpiece with making jingling sounds as she walked through the temple. Her makeup fitted coloristic to her attire making her gaze even deeper than it usually was.

As she came closer the more her eyesight was focused on Boris, but her face expression reminded stern and full of pride. Finally reaching his side in front of her father, she repeated the ash act performed earlier by Commander.

Amunhothep raised a jeweled goblet above his head in his fire scarred hands. - Fire Lord, we bow our heads before you. Burn away all illusions from our minds and vision in your purifying fire. - His deep voice easy filled out every corner of the temple. - We demand protection. Gods demand fidelity. May fidelity of any becomes the fidelity of all. - He lowered a goblet in his hands presenting it to them. Two rings were lying inside of it. - May fidelity of daughter of Ma'u become the fidelity of son of Vyacheslav. May fidelity of son of Vyacheslav become fidelity of daughter of Ma'u. May the blood of one become the blood of another. - He reached into a brazier standing next to him and took out a curved ceremonial dagger from it. Blade was steaming with heat. - Daughter of Ma'u, are you ready to spill you blood for son of Vyacheslav? -He turned his eyesight at his daughter.

- Yes. - Seteneptra replied and moved her left hand over the goblet, palm facing Boris.

Priest handed the dagger to Boris. - May this goblet become the vessel of your fidelity.


Boris hesitated as he held the dagger. He stared at Seteneptra. It was a moment of silence required to overcome the barriers of an augmented will that forbid harming the Magi. The consenting nature and context of this holy ceremony gave the knight a rare allowance - perhaps it would be the only blood of the wizards to ever flow by his hand.

The hot steel tip of the dagger in the knight's strong hand slid down Seteneptra's palm, opening the skin easily.


- Daughter of Ma'u, I accept your blood, blood of your ancestors and blood of your progeny.

She curled her fingers slightly in reflex, although her face expression didn't changed and no sound escaped her throat. Crimson blood dripped from her freshly cut hand into the goblet splashing over the rings, and forming a puddle under them. Amunhothep took dagger back from Boris and moved his eyes on him.

-Son of Vyacheslav, are you ready to spill the blood for daughter of Ma'u?

-Yes.

Dagger found its place in Seteneptra's hand this time.- May this goblet become the vessel of your fidelity.
She pressed the hot blade on Boris's palm and looked at him for a moment before delivering a clean and fast cut on his skin. - son of Vyacheslav I accept your blood, blood of your ancestors and blood of your progeny. - Blood from Commander's hand spill and covered the rings entirely in it.

Amunhothep raised goblet and dagger over his head again and turned at the visage of the idol. - I announce before the face of the Fiery Lord, that from this moment forward blood of Ma'u and Vyacheslav become one! - After incantating few words goblet go up in flames, leaving just a few redish stains and pair of rings, now tempered with blood and fire. He turned back at them and gathered the ash from the bottom of the vessel with index finger and smeared it over their foreheads, leaving red dots between their eyes. - May the time that come for you, bring you peace (Yeah, right in Thay) and prosperity. - They pulled left hands over the goblet for priest to put rings on their fingers. Few drops of blood dripped inside from still rather fresh wounds. - It is done!

Sound of excited commotion went through the gathered people not only because of climax of the ceremony, but also because priests brought alive offering under guidance of Set's mother Zaaida. Young man was stunned and dizzy, but brought on special stretcher so they didn't carried him like a drunk, it was all dignified except of him having probably no idea what was going on. Dressed in simple loincloth, they sat him down in front of an offering brazier.

Amunhothep handed Boris the dagger again. - May this blood satisfy the gods.


Now there was not the hesitation he had exhibited before. There was no compunction. Boris took the offered dagger eagerly.

Eyes darkened with intent and spiritual fervor as the giant approached the man seated before the brazier from behind. He lay a great hand upon the shaved head of his victim and eased it back against his strong thigh to bare the throat. The jugular pulsed obliviously against the keen edge of the warm steel that set against it.

Boris lift his eyes to that deaf, dumb and blind idol of gold as if waiting for some sign. Tension built in the atmosphere of the temple until it was thick and tangible - visceral in every man, woman and child present - almost a sentient presence, begging for the act.

Suddenly, without further ceremony, Boris wrenched the dagger across the neck of the offering with great force. Ear to ear, Boris made one strong cut. A spluttering gasp from the sacrifice was broken as the knife sheared through his windpipe - this bloodcurdling croak preceded and concluded by a pressurized explosion of arterial blood spray, which subdued quickly, gushing down his front with every fading heartbeat.

As the body naturally slouched forward and began to bleed into the now sizzling brazier Boris restrained the sacrifice from falling all the way in by keeping his hold on the man's skull. He had handled this man with the casual brutality of a shepherd handling a sheep for the slaughter.

The dagger in his hand was truly red now, as were his fingers. Blood freckled the face of the Thayan giving him an appearance not unlike that he wore in the thickest of combat.

Zealously, the Surthayan raised his deep voice and bellowed - voice resounding with authority as he invoked, "Kossuth, Tyrant-King, Lord of Flames!"

Boris' eyes searched the unchanging face of the idol, then closed shut tight. Wisps of smoke from the burning blood drift up past the tattooed face of the Thayan like incense. His voice lowered, still carrying through the temple easily, trembling as he sensed a power greater than himself, "Purify the blood of this offering in your holy fire. May it be an aroma pleasing to you."

To conclude his first act of spiritual leadership as husband Boris lift his voice one last time and growled in the native tongue of Thay a prayer of blessing. Still clutching the pale scalp of the dead man slouching over the brazier like a drunk over a toilet, he made his orison thus;

"Kossuth, we have consecrated this covenant in life-blood, and in your name. Bless us, grant us strength to celebrate while we live, no longer as two - but as one, even as one flesh.

Give us your spirit mightily with power to subdue our enemies - to see them humiliated, to see them subjugated. Grant us long life that we may see the children of our enemies become our children's slaves, and be satisfied.

I ask you grant these blessings, and remember us while we live and serve you, for soon our bodies will return to ash," eyes opened with an calm that was strangely soothed considering the violent act he had just performed, "Guard us in our weakness from pathless chaos, and yourself be our burning beacon, drawing our souls as moths toward the flame of your Crimson Pillar, that we may burn with you eternally in the purity of your fiery domain..."


Seteneptra stood there listening and observing, her now fully official husband, and couldn't hold a smile and bit at her black painted lip, at this show of brutality arranged with powerful speech. Half mindlessly she stabbed her fresh wound with nails causing it to bleed. Her breath became heavy, when released wave of endorfines in her brain tried to fight the physical pain, and exchange it with extreme opposite making her to enjoy herself on many different levels.

Her father kept his hands up like if he was taking it on himself and transferred somewhere into space for Fiery Lord to receive. Similarly to him all other priests and Zaaida were doing the same, murmuring their own parts of incantations, filling the temple with ominous choir adding to, adrenaline heavy and semi-extatic, atmosphere caused by act of ritual murder.

Man's body fell into the enchanted brazier where it was unnaturally consumed in mere instant leaving no un pure leftovers behind. Through the blurred eyesight caused by zealous bliss, Boris could see a bloodied hand, decorated with symbol of eternal bondage, reaching in his direction in inviting gesture. Over it, he could see a satisfied smile of his awaiting wife.
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Battle at Darkhold
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Darkhold, 29th Eliseas, 1352DR -
Knight-Commander Boris Vyacheslav arrives at Darkhold, in company of Magus Seteneptra Ma'u Vyacheslav and Khazark Kahanak Habdilof, to contend with Maximilian Blackthorne in single combat
Sparks spluttered as the tip of the Thayan Knight's sword dragged along the base of the statue, scarring it to announce his presence. The grating noise not unlike nails shredding themselves against a blackboard. A visitor sharing the platform skirted out of the way, giving clearance to the three far eastern foreigners who now occupied the ascent to the main doors of the keep. A keep that was fitting for such an occasion, as an arena of many conflicts and powers over the years since it was built by the hands of giants.

The Commander Blackthorne turned to greet the intruders. He met his rival with a long stare. Little enough was allowed in exchange of words - what there was, it was concise, and toward the purpose of the visit.

The Vyacheslav aurochs descended the stairs slowly, and on reaching the flat, gave a wide berth to the one-eyed warrior. He took a place with his back to the keep gates and stood patiently, breath misting like a warhorse on the field of battle. The half-elf, Wren Di'Corvi, who clung to Maximilian's arm was dismissed with a bark of command from the Zhentarim Commander - the courtyard was cleared for the combatants.

Boris waited while a horse drew near to Maximilian. A saber was drawn from scabbard fixed to the saddle. A slap on the hind and the beast fled. A trembling young boy delivered a shield and lingered long enough to arm the graying veteran with it.
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Commander Maximilian Blackthorne of the Zhentarim of Darkhold and Knight-Commander Boris Vyacheslav of the Order of the Crimson Guard arm themselves for combat
From this distance, Boris could see the Banite's lips moved in prayer, petitioning and invoking the name of the Black Hand for power. Kohl-lined eyes glared from the pits of his visor. A vial was discretely quaffed by the Thayvian in response - a substance so potently magical that it seemed to expand the moment to include the future, by premonition.

The saber in the hand of the Zhentarim captain lift, signalling his readiness. The Knight-Commander of the Crimson Guard answered by touching the flat of his own blade to the brow of his helmet in salute.

Maximilian, taking the aggression of initiative, charged the gap between the warriors in grim silence. Boris, equally silent, braced himself for the oncoming destroyer. His longsword whipped up into an overhead guard and he glared over the tower shield he had set to rest on his left thigh, leaning back with it like a man in a saddle.

Thus rushed upon, melee commenced with a blurring feint from Blackthorne. Thereafter, mighty buffets of his commander's saber pounded on the heavily armored Thayan. The Mulanese imperialist returned what he may in overhead strokes of his blade, and timely punching of his shield.

Vyacheslav snarled as the smaller man took an opening to belt his knee with the edge of his blade - and all of his might. Though Boris saw it coming by premonition, it did not seem avoidable. So fierce was the blow that it caused the giant to falter and strength fled from his leg. He found himself kneeling involuntary, so raised his shield to try and protect himself.

Brought thus low, terrible buffets rained down on the Knight's shield, and then helmet until his eyes saw stars. A strong uppercut of Maximilian's scimitar cracked his jaw and threw Boris on his back. As clumsy as a pregnant yak for his great mass, Boris barely managed to roll out of the way of what may have been a fatal chop of the rivals sword, sparks exploding as the weapon clashed with the stone where the Thayan's head had lay.

Maximilian wasted no time on taking a second overhead swing, but Boris caught it, just in time, on his own sword. The keen edges of their weapons locked. The unholy power of Bane seemed to creep through the steel and into Boris' arm to numbing effect. Palpable dread bled from the blackguard of the Black Hand in this moment of tense contest, as if the powers of hell raged through him.

With the augmented strength of a transmuted body and the visceral rage of a Surthayan soldier, the Thayan warrior determinedly heaved himself upright from where he knelt under Maximilian. Black sabotons stole footing. Powerful legs braced, then strained for him to rise. Their weapons remained locked tight during the ascent of Boris. Muscular arms trembled, flushing throughout with blood and heat and fatigue. The warriors snarled like black wolves face to face, until Boris' had reclaimed his height advantage. At that moment, with a sudden cry of wrath, the Thayan took control of the locked blades to turn them in a great arc, which forced the saber out of Maximilian's hand and put the smaller man off balance.

Disarmed, the sword flung it into the air. The flat of the blade caught the light of the late sun in a flash of red hot gold as it spun tip over pommel. It clattered to the ground less than a stone's throw away and slid, spinning, to a halt.

Left unarmed, Maximilian stepped back from Boris' aggressive advance and, while yet in reach, vanished before Boris' furious eyes. The bull of a man breathed heavily, glaring every which way he may - but Maximilian was gone.

By the time Boris had looked to where Maximilian's blade had fallen, and had noticed it was gone, he felt it enter his back. The cold steel in his warm flesh was sobering - the blow had bypassed his platemail and broken the chain underlay to pierce him. Wounded bloodily, the Thayan turned and flung his shield like an opening door to slam the assailant. No sooner had they engaged again than the smaller warrior had vanished once more. Boris roared for melee, staggering a short way before the clash of the saber fell again across his back like the rod on the back of a slave. The giant staggered again from the blow, caught flat-footed.

He turned in time to engage the warrior again, clashing only a moment before the Commander again disappeared.

From the vantage of the platform where the Magi stood it might have seemed as though they were watching a hawk circling and swooping on its prey. Again and again, the Zhentarim veteran swooped on the Thayan Knight, hitting and running before the larger of the warriors could easily respond.

Before long, Boris was so fiercely beaten down that when Maximilian appeared, he could barely lift his shield. A final crack of the saber across the back of the knees brought the goliath down on all fours like a dog. The Zhentarim commander paced around to the front of the knight as venomous bickering and banter began to explode noisily from the increasing audience.

Subdued, Boris Vyacheslav awaited a death blow. When it tarried, and Maxmilian's shield was cast to the ground, Boris began to rise. He disarmed himself. Removing his damaged helmet, it looked as though his tattooed skull had been beaten in with a hammer. Syrup brown eyes, blooded in their whites, glared from broken eye-sockets on the victor. Maximilian, only lightly injured in the fighting, easily regained his breath. He entertained parley with Boris for a time before the pair parted ways on live, as near to amicably as rivals may achieve.

While Wren Di'Corvi approached Maximilian, the Knight-Commander staggered to the foot of the stairs where Khazark Kahanak Habdilof stood by Boris' wife, Seteneptra. He knelt himself down painfully before them and lowered his shaven head to bare his bull-neck. In his trembling, weak hands he offered up his sword to Kahanak to end his shame. The Khazark simply looked on the knight, then walked away. Seteneptra tarried behind for her husband, assisting Boris on his return to Soubar from where the pair teleported to the security of the Baldur's Gate Enclave, and Boris began the slow recovery of body and pride.

QUEST FAILED: Avenging Kahanak Habdilof
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Baths of fire smoke furiously across the jagged landscape. Ash falls like rain. The solitary figure staggers through the realm using his large sword as a crutch on his ascent of the obsidian glass plateaus. His ragged cloak is tossed about by hot gales. Blood is burned onto his armor.

Here, from the vantage point of a rocky crag, the ash blackened warrior glared over the endless expanse of dismal hell. Only devils move in the endless mirage. Hope wanes. Onward, despite the protest of a dehydrated shell, Boris trudged into grim oblivion - a speck of black dust fallen among pits too deep to fathom.
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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A searing light blasts the night sky above the sprawling jungle canopy. For a moment, it is as day. A rift has cracked in the heavens, spewing fire and belching brimstone. From it, a man is spat, as if born from that infernal chasm.

His smoking body free falls, crashing through the canopy and tangled vines. Wild dwarves who had gathered to witness the anomaly scatter like rats as the man landed in a pit of peat with a great splash, causing it to froth and boil.

Emerging from the simmering pond step by trudging step, dripping with filth, Boris turned his gaze upward only in time to see the portal close in on itself with a cringe worthy explosion. Bats escape the canopy, flying in all directions. The jungle roars with disturbed life.

Boris trudges into the strange night, staggering and raw from his ordeals, a longsword hanging from his grip swung as a machete as he soldiers on North.
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Darradarljod
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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"Where are your masters, pet? Are they not with you?"

Boris stood perfectly still - a statue in the heavy downpour that slicked his purple cloak to his black platemail. Kohl-lined eyes glared from the steel pits of his gargoyle faced visor. Only the rise and fall of his massive plated shoulders betrayed a life.

"I am alone."

"Prepare to die!" the Rashemite axemen bellowed from the bridge, frothing at the mouth with rage. To Msciwoj, Boris was the sight of an old enemy. Indeed, they were enemies - by race and nation, at war. Boris Vyacheslav, pure blooded Mulanese, was born and raised in Surthay - the northernmost tharch of Thay, on the lake of Mulsantir. Bordering Rashemen, Surthayans have a long history with the northern barbarians and for Boris, a soldier of Surthay, that history was personal.

He had only returned now from resolving an uprising in the lands of his Surthayan estate - Rashemi sympathizers - half-breeds, most of them. And now here, on the other side of the realm, he was confronted again with the savagery of the same barbarian slave race.

This particular man was familiar. Boris had defeated him the year previous for insulting the Magus Seteneptra Ma'u and defying their war-party. But there was something about him this time that aroused Boris to use caution. Yes - it was arcane magic - the barbarian was wreathed in it. He had come here prepared. Perhaps specifically looking to defy him. Whoever had assisted the illiterate was surely an enemy of Thay - perhaps a masked Wytchlaran - but it seemed only the two of them stood here.

Boris' infernal longsword was already in hand. The Knight-Commander could feel its dark magnetic draw toward the throbbing heart of the living Rashemite who stood defiantly less than a spear's throw from him.

"So be it."

The initiative was taken by the Knight-Commander. He burst into action - a juggernaut, closing the gap at a galloping pace. Shield first he slammed into the defiant wall of Rashemi muscle that braced for the impact. Staggering together like pregnant yaks at the collision, the pair broke out into a violent melee.

The knight's sword spat out with the strength of visceral racial hatred behind it. Again and again it thrust, piercing and slicing. The Rashemite was feral - his flaming great-axe swung terrible arcs for Boris' head with great momentum, breaking like waves of rage on the knight's tower shield and body armour. Staggering blows. The enchanted steel of weapons and armor grazing one another lit the bridge with sparks and sent the din of combat far and wide.

During a brief respite the wounded Rashemite, still bristling with arcane energy, imbibed a concoction from a vial. Boris discerned the effects immediately as the damage he had caused the Rashemite melted away leaving him completely refreshed.

Boris' passion was honorable contest between men - the testing of martial prowess naked of magics and unfair advantage, but arriving enchanted with spells and now drinking elixirs, the barbarian had dictated the terms of this engagement. It was nothing but a dog fight, and Boris was not willing to suffer any further disadvantage. He turned his mind to his own arsenal - those items prepared for him by his Khazark.

He drew the string of a scroll set under his pauldron which tumbled down to bare a sigil. It discharged with a pulse of magical energy - the result was instantaneous as Boris' flesh became like iron under his armor. A slender vial was taken by the knight and he felt his perception of time and space expanding, testing the limits of his mortal sanity.

When the battle resumed, it was twice as brutal. Soon, Boris had disarmed the barbarian of his axe but the Rashemi had replaced it with a boar spear. Both combatants worked the legs of their enemy where they could - blows titanic bringing one and then the other to their knees or to a total collapse where punishments were sorely administered and, at times, grappling ensued. The battle raged on, and on. Boris bled freely through broken flesh, the Rashemite too, though he seemed possessed of greater vigor than the Knight and capable of dealing worse buffets.

Enough was enough. Shunting the barbarian back with his shield to buy a precious moment Boris snatched his bandolier of alchemical fire and acid. His Kossuthian soul soared as he slammed the belt of vials down to the bridge and crushed it with his boot, immolating both himself and his opponent. The explosion rattled the bridge and sent the birds fleeing from their nests in the nearby trees.

When the dust settled the bridge was charred black and burning. Boris, almost unharmed by the explosion, walked through the flames and radiating heat, breathing and bleeding heavily. The Rashemite was howling on fire and badly burned. Acid permeated the atmosphere, burning lungs and eyes and flesh. Seeing the battle had turned, the Rashemite turned his back to Boris and fled the way he had come, hoping to escape the wrath of the knight. At this, Boris broke his stride and pursued him with zeal.

Though the barbarian was fast, and long of leg, Boris overran him with a powerful charge before the end of the bridge. His unholy sword broke down on his back like the merciless rod of a slave master administering punishment. Once, twice, three times, four. The Rashemi snarled, thrashing blindly and, rather than defend himself further, continued to flee in the direction of Soubar as soon as he had his footing. The burning bridge behind them cast a bright light that refused to hide murder from the eyes of the dark gods who watched.

Msciwoj the Berserker, near to death, slipped and scrambled clumbsily up the steep muddy rise to Soubar as the rain poured down. Boris was immediately behind him in another powerful charge. Tossing aside his tower shield Boris came to stand overtop of the barbarian. He pressed a boot on the low of Msciwoj's back pinning his belly to the dirt and preventing his escape. Now, sword raised point down in both hands, he dealt death's knell; with sore wrath he drove it, pinning the man to the earth. The blade whined negative energy, satisfied at last. A twist of the blade, and then it was wrenched free, sending that barbarian's soul to whatever hell awaited him.

The blood trickled down the muddy slope like snakes, mingling with the river.

It was finished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Msciwoj's massive body was found naked and impaled upside down on his own spear on the roadside. Flies buzzed excitedly in the wounds and feces. It was less than a day before his body was removed - by someone - or something.
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Surthay: Lake Mulsantir Marshlands, Vyacheslav Estate Grounds

The humid air of the swampland was rife with flies and mosquitos. Upon the sprawl of marshland lay the remains of a terrible battle. Scattered among reeds and bog, bodies of humanoids and beasts had fallen alongside one another. The reek of death, blood and faeces mingled to permeate the atmosphere - a horrible blanket of wartime carnage.

Grim figures meandered through the killing grounds. Most were men - but some were distinctly demihuman - orcs at a silhouette and, at a closer glance, red skinned. Boris watched as these battered soldiers were reconciling with their units and reporting to their commanding officers. A few here and there tarried in looting the dead while the orcs, without exception, were busy cannibalizing their own slain brood as well as eating of the men who fell in the fighting.

The Knight-Commander observed the barbarism of the Blood Orcs - his face, blood freckled, was numb with apathy but a cold curiosity was in his kohl-lined eyes. His unholy longsword "Lifebane" was unsheathed and in hand and stained as red as a devil. His black steel gauntlet, taloned like a terrible bird of prey, had cleaved to the weapon in the fighting and would not yet release the sword - so great were the buffets dealt.

Boris was distracted from the greed of the disembowelling orcs by the approach of his garrison commander. Escorted with him by Vyacheslav soldiers was a squad of stocky men, each in varying states of stripped nudity. They were dark of hair and beard, which grew long, and all marked in tattoos. To the trained Surthayan eye these berserkers were easily recognisable as warriors of the Ettercap Lodge - the same that had incited this uprising of Rashemite rebels in the territories of his estate.

"According to your command, my lord." The garrison commander presenting the prisoners of war was an older man who looked like he was living on borrowed winters. Nonetheless, his steely Mulanese gaze and warrior's baring betrayed a hardness that defied the exhaustion of both age and battle.

Boris turned directly now to face the captives. His large chest heaved as a great breath inhaled, glare narrowing. He approached, sword in hand, and the soldiers parted to allow him to enter the perimeter. He halted before the foremost of the barbarians.

The bruised face that glared up at him met him hatred for hatred. Boris' stare flinched with wrath. Without further warning or telegraph, his sword lashed out in one terrible instant - and in the next, it was over. With the velocity of a biting of a cobra the cruel blade spat its edge toward the man's neck - a wet cloud of arterial blood exploded at the collision. Sanguine jets pumped a throbbing fountain from the headless stump while that decapitated Rashemi berserker fell to the ground like a dropped coat. His head tumbled a meter away to rest wide eyed in the sludge.

Boris stepped on and over the body which depressed under the weight of the steel encased dreadnaught. He took toward the next prisoner and seized that man by one of his long braids. Clutching the bound barbarian thus, Lifebane leapt into a neighboring barbarian's stomach. That shocked berserker doubled over with a grunt and clutched the sword in both hands, cutting them badly. In response Boris heft the weapon with vigor. Singlehandedly, with epic strength, the sword was sheathed up to the hilt and blossomed steel out the man's back. He was lifted off his feet by the abominable might of the Knight.

Meanwile, the berserker clutched by his prized braids in Boris' iron grip bellowed like a great bull and tossed his head back in defiance of the tyrant, resisting the cruel restraint and ignoring the pain of tearing scalp.

A moment later, all of the hells broke loose - a storm with no eye.


--------------

Baldurs Gate: Thayan Enclave

The rebellion was crushed with the death of those berserkers who had leant a deadly courage to the common Rashemi thrall. Great renown those men had generated by their adventuring - the topic of bards in Surthayan taverns for several months who recounted deeds of great strength and spirit. Now they were dead.

Boris had since returned to the Enclave. He sat at his Zalantyr desk in the Commander's Office in the light of several crowded candles. They spilled their steady light over the dark manuscripts laid out before him. Line after line was traced by the gentle touch of his large fingertips. Words infernal, unholy. Evil words of an evil god.

It had been only days since he had encountered the power and presence of the Lord of Darkness. He was summoned to that profane encounter. Chosen for greatness.

Since that night he had consumed the doctrine of The Dark One with the appetite of the cannibalizing Blood Orcs. By night Boris locked himself away in solitude - even before this zeal overtook him the man had stayed not a night with his wife since his return to Baldur's Gate.

Alone in his sanctuary the studious monolith of simmering visceral hatred poured over these blackened theological tomes. Into the early hours of the morning he fed - one bird among many taking seed from the Black Hand of the Dark Lord.
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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It had been a routine return to his Surthayan Estate. But it had not ended like the rest.

Cold stone walls had met the mounted knight when he had first arrived late in the month, having rode in from the southern tharch on his black warhorse Xenubat.

Seteneptra, the legal wife of Boris Vyacheslav, seldom now ventured forth with the Knight-Commander. After his private defiance of the Enclave Khazark Kahanak - unbeknowst to Boris, the former bedmate of Seteneptra - their own marital love had grown cold. Much had grown cold. Voids of joy and intimacy were now impregnated with seeds of hatred from the Black Hand on his shoulder. Seeds that grew with a growth unholy.

The hatred of Bane - or rather, the hatred from Bane - had become a visceral. Fires of its rage burned perpetually in the breast and mind of the swordsman. Hatred of all things. Simultaneously it consumed him and filled him. It was his strength, his weakness. It was all.

Vyacheslav Estate stood grim among the marshlands - its nobility purchased and secured by marriage to a Red Wizard, its possession siezed by the utter fratricide of his blood brothers... but these stones of his ancestors had lost their lustre.

Despite all, Vyacheslav Estate had its heir. Over the course of their marriage Seteneptra had borne a son. The babe did not reside here, but among the estate of Seteneptra's father in Tyraturos. Boris had never met the child - and he never would.

---------------------

It was blackest night. In the light of raging bonfires below the pale stomachs of wyverns were glimpsed as the great predators swooped and circled above the carnage. Among the stillness of the Mulsantir Marshlands, Vyacheslav Estate was in total pandemonium.

A throng of Rashemi raiders had sallied out of the north. Highly organised under the watch of the Wytchlaren, and under the headship of the Ice Dragon Berserker Lodge, the barbarians quickly overwhelmed the isolated stronghold and impregnated the fortress.

Boris fought like a juggernaut alongside his garrison, but they were many. Too many.

He could feel the cold earth under his back. He could feel its kiss under the shaven skin of his scalp. The mud clung to his unarmored body. He was naked, sprawled against the earth, each limb pegged by wrist and ankle to the wet ground. If he had summoned his might, if he rallied his wrath and tremendous strength, perhaps have unfettered himself from their stakes - but he was spent. All was spent.

His pale chest rose and fell in the light of the fire, shallow breaths. A cold sweat had broken out over his hairless and heavily tattooed body. Nearby, in the firelight, barbarians examined the fine plates of his armor and played with his Mulanese longsword. The Knight-Commander himself was bruised almost beyond recognition from the melee but there was no mistaking the gargantuan fighter from his countrymen.

A masked woman - a witch of Rasheman - hovered over him, bobbing down to look him in the face. Her long fingernails clawed at his bare chest, as if trying to evoke some reaction, but he only stared back at her.

He could barely make her out through his swollen eyes. But he remembered - as a child - seeing this same sight.

Flashback
Hidden: show
Women are standing over me in a circle under the moon. They smell like earth and unclean magic and I can't see their faces.

Why can't I see their faces?

Its because of their masks.

Their horrible masks speak a language I don't understand. But a language I know, and a language I hate.

Witches of Rashemen!

Enemies of Thay!

I try to tear up the roots that hold me to the cold earth. But I don't have the strength of a man any more. I can't save myself.

I am a child again.

Its futile.

Hot tears on my cheeks. Hot blood in my veins. My skin feels like it is crawling to get away from me. My bones - I watch them turn themselves out of joint!

They're cursing me! They want to kill me!

I stare at the witch leading the circle. Hatred overwhelms me. I feel as if Bane himself has taken me under his cloak. There is rage within this hatred. I am generating wrath that I cannot uncage.

It builds like a castle that cannot be completed. It rises like a tide, but may not overflow.

I can't scream any louder than I am, but my voice seems so distant ... so hollow.

"My brothers ... Where are my brothers?"

((taken from "The Curse of the Hathran"))
He was now, as he was then, restrained. Too weak to help himself. On that night his brothers had rallied to his rescue. But there was no longer any hope of that. They were dead. He had killed them.

After the woman had satisfied her curiousity, looking the tyrant of the stronghold in the face, she moved away to join her sisters and observe.

Rashemi fighters took smaller blocks of stone that had come down from the walls during the siege and tucked them under Boris' shoulders and hips. He turned his gaze to the heavens, knowing what was to come, but the sky was without stars. Only dragons.

The axe fell four times and Boris Vyachslav was quartered in his own courtyard. There was no protest from the fighter, no objection. He surrendered no cry of pain, despite the shock that wracked his mortal shell as his body was unceremoniously dismembered.

He was grim until the end.

Will stronger than death.
Last edited by Darradarljod on Sat Jun 09, 2018 7:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
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The Rider

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A large black warhorse with a distinct ruddy mane is being kept at the Baldur's Gate city stables. The rider, an eastern foreigner, arrived by night, alone, and paid two weeks worth of care for the animal for one week of keeping.

Travel here looks to have been hard on the steed. His ebony coat is unkempt, hooves tender and great ribs visible under green dragon scale barding he is armored with. Several wounds on the horse look to have been healed by magical means within the last six months. On its heaving chest the steed wears the heraldry of House Vyacheslav of Surthay.

Though worse for wear the animal is easily recognised as the warhorse of Boris Vyacheslav; "Xenubat" - a distinct and prize breed of House Ma'u.

~~~
CHAPTER 2: A MATTER OF LEGITIMACY
Image
The rider - he was not a common courier - at least, not what one might expect...

This stranger was a tall - young and virile. A man of valorous countenance. A man in his prime. His black mane was wavy, worn free and uncut like the proud sons of Rashemen. His staring was as the depths of Mulsantir - alluring and surely blue, yet to hold his gaze was to meet warning of the restless undertow of his youth, and furthermore, a dark and lurking savagry.

The rider's arms were long and strong, as were his legs, and his body was hard - not like the soft men of the cities. All of his skin was baked bronze by the sun and lined with scars from both beasts and men. On his broad back he wore two khopesh, swords of Thay, crossed in their own black baldrics.

He was quick on his feet, surefooted, steady handed. When he spoke it was even and low - no smile for these Western men that were less than he.

Yet he was generous. Three gold coins he gave; one to care for a dying horse, another the shining bribe to tell more than a woman's name, and a third for silence.

No, he was no common courier.
~~~
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Re: Boris Vyacheslav

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Resurrection

With his assignments in the West complete Raoul, the bastard son of Boris born to a Rashemi slave, had returned to Surthay in the East. Seteneptra had charged the young warrior with leading the small remnant of soldiers alongside a band of goblinoid mercenaries in a night raid to break the Rashemi occupation of her late husband's estate. Now that the estate had fallen Raoul was only concerned with his newfound liberty but he was assured after this last duty to his family he may be released to pursue the life of the Beastlord's huntsman, as was his desire. What Seteneptra had asked was a tall task for Raoul. But he was his father's son.

Many months had passed and the keep was in no good repair. The walls were already badly damaged from fire and the fighting men had no trouble dispatching the sentries and infiltrating the grounds under the cover of darkness.

Once the courtyard was breached, however, the barbarians bellowed their alarm and the thickest of the fighting broke out. The goblinoid ranks in the front included Blood Orcs - those viscous beasts baptized in blood for their enchantment, tearing men limb from limb and themselves being cut down just as brutally.

Behind those ebbing and flowing ranks of goblin savages the Thayan soldiery kept a tighter formation and advanced as two units. Once the courtyard was taken it was a short siege into the main keep and then carnage again.

While the Rashemi wailed and tossed their death throes under the swords and axes of the attackers, Raoul approached the throne of his father. There, atop it, perched as a trophy a skull of primitive appearance and great size. It was bleached white but the bone itself was scarred with the visage of a Balor over the cranium.

Raoul threw the corpse of a Rashemi shaman from the throne - the man being shot through the head with a goblin arrow - and reached up to dislodge the skull of his father from its place of primacy.

While the mercenary captains rounded up their slaves and the Thayan soldiers began to gather the treasury into great trunks Raoul stood still amidst the fire and chaos. He gazed down into those empty eyesockets of the skull in his bloodstained hands and felt a hypnotic numbness creeping over him.

He shoved the skull into a black sack and threw it over his shoulder, marching out of the hall into the Surthayan night.

~~~~~

Seven days of preparation. That is what they asked.

Seven days had passed and the night had come.

Raoul descended the steep temple stairwell beneath the Tyranturos slums. His careful steps were lit by the light of a flaming torch. The depth of the descent was immense - and it was no small relief to the fighter when the stairwell gave way into a narrow passage of flat ground which, again, gave way to a domed chamber lit inadequately by struggling torches and re-enforced by pillars of moss ridden rock. The air was thick and stale and it was hard to breathe at all.

The sweating fighter approached the center of this chamber where seven acolytes in black hooded robes stood in a circular formation around a stone altar. At the altar, Raoul was met by a man dressed in uniform with his colleagues. He recognized the skull of his father sat at the head of the altar, where a man might lay his head.

After paying the soldiers their due, Raoul had spirited away the remnant of the Vyacheslav treasury not wasted by the barbarians to pay for this ceremony. Ten thousand gold coins was the value of the reagents - not including the service of these men.

The spirit of Malar cautioned Raoul in his instincts as he approached these men - he was in the presence of predators not unlike himself. After a cold greeting and the exchange of a jewel the ceremony seemed ready to begin.

~~~~~~
Outside of the boundaries of time and space I dwelt solitary in an exterior darkness. My consciousness endured beyond the death of my life and it seemed I knew no end. I was alone. Isolated in the nether, a shelved object of a soul. There in the black I seemed eternally damned. Without body, without form...

My thoughts and memories and dreams waned to blackest black. Madness and rage and hatred. I gnashed in hostility at the void. For all that I was, I was nothing. A ghost alone.

Flesh. The beat of a heart. The rush of blood in my veins. A sudden form. The claustraphoic constraint of bone and meat and brain as my soul enthroned itself again before a mind and body.

I ascended from the altar a man. The vessel became an outlet - all rage and hatred that had pent up over what seemed an eternity in futility burst forth as a great river when the dam has burst.

Bane smiled.
~~~~~~

Stillness in the chamber. Dead men littered the floor. Walls and pillars and altar were red. Raoul, blind in one eye from grievous head wound and vision quickly fading watched as his father shook a priest's dead body out of his robes to clothe his own nakedness.

The young man heard the bare feet of the giant thudding nearer and nearer on the cold stone floor, saw his blurred figure grow until it obscured all that he could see. Boris knelt before Raoul and his large hand took the boy firmly by the jaw, lifting his face to meet his own glaring, empty gaze.

Raoul's eyes widened at the horrific and familiar sight. He gripped his father's wrist, unable to articulate anything, and a moment later sank into bleak unconsciousness. While the last of the Malarite's life ebbed out of his wounded skull, the resurrected patriarch took his son's sword out of his limp hand and departed the slaughter, ascending the stairwell to the sound of silence.
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