Fiend Fathers and Thayians - the orgins of vadenor.

[Vadenor]

//a number of things before i post, firstly, this is to establish a background, this will not be a diary, after the post, id like to hear your thoughts, questions, comments and also grammar errors, so please post freely. im sure there will be a lot inevitably, but i read and re-read it to the point where if they do exist my mind has completely integrated it into the story and i have missed it. please point them out and i will correct them. that being said i hope you enjoy. If you do read bios and RP with me, and want me to type an excerpt about what occurred and to see things through vadenors perspective, I will post an update. Otherwise I intend to keep this a short story. Eventually I hope to get better at writing and make a book out of it when I’m old and retired hahaha.
// There is a rather nice description on Babaus here - http://www.atomicthinktank.com/viewtopic.php?p=730456

OH YES! i posted the story and forgot to include an bridged version of his bio.

Vadenor - age 27
profession - rogue and handyman.
philosophy: 'Doing what you want is fine and dandy, but its so much better when someone *pays* you for it.'

Role Model: Vampire described in story.

When i Muse about my personal disposition from time to time i seem to recall faces and places where people have often labeled me as 'self serving' or 'evil'. I do not acknowledge these accusations. i am not Evil perse, i do not commit actions to cause undue pain and suffering. I merely like to ensure that my *self* interest is involved in my course of actions. Is
that so *evil*?

If someone makes themselves capable of being taken advantage of is it really wrong for someone else to capitalize on it? Its like picking fruit from a tree. They made it available you were merely there when the timing came to fruition. Ultimately it is their flaw of character that allowed outside influences to act on them.

the helpless are much the same. They *choose* the path of least resistance, why aid them? You gain nothing and furthermore you encourage their weakness. Those who not *fight*, those without the will to take *action* for their existence do not even qualify as living. They're mere *cobblestones* meant to be walked upon.

I do not feel this is harsh, this is my existence. This is my philosophy I *learned* through my own actions. I have *forged* myself into what i am today and those without the motivation to do as such for themselves hold *no* value to me.

The story of my origins is below.

[Vadenor]

On a moonlit night of no particular importance, a hooded figure entered a tavern along the road heading south from Waterdeep. His hood, though still still somewhat black, was greyed and frayed. Indeed, most of his equipment seemed well-worn, but not quite in a state of disrepair.

The bartender saw the man approach the bar and take a seat. The recent newcomer arrived at his tavern roughly four days ago and has been substantially more profitable that his other patrons, a good deal more polite as well –he noted. Needless to say he was quickly becoming one of his favored customers. The bartender grinned at the hooded figure, his yellow teeth blending with his blond beard and said 'A fine night to ye sir, got off work finally?'. Vadenor gives a curt nod 'Ah, yes, no rest for the weary as they say, praytell how does your establishment fare this eve?'
'Fairs about as well as any other night i reckon, less ruckus than normal though, some visiting official got murdered or what not. People stayin in doors mostly til it blows over, unless they find themselves parched that is.' Laughed the bartender as he idly polished a glass with a dingy rag. 'Good fortune for me though, get ta keep ahold of me taxes fer awhile by the looks of it. You fixin fer a drink perhaps? Got a fine vintage of fire wine in recently, have a look see.' The hooded figure took the bottle and looked at it with an appraising eye. Tentatively he sniffed at its contents and poured himself a glass.

The bartender wrung the rag in his hands as he watches the figure sip the wine. Sensing the bartenders anticipation Vadenor reached into his coat and slowly counted ten gold coins which he stacked on the table next to the wine. 'You may choose one, good bartender.' he said simply, gesturing to either the bottle or gold. However the bartender did not make a bid for either the wine or gold but continued to fidget. 'i know ye try to keep them things hidden an' all but i couldnt help but notice, you have erm, horns of a sort.' The bartender licked his lips nervously as he glanced at for a reaction. Vadenor said nothing and continued to sip his wine, his face betrayed a hint of contemplation. Emboldened, the bartender continued. 'Now i donnae mean offense by it, yer a paying customer and thats good enouf fer me, but im deathly curious is all, how did you grow up with it? Or is it a curse or malady mayhap?'.

Vadenor smirked and looked around around the tavern. It was late into the night and the occupants have all passed out from their revelry. Casually he reached for his hood and threw it back, revealing a sheen scalp and two rather large, prominent horns protruding from his forehead. He took some measure of satisfaction watching the bartender squirm uncomfortably at his visage. Still grinning he gestured to an empty chair and replied "sit good bartender, it will be awhile. You understand if you were a person of note I would not grant such a boon. It is your miniscule stature that is your saving grace, after all, who would believe a mere fellow such as yourself? More importantly, to repeat this story to anyone would simply involve you in things *you* will soon discover you want no part in. I suppose ill start where everything starts, at birth.” Casually Vadenor knocked back the contents of his glass and seeped into a reverie. Calling back distant events….. “I suppose I am a thayian…technically.”

[Vadenor]

When asked of my origins I often say I grew up traveling with a band of bards, which although partly true, isn’t quite the whole picture. I was born in Thay. For the first 12 years of my life I only knew the confines of a wizards tower. The owner to the estate was a man I could only address as ‘master’. However my father would taunt him by his first name – Malzheim. He was a red wizard and a conjurer of some repute. Needless to say to have prestige in Thay means you have something worth taking, my former master was no different. When one sends assassins, the most logical solution to me would be ‘hire a better assassin.’- he did as such.
I do not know, the mechanics of binding, for I am not a spell caster of any sort. Malzheim went through great precautions that anything of magical orientation or origin was strictly under his control within the tower. He was a cautious wizard who trusted no hirelings to look after his well being, considering his position he was most likely correct. His paranoia ultimately led him to the events that produced me.

He bound a half fiend to watch his tower - Izil’gesh.
Izil’gesh was the unearthly combination of a human and a Babau – amoung the tanar’ii these are assassins from the moment of their creation. From birth they take a great deal of joy in the slow suffering of their victims. The disposition of my father was proof enough of his heritage. Often times you would hear the screams winding down the stairwell from his latest ‘catch’, unfortunate victims who had either trespassed or foolishly ignored the words of the master. Malzheim had devised a rather intelligent system for both contract fulfillment and containment. The fiend was bound on the third floor of the tower, the red wizard had his laboratory on the fourth and his private quarters on the fifth. The second story was the library, on the first floor were the servants quarters, along with the dining area and greeting room. The basement of the tower was renovated into a storage cellar since the arrival of Izil’gesh, their fates were part of the original binding contract.

At seven o’ clock every night warding runes would flash along the towers walls. Upon the hour of Eight o’ clock the bindings on the doors to the Third floor would fade, the only warded areas that remained were the fouth floor and the servants chambers. Izil’gesh was allowed the rights to *any* living thing found in the halls after these hours. Come morning the runes would activate along the walls and repulse Izil’gesh back to the third floor where he was sealed. Malzheim took great pride that it took less than 100 slaves to perfect the system.

However servants learned quickly from example and proceeded to follow the new system without incident for some time. As for assassins, guilds were pragmatic to an extent. If the cost to kill a target exceeds the sum needed to train replacements sometimes you simply had to cut your losses. Another action of such guilds is to seek retaliation against the employer on suspicion that it was never a contract meant to be fulfilled, merely a move to weaken their powerbase. In this case knowing of an organizations failures can be *just* as deadly as knowing of their successful contracts.

[Vadenor]

There was a lull for the better part of two years, until from what I gather a woman nonchalantly left her room to empty a chamber pot and came face to face with Izil’gesh, she was my mother. I suppose Izil’gesh contemplated in those two years of boredom how to amuse himself in a more lasting fashion. I surmise he was quite effective, in fact three years after my birth there was an amendment to the contract. My mother was adorned with a collar, which would allow the fiend to summon her at his whim once per month.

I imagine most unwanted births would be discarded, I do not know what my mother would have done with me had Malzheim not discovered my origins. The conjurer took great interest in me, I was the first generation of fiend heritage that could not be demonically warded or bound. His experiments were thorough to say the least, although I give him credit that he took cares to ensure I did not expire during his examinations. This is most likely due to the fact that if I were to die he would have to negotiate a new test subject from Izil’gesh, even then there is always the potential for a result other than the one desired.

Up until the age of five my mother was in charge of caring for me. Servants would take turns watching me during the day sometimes it was my mother, most times not. At the end of the work cycle and dinner my mother was in charge of caring for me. Many nights she cried, not knowing the cause for her anguish, i would attempt to comfort her as best I could. This often resulted in her sobbing herself to sleep while I clutched her as tightly, not knowing what else to do. She never shoved me away once, nor did ever say anything to lead me to believe I was partly the source of her anguish. I imagine she must have been a kind woman to see past her own revulsions and understand the needs of a child. Although some nights I feel she was almost fond of me. Ill never forget when she showed me a mirror for the first time and I saw my own image. I thought of myself as a rather charming boy although a bit dark, I recall looking no different from any other child, minus the lack of hair and two small bony protrusions on my forehead. At the age of six I was deemed old enough to have separate quarters and locked in the cellar at night. – which was also warded against my father, demons don’t have moral compunction about being kin-slayers.

My first task as a servant was maintaining the cellar in which I slept. The problem with a cellar formerly used to house prisoners is the ventilation. Night were *cold* I used scrap wood to block the flow of air. The holes themselves were magically shielded with illusion magics, they appeared to be normal bricks at the base of the tower. However I kept one of the areas un-nailed. On some nights I would climb up and remove the slats of wood to watch the stars. It was my only freedom in the cellar. In the cellar it was my responsibility to keep items sorted and organized; this included mundane perishables for alchemy as well as the larder for consumption. My secondary task was to be the guinea pig of the masters experiments. About once a week to once a month, the master would take me past the third floor to his laboratory. Here any number of tests were done until my masters momentary curiosity was satiated. Some experiments measured the amount of ‘prime material essence’, others the lack there of. The ones I still *fondly* remember most are; rates of infection, thresholds to pain, and acclimation responses to severe stimuli. There was a silver lining however, I was allotted time for recovery where I did not have to perform my tasks.

Although the library was non-magical on the second floor it was still quite a collection of mundane books. I believe I owe the master thanks of sorts; if he did not make reality so unpleasant, I would not have tried so hard to escape it. I devoured many a book by the dim candlelight in the cellar. I learned of far away places, I learned of fiends, the baatezu, the tanar’ii, the bloodwar. I even read of dragons and more interestingly half-dragons. I suppose you could say I felt a kinship of sorts with them.
My thirst for lore became my saving grace, as the conjurer continued his experiments I would ask him of the land and tell him of what I learned. Sometimes I would hit areas of interest and he would speak of what he thought of the matter. So long winded were his lectures occasionally I would successfully distract him from performing his intended experiment. In addition to this I was put in charge of organizing the library, which gave me ample time to read by myself. Occasionally I was ordered by the conjurer to find lore concerning a mundane issue and retrieve books for him. I was given a bracelet of warding to protect me from my father. I suppose you could say the master taught me a lesson in his own way: in order to prevent from being discarded, you must always be an asset.

[Vadenor]

However I received education from other sources, such as my father. Education I suppose would be too kind of a word. He would often sulk down to the cellar and drag his claws upon the floor to wake me. With a voice that would chill the air I would hear ‘little thing, little thing, wont you open this door? It is I, your father, and I have so much in store.’ I was his most amusing plaything. He told me of my creation, he told me of my mother, he told me of what he does to those he catches. He would watch my reactions from the gap of the bottom of the door and would goad me further until he achieved the desired result. I will not go into detail, suffice to say for a time I was crippled, under the duress of my own terror and helplessness. Oh, what amusement I must have provided. Around the age of eleven I learned of my fathers specific heritage, I surmised ways to deny him his satisfaction. It was also the year I killed my mother.

The problem with the belief of being invulnerable is being disproved. My retaliatory efforts against my father succeeded - I actually invoked his ire. This was the first time I discovered that he could summon my mother. I had not seen her since my father told me of my origins, I had taken pains to keep out of sight and hopefully out of mind. I had hoped my father believed we mutually felt nothing for each other. I should have known better.

I still remember her screams. I wanted to object, but stopped. I realized by validating her value to me she would become a tool for my father. From the books I read, an animal that feigns death is often left alone. I surmised to test this theory. I made sure I was wearing my bracelet and opened my door to confront my father. I remember his tall lanky frame, his gaunt skeletal face, but most of all I remember looking into the baleful red pits of his eyes. Even though I knew I was warded from him, I couldn’t stop shaking. I remember saying ‘she birthed me and served her purpose, you have no power over me, father.’ Upon hearing those words my father broke out into a rictus grin and said ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He killed her in front of my eyes. I learned another valuable lesson that day: do not bluff a fiend.

After the incident with my mother, I stopped being the center of my fathers focus, Malzheim had apparently slighted a necromancer of some regard. This quickly escalated and taught me yet another valuable lesson: know the limitations of your contracts.
As I mentioned earlier the pact between Izil’gesh and Malzheim was the soul of any *living* being caught near or in the tower was to be addressed however Izil’gesh pleased, provided it was *dealt* with. The problem with a sense of security is often the oversights that go with it. I can only imagine the look of surprise when an elite cadre of vampires came bursting through Malzheims door….

I awoke that night to the cacophony of battle. Even on the basement level, I felt the stone buckle and shudder from the sudden force of spells. Reagents and all manner of things fell from the shelves above me and nearly half buried me In my sleep. However my cellar dwelling saved me. As I ventured out I decided to make for the servants quarters to see what was happening, I was greeted with the sight of broken bodies strewn about the area. The vampires had found the servants quarters.

I decided not to linger at the newly christened feeding ground. I made my way upwards to see what had befallen the mage, more importantly I needed to get to the laboratory to enact an escape plan. as I ascended the stairs the sounds of battle grew louder. The library on the second floor was ablaze, countless tomes of antiquated lore and knowledge now kindling. The third floor was the biggest shock; a chunk of wall the size of four ogres standing abreast was blown away showing the clear night sky. Twisted metal and various nefarious devices were strewn about haphazardly from the blast. My father was nowhere to be found. The door upstairs was blown open as well, I could hear the mage bellowing curses in between the roar of spells. I carefully navigated my way through the wreckage and slinked to the fourth floor. It was there that a grand melee unfolded before my eyes.

[Vadenor]

I did not know they were vampires for certain until this moment. Human like creatures with pale skin baring fangs darted in and out of the shadows. Most of the equipment had not endured the confrontation. Various tonics and unknown liquids oozed to floor from broken beakers. Some of these reactions were quite spectacular. Colored flames flared randomly in all directions, casting manic shadows to which the vampires exploited. The mage himself was levitating in the air in the middle of the laboratory, throwing various spells and choice words down at his aggressors. His skin had taken on the form of stone. I surmised the effect was from an item, to resort to using transmutation meant the fight was faring badly indeed for the mage. I gleaned another grain of wisdom that night: you have a much better chance of evading a fireball than you do hiding from it.

By now most of the invaders had been incinerated or otherwise disposed of. The was one vampire of note, he leapt amongst the strewn tables deftly dodging the worst of the blasts the mage was raining down. He would leap and strike the mage, One of his swords was apparently capable of dispelling magics. You could see the rents in the mages enchantments where the vampire assassin had struck. The blades he wielded I would later learn were called katanas, similar to the standard longswords but finer and slightly curved. Leap, evade, strike. It was like watching an intricate dance. Whenever the mage used his area spells to maneuver the vampire into a corner, he would perform and ingenious feat if acrobatics with daredevil grace and resume his assault. Finally His blade reached the mages stone skin.

Ive heard my master curse in pain before, but up until that moment I have never him yelp in surprise. As the magic rending katana touched the mage, his stone skin turned to flesh and I saw a crimson line appear from his shoulder to his chest. The mages back was to me, I saw the gaunt face of the advancing vampire. Convinced of his preys inevitable defeat the vampire smirked and licked the blood from his blade as he advanced. The mage cursed while staggering backwards and reached into his robes. The vampire narrowed his eyes and quickened his advance readying to spring, his katanas raised. The mage Frantically shuffled his robes and produced a small wand and aimed it at the vampire. The vampire now realizing his folly for underestimating his foe made a desperate gambit and lunged for the wizard as the wand was brought to bear. Malzheim spoke a murmured a single, there was a bright flash followed by Malzheim being covered in a rain of ash. The katanas were thrown by the momentum of the charging vampire and skittered along the ground, with one coming to rest next to my hiding spot.

Malzheim slumped over gasping for breath, sweat trickled along his brow and mixed with the grey ash leaving streaks of soot down his face. My master, normally composed and well spoken no matter had clearly just survived this harrowing ordeal rather narrowly. I glanced at the katana near my hiding spot and lifted it gingerly. I felt the weight of the blade, it was comforting, it was the weight of having the power to take another mans life. Now was the time to earn my freedom.

My heart quickened my steps but I forced myself to slow down, my master although seemingly out of spells still had many ways of dealing with his foes. I told myself to be calm, I have *his* blood in me after all, this should be second nature. The thought of my father gave me a surge of anger. It was what I needed, it subdued my fear and tempered my resolve. I crept through the broken glass of the laboratory, most of the reactions have died off or have been consumed by the sheer number of spells unleashed. Ever closer to the gasping wizard.

I was roughly ten feet from my master, there was only a table separating the two of us. I could see his wounds clearly now, his robes were matted and wet with his own blood, he had sustained move than one sword wound. As he surveyed his laboratory he put away his wand and leaned heavily on the table. I quickly ducked under the same table as he began turning, I felt it creak as he leaned on it, grudgingly bearing his weight. His gasps for air seemed have a gurgling, rasping quality to them. From my position his knees seemed almost as reluctant as the table to continue supporting him.

He turned away from the table and began to stagger towards the middle of the room where his staff lay, I gingerly crept along underneath the table until I could see his entire body. He reached over and with great effort and retrieved his staff with which he immediately used to support himself with. He began to hobble towards his quarters, he was moving out of reach when something unexpected happened. He began to laugh. it was a triumphant laugh, the sound a man makes when he has beaten the world. And through the fits of hacking and wheezing it continued. I can only imagine how he felt. The exuberance, the vividness, the sheer wonder of living. Right up until I ran a blade through his chest.

I never saw his face. Im not sure if I regret that to this day. I suppose I do owe him some thanks for the upbringing, surely there are worse fates in thay than being a favored slave. I didn’t even have the courage to touch his corpse, or even to take out the katana. I was half expecting the wizard to rise from the dead, he was such an absolute figure in my life. Now suddenly he was banished with my own hands. The sheer magnitude of my now vacant existence nearly overwhelmed me at that moment. Sadly I owe thanks to that poor lone table with which I hid under. It too had enough and proceeded to buckle and collapse. Although not a loud noise, to me it was a thunderous clap that brought me back to reality. I was alive, I wanted to stay alive, I had to act *quickly*.

I searched the lab for acid flasks, this was key to leaving the tower alive. Surely things lurked at the main entrance to deal with any fleeing witnesses. My only bet was the overlooked cellar. I found two flasks that survived the fight and quickly ran down the stairs as quietly as I could. I made my way to the cellar.

I wanted to take a torch to navigate the passageways but I sensed that would be folly, this was no longer my home. Things now *lurked* here, and I did not want to draw attention. On the first floor I could faintly hear the sounds of bone breaking and something slurping. Things were feasting here and I did not tarry. With the utmost stealth I entered the cellar. The *benefit* of a cellar being a converted dungeon is with the right tools it becomes a handy exit. I quickly sneaked to my star gazing spot and stealthily removed the boards, the moon was obscured partly by clouds but enough light remained for me to see what I was doing. I quickly applied an acid flask to the bars. As they started to erode I went back to my sleeping area and put as many non perishable food items into my blanket as possible. I then took my sheet and wrapped it around me as a cloak. The blanket was dingy, but the woven wool bore the weight of my spoils well. As I returned to my gazing spot, the bars were brown and brittle, wrapping my hand in cloth I gingerly broke the corroded metal pieces away and crawled to freedom.

As i made it to the treeline beyond the tower, the moon broke through the clouds and I glanced back and saw my home for the first time…such a tiny thing…such an seemingly insignificant object was my home and cause of strife for 12 years. I cant quite put the feelings into words still.
Afterwards I met a band of bards, they were my family you could say for better part of fifteen years. But people grow old, and my teenage years is a story for another time.

Thinking rationally about the situation, I do owe my father thanks. Had my mother been alive I surely would have tried to save her, thus ensuring my own demise in the servants quarters. Even if my mother was alive, she could not have squeezed through the eroded bars to escape. And provided she *did* escape she had no survival knowledge. She was a slave and would have been out of her element. First town we entered she would either be rounded up or claimed and enslaved again. And I *doubt* the next master would give me as much leeway as my last one. I would not be here today due to a *frivolous* burden.

Alas, there is a problem however with objects of sentimental value. Despite having no obvious worth, you cherish them. To the extent it defies rationality and reason. My mother despite her circumstances in my mind, tried the best she could, or at least I will continue to think so. She loved me.

That being said.

Dear father, Sweet father, do I have an *axe* to grind. If you are an assassin, I will be your better. I will take my lineage, I will find you in the dark and whisper in your ear;

‘I am vadenor demon, and I am a kin-slayer’.

The bartender was a number of shades whiter after my story. Vadenor stood up, brushed himself off, and began walking for the door. The thought of sinking a blade into his fathers chest put a certain perk in his step. While passing the bar he reached over and plucked a bottle for the road. And glanced over to the bartender

‘A-erm, donnae worry about payin for that, the story was enough sah.’ Came the stammering response.

Without looking back Vadenor chuckled and said “Good ser, I have paid in full, I have taken *care* of your taxes.” With that he left. Leaving only snoring patrons in his passing. The bartender sat there awhile, trying to make sense of everything he was told. He found himself arriving at a logical conclusion.

‘I reckon its time to start dippin into me own ale’….