Twilogus Kro [aka Scarecrow]
Posted: Fri Feb 24, 2012 10:58 am
Name: Twilogus Kro
Alias: Scarecrow
APPEARANCE:
Race: Moon Elf
Age: 120
Height: 6’-0”
Weight: 140 lbs
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Black
Distinguishing Marks: Crescent moon tattoo over either eye
Profession: Vagabond
Physical Description: Twilogus Kro favors burnished black leathers fit tight to his gaunt physique, not an inch of flesh exposed. A complex network of straps serpentines over his frame, each lined with an array of shivs. Twin daggers jut over his shoulder. From beneath the shadows of his signature wide-brim hat, awkward features are further contorted by crescent moons tattooed over either eye. His feral gaze hints of menace, though difficult to discern whether from lethal prowess or savage malice.
BACKSTORY
1 PAST TRANSGRESSIONS
High among the towers of Waterdeep’s North Ward, amidst the soaring spires of the noble district, a lone figure braces between chimneystack and gabled roofline. Cradled in studded glove, the interloper extends an iron orb over the open flue. Clanging flagons echo up from below, accompanied by sounds of merriment; the rival guild celebrates their day’s exploit over competing factions. A lone raven shrieks from the ridge opposite. Arced ears tighten back, but the elf remains unmoved, resolute on the task at hand. His hand rotates clockwise and the orb falls into darkness…..Bombs away…..Tense silence is followed by fiery backblast. Flame jets up from the chimney. Doors blow off hinges at the street far below. Howls of anguish join with the immolation…..Time to depart…..The interloper bounds from rooftop to rooftop as his victims’ screams recede behind.
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Twilogus Kro glides through the haphazard arcades that line the canal district, slinking fluidly among the shadows, darting between pier and gangway. The elf trails his mark by a mere thirty paces, a flesh-broker from one of the quarter’s many brothels. The fool stumbles along just ahead, overly full of drink, his purse fat with coin from an eve peddling his wares along the docks…..Easy prey…..Born into squalor, orphaned unto the slums, Twilogus Kro falls under the wing of the Dollmaster, a leprous old scoundrel in command of the local street urchins. The Master oft reminds him of his sordid origin, of how he'd bargained the newborn off a one-armed vagrant who claimed to have won him in a game of dice; his foster siblings reassure him daily he was no doubt a bastard child spewed from some backstreet harlot.…..The figure ahead casts back a nervous glance, too befuddled to glimpse the stalker sprinting between darkened doorways behind…..Too slow, pimp…..Forced into servitude, Twilogus runs with the Master’s gutter punks. They rove the slums as a pack, preying upon the weak. And though Twilogus rises up a skinny lad, boney and malnourished, his keen senses prove him an adept lookout for the others as they go about their larcenous deeds.…..Lanterns reflect off brackish water, casting eerie shadows across stone passageways. Timbers creak as the tide lets out toward the quays behind. Twilogus deftly picks his way among scaffold framework, scrambling like a spider along a web…..By early teens, Twilogus becomes a runner for the murder gangs of the Black Ward, transporting unknown contraband between turfs. He remains lanky, his jaw sallow. For one of eladrin lineage, he displays none of the regal features inherent to that fair race. His skull appears malformed, his face disfigured by years of beatings at the hand of the Master.…..The quarry begins to show sign of panic, ready to bolt at any instant. Twilogus braces for the kill…..By his fifteenth year, Twilogus ascends to lieutenant within the ranks of the Blood Moon Cabal. He comes to regret the twin crescents tattooed over either eye. Rather than draw attention away from his awkward features, the markings render his countenance the look of a deranged harlequin. The guild takes to calling him “Scarecrow”, a moniker that will haunt him all his days.…..Twilogus drops from above, a phantom in the night. The garrote loops around the pimp’s neck, snaps taut, and slowly snuffs out his fetid existence…..Payday
2 PRESENT CONVICTIONS
Of the dozen agents who entered the vault of the Bloodreavers, only two remain. The vast windowless structure has proven itself a veritable deathtrap: their first comrade lost to a pit of spikes, the next to scything blades, four more to a poison dart volley, another crushed by constricting walls, two scorched to ash by fiery wards, the last asphyxiated by noxious gas. Now only two stand at the threshold to the inner sanctum…..Close, so very close…..They balance their way across a series of iron rails spanning over chill nothingness. Next down a refuse chute slathered with all manner of foul muck, then through an air vent too narrow for most men, until at last the pair breaches the Core.
Elf and halfling gaze in awe at the cube-shaped chamber before them. Rising twenty feet high and the same to a side, every inch of wall surface is tiled with ornate hatches, not a one matching in size or design. A metal ladder slides along the wall, granting access to the upper panels. “Scarecrow, we’ll be having those coordinates now.” The elf draws off a glove and extends his arm, palm forward, revealing the combination; it had taken days to extract the information, but the priest had broken. His diminutive partner smirks at the mundane ruse, then quickly shoulders the ladder into place. The halfling scurries up the rungs, casts a wry smile back at his cohort, and cranks the lever, eager to claim the prize. Blue arcs lash about the chamber. What’s left of the halfling falls to the floor with a thud. Twilogus Kro cracks a wicked smile, promptly climbs the ladder, prods the singed hatch closed, and opens a panel immediately adjacent….Jackpot…..Upon climbing back down, Twilogus kicks the halfling’s charred bones about the chamber as he launches into a frenetic victory dance, proof that there is no honor among thieves.
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The violence plays out over sixty seconds. Amid the soot and refuse of a backalley ghetto, rival gangs rush one another. Figures pounce from murky stoops as assailants rappel from eaves above. Deadly blades clash within the tight quarters. Serrated daggers slice the air, some parried, others biting down hard in sprays of blood…..Years committing ruthless atrocities have earned Scarecrow a reputation. Upon executing his hundredth kill, the cartels promote him to gangland Enforcer. He quickly gains infamy for his talents with the razor. The role suits him well, for he has ever remained a loner, shunned by others and generally lacking any sense of fraternal amity. His only common ground with his guildmates is the Slayers’ Creed, the bond of murder and vice.…..Knives swing wildly as long arms sweep out deadly arcs. Twilogus dodges his foe’s initial attack, sidesteps the followup thrust, and nimbly ducks the closing maneuver…..Counterstrike…..The elf rolls left and hamstrings the thug with a vicious backswipe. As his enemy lurches in pain, Twilogus feints right, pulling his foe off center….Wrong move. Checkmate…..The flash of his blade snaps whipfast. Blood gurgles from his victim’s severed throat…..Unlike other deviants within the guild's ranks, Scarecrow takes no pleasure from administering the routine tortures; but gang life provides him with a sense of purpose, and he is quite adept at his craft. He is dimly aware the ganglords play him as a pawn, yet he remains an opportunist, relying on instinct and streetsmarts to spot when favorable prospects cross his path.…..Twilogus is set upon by a flurry of steel. The attacker lacks experience, her swings erratic, whereas the elf’s motions are sleek and methodical. With the snap of a wrist, Twilogus flicks a knife into his opponent’s eye. She drops to the cold ground as another assailant leaps in to renew the fray…..Fellow operatives begin to question Scarecrow’s sanity. Rumors spread that he is not right of mind, that he is psychotic, a sociopath. It serves the ganglords well, for within the ranks there appears a newfound discipline, though one goaded by fear. Regardless, Scarecrow neither takes sadistic pleasure nor feels remorse for his deeds. He remains akin to a coldblooded serpent, predatory by nature.…..Twilogus wipes his blades clean on the garb of the slain. Blood flows in the gutters, spilling over and pooling among the pitted cobblestones. The elf stares long upon his most cherished possessions, twin death, each inset with bone and onyx…..Be still, my pets…..How many lives they have stolen is beyond count.
3 FUTURE DISTORTIONS
Standing at an angle, Twilogus Kro regards himself in the full-length mirror. Gaunt, spider-thin yet tall for his race, his limbs seem overly long for his skeletal physique. A complex network of straps serpentines over burnished black leather, not an inch of flesh exposed. Bandoliers crisscross his chest, each lined with an array of throwing knives. A shiv is sheathed at either gloved wrist, a second pair at each pointed boot. His studded belt is host to an assortment of curious trappings: varied pouches, lockpicks and gauges, a spyglass, grappling hook, scroll tubes, and a silver buckle forged into the likeness of a mask. Flickering candlelight further contorts twisted features beneath the shadows of his signature wide-brim hat. Taking in the grotesque image, Twilogus finds himself somewhat appalled…..Monster…..for he realizes this persona – this otherworldly menace they call Scarecrow – this dark alter ego is well on its way to consuming his being.
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Moonlight strafes over Twilogus Kro’s cheek as the death squads rush past the sewer grate above. Pressed tight to a corner, the elf stifles a breath despite his thundering heart. The ravenous mob hungers for his life. Red Reapers, One-Eyed Jacks, Sin Cartel, even the wronged disciples of Garagos – all race to fulfill the contract set upon his flesh….The masters turn on their hound. They fear what Scarecrow is becoming, though they themselves have helped shape him. While much can be attributed to the elf’s wretched upbringing, the cartels wonder at what demon they’ve unleashed. Shall there prove no limits to his violent ways? The ganglords elect not to await their pawn’s full metamorphosis.…..Twilogus knows these passages like the back of his hand. But he is no longer alone in the dark. The death squads have taken their hunt to the sewers. In his mind, he likens himself as to a serpent loosed among vipers…..We are coming for you, Scarecrow, we shall flay you alive, feed your eyeballs to the rats.…..The sewers of Waterdeep spread below the city like a vast labyrinth. By midnight Twilogus has slinked and skirmished his way to the southern outfall. A lone moonbeam glimmers off the putrid cesspit below; a blooddrop breaks the surface, sending off ripples. The elf has suffered multiple stab wounds, numerous lacerations, and a deep gouge at his thigh now bound with a tourniquet steeped scarlet. By whatever god’s ploy, he has managed to elude his pursuers. Twilogus stands now at the edge of salvation…..Circumstances are changing. Doors to the ganglands are now closed. Time to seek fortune on foreign turf. Time for Scarecrow to fly away south.…..The battered elf staggers through the muck and mire. Pressing a broken arm to staunch the gash at his midsection, he clambers up the far embankment. As he crosses the south-most boundary of the city, Twilogus Kro envisions a murder of crows rising in his wake, flocking skyward like a great black shadow.