Arvaal the Black

[*Melmoth]

Basic Information
Name: Arvaal
Aliases: None (he loves popularity too much...)
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: Around 30 years old, hard to say
Profession: Priest
Languages: Common, Draconic
Accent: No particular accent

Physical Information
Height: 1,80 m
Weight: 84 Kg
Body build: Well trained and muscular, shows intensive martial training
Skin type: Relatively smooth skin, striding with his martial life (warpriest)
Hair style: Waist-long hair, falling on his shoulders and back freely
Scars: No scars to be mentioned (extensive use of regeneration spells)
Tattoos: Unmarked
Colouring:

[b]Hair:[/b] Silver [b]Eyes:[/b] Azure [b]Skin:[/b] Extremely pale [/li]

Mental Information
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Philosophy: Whoever is not strong enough to control his own destiny, deserves to be crushed underfoot. A cunning approach is usually to be preferred to direct confrontation. Has certain philosophical view as far as death is concerned, the others' as well as his own...
Deity/Beliefs: Nerull
Personality:

[u]Machiavellian[/u] [u]Egotistical[/u] [u]Smug[/u] [u]Vengeful[/u] [/li]

Additional Information
Gear: Usually shrouded in a long, dark cape, wearing a full helm. Glimpses of his heavy armor can be seen as he walks and his mantle opens. Favored weapons are a large tower shield, and a sizeable warhammer
Jewelry: no particular jewelry or adornment
Habbits/hobbies: lanceboard player
General Health: supernaturally good health (ensured by his powers)
Favorite Drink: red wine, the darker the better
Weaknesses: Ambitious, Arrogant, Judgemental, Limited Magic Items Use (none, only his own divine powers), Overconfident, Proud, Stubborn

[*Melmoth]

He whispered a few words of prayer and moved his gauntleted hand almost dismissively, with the expertise of a veteran and the utter confidence given by faith. The magically created water cleansed his heavy warhammer, his shield and his armored fist itself from the humanoid blood and the filth of the sewers commonly known as Undersigil. He grimaced behind the mask of his full helm, completely covering his face. The first impact with the fabled Sigil had been quite impressive, and not entirely pleasant...

He had always believed he had seen many places, many things, a jaded veteran of an unholy crusade (an underground one, at that, but he liked to see it in these terms despite the way it was conducted) against the church of St. Cuthbert on his native Greyhawk...before entering the local Bazaar. He had crushed countless skulls, broken countless men, bled to death sacrificial victims in dark, unspeakable rituals performed in the Reaper's name...and yet, the first impact with this place had shoved him to the edge of sanity (the sanity he had left, anyway...) and beyond.

The residents of the "Cage" (as Sigil is known, and after familiarizing himself with the Portals' mechanics, he had to agree with the definition...) called people like him "clueless", and as much as he hated to admit it, there was some sort of minor truth in it (obviously nothing more, and not applicable to his own self...he was clearly superior to all of them, and in the long run it would become undenyable...): seeing celestial beings, infernals and outsiders coming from elemental planes side by side with hagspawn, strange metal creatures (golems, perhaps...), elves, dwarves and humans living or undead was such an alien concept he had almost been overwhelmed at first, gripping his weapon's hilt tighter and awkwardly scanning the place so evidently that even an agent of the so called Harmonium (the local law enforcement, apparently) had shot him a curious glance (was it dismissive? How DARE they?) in passing by...

Once the initial shock was overcome, his mind began racing, searching for opportunities to perform his duties, for ways to appease the Bringer of Darkness. His master was not one to be trifled with, and the concepts of patience and mercy were alien to him just like Sigil itself was alien to a "primer". He needed his blood offerings...he needed expendable people to sacrifice (and quickly, before he decided to withdraw his favor...or worse). And he found them in ample supply beneath the City, in the fetid darkness of Undersigil. Smiling sardonically , he watched another Bugbear Brigand turning the corner and charging him, only to end up a head shorter a few steps from him as his neck was sliced by his skeletal minion's scythe. Rivers of blood...exactly what he needed...

Blood for the Hater of All Life, skulls for the Reaper's Throne in Carceri!

[*Melmoth]

He was getting used to it. His nerves had always been extremely steady (for a human, at least...), in no small measure due to what being a devout of one of the most fearsome creatures of the multiverse requires on a daily basis, but he had to admit (begrudgingly...and ONLY to himself...sometimes...) that planeswalking was a shaking experience. The disorientation and sickness he felt right after stepping through a portal, combined with whatever environmental effect he found on the other side, had been staggering. His full plate and face mask at least helped him conceal it from his allies...showing weakness, in any form, anytime, in his position and with objectives to achieve was not an option.

His allies, yes...very capable creatures ("men" would not quite cut it, given the circumstances...) indeed, that helped to further his plans at a very fast pace, faster than he thought possible. Zagran Belgyr, a skilled dwarven arcanist with a strange taste for cleaving enemies in two with his waraxe...he deeply appreciated his combat style: it's not very often you see a dwarf channeling the Weave so expertly, and combining it with the typical taste of his kin for hand to hand fighting. He was proving very efficient, and so was his friend, Sszalagor (and his companion Badbreath, at that...). He would never have thought to side with one of the Lizardfolk, a race he had always considered rather primitive...and yet, Sszalagor was a cunning hunter, wielding incredibly powerful magic able to bend the very nature to his will and making him a true whirlwind of death, despite his lack of steel armor or weapons. He had heard of Druids before, but he had thought the stories were overrating their power. He was less sure of that now...

Thanks to them, his blood offerings to the Hater of All Life had been steadily increasing, and He unfailingly granted him the power he needed in return...all power demanded sacrifice, and the greater the power requested, the greater the offering had to be. He channeled divine energy, and to keep being granted the privilege of serving as a vessel of His might, he needed to keep appeasing the dark deity he served...a task easier said than done. The Reaper appreciated deeds, not words...empty prayers were more likely to draw his angry, deadly gaze rather than his sinister blessings. For now, he had his favor...for now...

His reflections were interrupted by the creature suddenly materializing right before his eyes: what was an unnaturally, disturbingly beautiful woman doing, hardly dressed in a plane completely covered in ice, so inhospitable that he himself needed wards against the cold to prevent his very heart to freeze solid? As he advanced towards her, her words reached him. A sweet voice, soothing, speaking of a task...of rewards beyond anything he had ever known, or experienced. He listened, as he walked closer, his grip on his heavy warhammer loosening, dimly aware of anything but her...

[*Melmoth]

The otherworldly attractive demonic girl, Narissa, spoke to him in a liquid, alluring voice, seeming to reach his ears as well as his mind contemporarily. He lost track of time as his eyes were locked on her curves, unable to focus, to break the spell. He distractedly thought she had to be an immensely powerful being to get through his wardings with this ease, and that without his magical defenses he would probably be reduced to a drooling puppet despite his comparatively strong will...He idly toyed with the thought of letting his circle of protection wane, but he resisted the urge with all his might, barely holding on.

As he struggled, the deadly cold now a distant recall, oblivious to the hostile creatures lurking at the edge of his sight, the only notions sinking in his hazy brain were her desires, her plans for him: "I need you to recover something for me...it's an artifact I covet, a relic I want back, that has been stolen from me. The thief made it to that cavern, behind you...a ground I cannot tread. Now go, and fetch it back...the rewards will be beyond your wildest dreams...do not fail". She smiled mysteriously, and he knew he was hers. This time, however, no part of him tried to resist: by the Throne of Carceri, he should be damned if this was not an opportunity to further his own goals as well...The Reaper's bloodlust would be sated with a valuable sacrifice, a prized life thread to cut in addition to all those standing in his way towards it...and the creature intended to even REWARD him for it!

Yes, let the succubus have her prize...Still dazed by her scent, words and looks, but now with a thin, cruel smile on his pale lips, he gripped his heavy maul with renewed strength as he stepped into the caves, whispering a silent prayer to his master. His ways were indeed convoluted and mysterious, at times (well...most of the times, really...), but Arvaal's faith had never been stronger...

[*Melmoth]

He dove out of the ice cave, rolling on the floor and getting awkwardly back on his feet once again, his heavy armor and armament making the whole process extremely difficult (it would have been nigh impossible without wielding the Reaper's divine power itself, a power that was now slowly but inexorably abandoning him). Tiredly taking off his helm, his azure stare remained focused on the cavern's opening, a dark frozen mouth on the side of the endless wall of ice that was the mountain's side.

Despite the biting cold that would kill him in mere candlemarks without his wards, his waist-long, silver hair was matted with sweat, drops of which beaded his forehead as well, a sign of the strain on his body the battle had imposed, the price to pay in order to survive.

He planted what was left of his huge tower shield (approximately three quarters of it...) on the ground between himself and the entrance, and his left armored hand, now free, went reflexively to explore the dents and gashes in his armor. His own blood had further darkened his black cape in several points before he could close the wounds with his healing magic. He could feel his heavy maul weighing heavier and heravier in his grip as the divine strength fueling him waned, until he just let it drop on the ground with a loud thud, burying the enemy remains on its surface deep into the hole in the ice it formed where it fell.

Reaching into his pouch, he extracted the artifact he had been commissioned to retrieve. As he watched its exquisite features, transfixed by the pure light the relic emanated, Narissa came closer to him, a broad smile on her supernaturally beautiful lips: "Ahh, you made it...Time to choose your reward then, as agreed...shall we indulge ourselves?"

[*Melmoth]

He watched the huge creature fall down, his warhammer-wielding arm still numb with the backlash. Giants are not famous for their wits, and to be a Jarl you obviously have to achieve a certain level of idiocy, since it entails that every other Giant just needs to kill you to rightfully replace you...no matter how they end you. This one, however, proved to be particularly stupid even for a Jarl. He slowly turned around as the monster landed heavily on the cavern floor, splitting the ice under him without the faintest sound, and he stepped out of the ward of Silence he had placed beforehand. It had been hilarious to watch that cretin try to employ his magic, no words coming out of his big mouth as he bashed his face in.

The grin vanished from his masked face as he turned towards his companion, becoming a tight smile at the corner of his ivory lips. This individual was a complete mystery to him: he had heard tales of the Grey Dwarves, or Duergar, but this one was the very first he met. And quite a meeting it had been ... Not so much the amount of Frost Salamanders he had incinerated when he found him, but the very way he did so.

He had seen many arcanists during the years, the Cult itself had some of the absolute best necromancers in the realms, but he was unsure what to make of this particular one. He had not (yet...) the spellcraft and magical lore to understand why, nor how, but it was immediately evident to him that he was alternating conventional weaving to...something else. It was extremely difficult to grasp, to be specific: it looked like he was, at times, drawing from some sort of inner energy pool to hurl pure blasts of force at his enemies. He would not have managed to discern these blasts from conventional attack spells, if the wards he had in place against evil had not reacted to it, tingling, and bringing his attention to the odd fact much in the way they resonated to ... demons, and demonic energies. Very curious indeed ...

As they moved to relieve the dead bastard and his retinue from the burden of their belongings (he might have accidentally snapped a few additional bones, in the process...), he realised the duergar had never even said his name. No matter: he was an agent of death, however he liked to call himself and whether he liked it or not. The Hater of All Life surely was looking (scowling, really...) with begrudging approvation to their..."cooperation", so to speak...

Whispering a thank to his deity for the power he granted him, and offering the blood and souls to appease his eternal anger, he carefully cleaned the generous gift the demoness Narissa had given him with a piece of black cloth before moving towards the entrance of the cavern. He knew without doubt his new ally was right behind him, ready to kill again...more: eager to do so.

[*Melmoth]

She certainly had style, that must be said. One more bugbear fell right in front of him, with a faint gurgling sound out of his now slit throat, apparently killed by the shadows themselves. Shadows with daggers, he thought as he grinned. Approaching footsteps were followed by the large shape of another running brigand, and Arvaal could clearly see the confusion in his eyes as he took in the bodies lying down in a pool of their own blood, right in front of a masked, black clad individual with crossed arms, and no weapon in hand...

He saw the confusion vanish in a fleeting instant, replaced by the will to kill. He liked these thugs, so mindlessly bloodthirsty, so ruthless: looking into their eyes as life was snatched out of them was always a true pleasure, no matter how many he watched die. He could do this all day... The creature stopped dead, falling limp just inches from his armored boots, two black daggers' hilts sticking from behind his back, the blades piercing crucial locations beside the spine: one in the lower back, one at the base of the neck. Very precise, very clean, despite the beast had twice her size, and was on a dead run towards him. Impressive...He watched her sinuous figure as she calmly, silently strolled towards the corpse, and recovered her knives with an utterly blank expression in the depths of her cowl. "Well done, Denna. It will be a pleasure working with you..."

Denna, whether this was her real name (which he very much doubted) or not, was all he knew about the woman. This, and her abilities, of course ... He usually worked alone, but he had to admit (not that it was pleased to...) she was extremely handy to have around. He had to give it to his "employer" (as he loved to define himself...): he had chosen well, with her. He turned towards her once more, a smirk under his mask: "I have a few more targets for you, before the night is over. Follow me". He could not see her, nor hear her following him, but he was sure as death itself she was just two steps behind, a bladed, dark-clad ghost, emotionless and ready to kill. His ghost, now...

[*Melmoth]

"I am a fortune teller...I could tell you a thing or two about what is to come. Cards are hard to interpret, and can be read in many ways, but they never lie...". He inclined his head, skeptically. If she noticed his lack of conviction, there was no trace of it in her sensual voice. He had never trusted outsiders, most of all infernal beings...well, he had never trusted anyone to begin with, but still, demonic or devilish creatures were pretty low ranked in his personal standings: scheming and deceitful, and pretty darn good at what they do. And yet, he could not bring himself to just ignore someone materializing out of thin air like that...he was not used to being surprised by shadow dwellers, so this one had to be extremely competent...or extremely lucky.

He listened to her almost against his will, curiosity overcoming his suspicions, at least partially. "You can stop resting your hand on that weapon...you will not need it here. I mean no harm." he reflexively stopped caressing the handle of his warhammer, but the hand did not move very far at all. Calm and unconcerned, she slowly sat by the dying fire, its embers growing cold already in the harsh climate. She seemed untouched by the cold, and as if she could read his mind, she grinned: "Oh, this temperature is not a big concern...my demonic heritage grants me immunity to such things...Come. Sit..".

And as she laid down the cards, telling him of his future, of possibilities, of the dangers of social relationships in the Cage, of potentially overwhelming odds...of the importance of alliances (he grimaced under his mask at the very thought...everyone worth his salt knows there is no such thing...), he found himself sitting by the fire as well, almost transfixed by the cards she was disposing with expert gestures. She spoke, and he listened. More carefully than he was willing to admit...