Unseen
04-03-14, 05:01 PM
((Please reset my level to zero and treat this as a new character profile :U ))
Name: Denethal, (Once known as Praenuntio - Master Assassin)
Age: Young, for an Elf. However, a slow decay has taken hold of his flesh.
Race: Drow, Undead
Hair Color: Pale White
Eye Color: The whites of his eyes are tinged red with blood; the iris' a blackish grey like burnt-out coals.
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 172
Occupation: None
Personality: A shell of a man, the ex-assassin is reborn a glimmer of his former self. Denethal seems unfamiliar with his body, his mind still partially trapped in limbo.
Appearance: Denethal is dressed in burial rags, black, tied at the waist with a rope. His clothes match his dark skin, which became devoid of it's old indigo color. When death took him, the silver from his hair turned a pale white, and his skin faded to black.
History:
"Why?". It was the only word that could escape the Drow's split, bleeding lips. It was quiet, almost a whisper. There was a fear in his eyes. It flashed with increasing intensity, hotter and hotter as the rage inside him grew.
The rise and fall of his chest was painful. It was as if he was inhaling toxic fumes with every breath. The pain spread a fire through his lungs and into his brain. With a rasp, not unlike the growl of an animal, the Drow asked again. "Why... why have you done this to me?" The blood was flowing heavily now, spitting from his mouth and dripping lazily from the hole in his chest.
The old woman began to laugh as audibly as a woman of her age could with the strong, cold hands of the Drow clasped around her throat. A globule of blood dropped from his lips and onto her cheek, and fell like a tear down the old woman's face. "Do you remember... who you are?"
Denethal loosened his grip on the old woman's throat. She took the opportunity afforded to her, and gasped for air. More laughter filled the night with grim resolve. The magic was starting to take effect.
"I sacrificed you to the old gods," she said, slowly standing. "You wanted this. Remember. Has the curse of your ancestors weakened your resolve?"
He remembered. In defiance of his ancestors, he'd resolved to grow more powerful by relying on dark magic. With a grimace, Praenuntio lifted his right hand into the air. Grasping at nothing, he squeezed as hard as he could. "I feel weak." he said bluntly.
"Patience..." the old woman wheezed. "You'll be fit again soon enough."
Skills: Basic knife fighting technique. He most of his former assassin skills when he was sacrificed. However, he's slowly starting to remember them, and with his undead physique, they will be stronger.
Abilities: Increased strength due to undead body. ((For now we'll say 2x the strength of a normal Drow/Human))
Equipment: Black burial rags, a rusty altar blade. ((Iron, I guess. Whatever the weakest metal is.))
Name: Denethal, (Once known as Praenuntio - Master Assassin)
Age: Young, for an Elf. However, a slow decay has taken hold of his flesh.
Race: Drow, Undead
Hair Color: Pale White
Eye Color: The whites of his eyes are tinged red with blood; the iris' a blackish grey like burnt-out coals.
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 172
Occupation: None
Personality: A shell of a man, the ex-assassin is reborn a glimmer of his former self. Denethal seems unfamiliar with his body, his mind still partially trapped in limbo.
Appearance: Denethal is dressed in burial rags, black, tied at the waist with a rope. His clothes match his dark skin, which became devoid of it's old indigo color. When death took him, the silver from his hair turned a pale white, and his skin faded to black.
History:
"Why?". It was the only word that could escape the Drow's split, bleeding lips. It was quiet, almost a whisper. There was a fear in his eyes. It flashed with increasing intensity, hotter and hotter as the rage inside him grew.
The rise and fall of his chest was painful. It was as if he was inhaling toxic fumes with every breath. The pain spread a fire through his lungs and into his brain. With a rasp, not unlike the growl of an animal, the Drow asked again. "Why... why have you done this to me?" The blood was flowing heavily now, spitting from his mouth and dripping lazily from the hole in his chest.
The old woman began to laugh as audibly as a woman of her age could with the strong, cold hands of the Drow clasped around her throat. A globule of blood dropped from his lips and onto her cheek, and fell like a tear down the old woman's face. "Do you remember... who you are?"
Denethal loosened his grip on the old woman's throat. She took the opportunity afforded to her, and gasped for air. More laughter filled the night with grim resolve. The magic was starting to take effect.
"I sacrificed you to the old gods," she said, slowly standing. "You wanted this. Remember. Has the curse of your ancestors weakened your resolve?"
He remembered. In defiance of his ancestors, he'd resolved to grow more powerful by relying on dark magic. With a grimace, Praenuntio lifted his right hand into the air. Grasping at nothing, he squeezed as hard as he could. "I feel weak." he said bluntly.
"Patience..." the old woman wheezed. "You'll be fit again soon enough."
Skills: Basic knife fighting technique. He most of his former assassin skills when he was sacrificed. However, he's slowly starting to remember them, and with his undead physique, they will be stronger.
Abilities: Increased strength due to undead body. ((For now we'll say 2x the strength of a normal Drow/Human))
Equipment: Black burial rags, a rusty altar blade. ((Iron, I guess. Whatever the weakest metal is.))