Name: Bliston Ascor
Nickname: The Scourge of a Thousand Battlefields.
Race: Daemon (a derogatory term for half infernal)
Gender: Male
Age: 547
Profession: Freelance mercenary
Description: As an eight and a half foot tall hulking, hunched over, gray skinned creature Bliston is everything most people expect a Daemon to look like. Horns, sharp teeth and a massive body set upon powerful looking limbs. Blood red eyes and redish-brown scales, his visage causes one to immediately think of him as a dangerous beast, and he does little to dissuade the idea.
Personality: Bliston would at first appear very amoral and apathetic. He murders and slaughters for profit, gives little care for the plights of others and has even done some genuinely heinous things over the centuries. He has no qualms about ending another person’s life, or fighting for a not-so-just cause, or switching allegiances as soon as a contract expires, and he does have some very morbid habits. The truth of the matter though is that he isn't so much malicious as he is just completely deadened to it all at this point.
Centuries of witnessing violence, prejudice, and catastrophe have had the profound effect of making him into the callous and bitter person he is now. He views the world in a bit more pessimistic view these days, regarding everything with a heavy dose of cynicism and everyone with an equally heavy dose of dismissal or distrust. He more or less tires to rub everyone the wrong way now, not really expecting a lasting friendship to form out of many. If you have money and a problem he'll listen. If you want something else, take a hike.
Despite that mentality though, some small vestiges of an age lost honor still hide somewhere inside of him. Bliston had always believed in seeing something through to the end and he still does even now. As a mercenary his word is his worth and it is the one means he has to validate his continued existence. So when he is hired under contract, come hell or high water, he will follow through with it until completion no matter what unforeseen complications arise. So iron clad is his instance on this that in the event he receives advance pay on a job and later finds it impossible to finish, he will return and refund all payments to his employer as compensation. Say what you will about Bliston, but he will never break his word.
Inventory/Equipment: Bliston is clad in a fairly formidable set of steel plate-mail, painted red and adorned with spikes to both intimidate and proved a little extra advantage when grappling.
Accessories: shrunken severed heads. He wears a set as a necklace and another hanging from his sword. It used more as a means of intimidation, as most will back down and not bother you if you walk around with proof of your capacity for murder hanging from your neck.
Weapon(s)
Weapon Name: Hevnoraak
Weapon Type: Great Club
Material: stone (mineral unknown)
Weapon Description/Info: Blsiton has held this weapon for centuries. How he acquired it is a mystery he refuses to divulge, but it has since become an iconic part of his image. It is a large club with a spiked head shaped to focus impact into a central point and composed of stone that does not appear terrestrial in nature. Literally called 'brutality' in an olden tongue Bliston has used this massive club to smash and bludgeon thousands of enemies to death, both man and beast, across the centuries. The weapon itself has a curse of wounding upon it, which means that any injury inflicted by it's spiked head will not heal by mundane means. It also means that anything that couldn't be harmed by normal weapons, such as creatures that are incorporeal, can be wounded by Hevnoraak's teeth.
Weapon Name: Ahkan and Grahz
Weapon Type: axe and sword
Material: steel
Weapon Description/Info: Much less mysterious then Hevnoraak, both are just an ordinary axe and sword. When in tighter quarters or in need of a bit more speed and finesse, Bliston will switch to these to allow more flexibility.
Special Traits: As a daemon, Bliston has inherited some of his infernal father's attributes. An incredibly tough and strong body for one that has served him well through many of his battles, but also an astounding reliance in the face of magical effects. Indeed Bliston has shrugged off some magic attacks that would have killed a lesser man. Whats more though is his sensitivity to the polar forces of the celestial and the infernal. He can, for lack of better a term, smell holy or unholy magic in the air. This can be a bad thing however, as a consequence of his infernal heritage his body doesn't mix well with sacred power. As an example, healing magic from the divine is useless on him as it will either not work or even out right harm him in most cases.
History For as long as any living person can remember, as long as there has been war in Galderia there has been a monster of a man spilling blood onto the lands soils. Bliston Ascor. Known as the scourge of a thousand battlefields in reference to the many conflicts he has been a part of, his story is a long and bloody one with tales of violence and death across the continent. He fought during the orc invasion and Ostelhinian war of succession. He lived through three iterations of Londe’s destruction counting their failed war of expansion, the civil war, and the running death. He marched beyond the frontier in the doomed war with the wildlings of the north and was called to stand ground when faced with their reprisal. He was even there fighting in defense of the siege of Kakergash, an event that was personally damning for him.
But for someone so infamous his origins are relatively unknown. For the best really, as there is little positive he has to say about his youth and his personal life isn’t something he is very open to sharing. And outcast from as early as birth, like many daemons, Bliston had to struggle to survive for as long as he can remember. He doesn't remember the place of his birth, and really he doesn’t want to go back that place anyway considering what he ran away from. What he can say that he remembered is being caught by a group of orc warriors in the forest one day and being press ganged into joining the army. Why they didn’t simply kill him when they found him like most daemons has been a mystery to him for a long time.
In those early days the young brat that would one day become the scourge was living a less then renowned and glamorous life style. He was the bus boy, the cleaning runt. He's daily choirs had been to clean and maintain the weapons and armor of all the bigger warriors while trying not to get hit for some small perceived slight. This started to change though when he got older, and bigger, when they started to put a mace in his hand and shove him out onto the front line. He still got flack from the other warriors then, but beating quickly became less common once he proved to be tough enough to take it and strong enough to hit back. During those early years he developed the fighting skills that he would refine later and come to depend on all his life.
Eventually the horde collapsed and Bliston was left at loss with what to do with himself when that happened, having nowhere to go or no practical craft skills to reintegrate into society. Fortunately the choice of what to do was made for him when the opposing military simple found him and pressed him into their service, desperate for strong soldiers to recant their losses in face of another threat they overlooked the fact that he was of fiendish birth. And so from there it went, with each decade Bliston marched in one army or the next fighting in some war or another with no real purpose.
At least until Bliston met another half breed by the name of Amos. It had been just after the running death had devastated the land, with anarchy rampant amongst the hollow remains of the great nations. Old kingdoms were trying to cling onto what they had while ambitious warlords were trying to carve out their own lands. Bliston didn't care much about the overall status of things at the time. But what he did care about was what Amous had shown him. Refugee camps. Unusual not int he fact that they existed, but of who was in them. Half-breeds. Hundreds of them. Them, and mixture of some humans, orcs that did not submit to the leading warchiefs of the time, along with other outcast of less renown races.
And he had heard Amous tell him of a plan he had, to take all these people far away from the prejudice and war that was running rampant at the time, to an unclaimed stretch of territory just south of the elven lands. There they would build the makings of a town, a city, and carve out a small nation for themselves where everyone of the outcast with them could stand on equal footing and decide for themselves what was civilized and respectable, rather than be told at sword point.
Kakergash, a haven for half breads like them. Intrigued, Bliston followed him. And to his surprise they managed just what they had set out to do. A town, small at first but sturdy was built in far edges away from civilized lands. They made it just prosperous enough to survive and grow. Word of it's existence spread as rumor, of the small town in lands untouched by kings, and the attraction of more refugees became inevitable. For the next century Bliston watched as the small community that Amous had started, that he had helped start, grow and swell with numbers into a strong and independent city. Kakergash they called. For the first time in his life Bliston (now called 'Captian Ascor of the city watch') felt like he had actually done something of true worth, actually made a real difference in the world.
But things had a way of not working out the way you had hoped. For you see, in order for Kakergash to continue to grow and prosper, it needed resources and materials. Farmland and lumber. There were small islands a little ways out to sea from them, and long stretches of fertile land along the coast to their north and south. Though Bliston still held blame upon the elves, it could be agreed upon that it was Amous' stubbornness that caused what happened next. Small excursions into the forest, cutting down trees and tearing up the land to lay down farm crop. 'Just a small plot of land' Amous had said. 'Just a small plot there. They wont notice. And if they do, it's too small for them to care.' But the elves did notice. And they did care. Messengers came, angry, demanding immediate eviction from the new taken territory. Arguments sprang up when attempts at a compromise were ignored, and the elven messengers were shortly booted out of the city once it had reached a boiling point.
Skirmishes started after that. A raid here, a scuffle with a patrol there, a retaliations against some other small slight over there. More and more Bliston found himself getting put back into the role of the warrior again, but at the time he thought it all just a minor squabble. The elves, on the other hand, didn't hold the same view though. They wanted the Kakergashian's gone. Not off the land they took, not making recompenses, gone. All the raids and scuffles up to that point were attempts to scare them off, and when they didn't and stood their ground... well...
What happened that night was something Bliston would never forget, nor forgive. Kakergash, destroyed. It's people scattered. Bliston's friends, all dead. What Happened that night 237 years ago was the catalyst for Bliston's now jaded and grim persona. He returned to the so called 'civilized' lands of the kings and their wars, and threw himself back into the bloodshed. He no longer cared about the 'hows' or 'whys'. All thoughts towards the idea of a different tomorrow died in him, and left him with nothing but the more base desires. As if he was rebelling against society as a whole, he embraced the viciousness of the world and earned himself a reputation as a monster who butchered for coin and had no morals to hold back his ire.