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Grym Zangretor

"The dead hold secrets mere mortals can but dream off. I wonder what secrets a dead god could reveal?"

0 · 285 views · located in Castle Dawn

a character in “Gods of Drevair”, as played by Binsetsu

Description

Image
Name: Grym Zangretor

Age: 2500 to 3000 years of age (Give or take, Grym has trouble remembering how many years it’s been since his unlife began)

Race: Undead (Formerly: Cyth)

Gender: Male

Description: Few would be able to look beyond Grym’s most noticeable feature, namely, his decayed face. Although he wears a helmet, it does not cover the lower half of his face, which is a decayed, rotting and partially mummified mess, to the point it has become nigh impossible to discern what race he might’ve been before he turned undead. Considering his age, it could be much, much worse. Should someone look beyond this somewhat horrifying face, they would find a male figure of average length, standing at five feet and six inches, wearing an ornate armour and helmet made from a gold coloured material that has not been used in the creating of armour for at least a couple thousand years. From beneath his helmet comes long bone white locks of hair and around his shoulders hang the furs of some long extinct beast of myth. From beneath the chest plate flows a long robe, which might have been a beautiful jet-black colour once, but is now mostly discoloured and greyed from years off wear. At his side he carries a sword, seemingly older than even his armour, likewise made from a material not used in the creating of weaponry for at least a couple millennium if not more, judging from the fact it is made from some form of obsidian.

Yet, none of that, or even his rotten face would be his most noticeable feature if one would dare to look closer. His most noticeable feature would be his eyes, in a way of speaking. Although they have since withered down to nothing more than black pits, those empty sockets are deep with thousands of years of age, such are their depths that they might leave someone who stares in them reeling with temporal vertigo. Only when looking in his eyes, could someone realize how ancient Grym Zangretor truly is.

Abilities: Ancient Lich I Grym is an Ancient Lich and he has acquired magical power far beyond the means of even the Elves and the Fae in his many years of unlife.
Undead I As a moving corpse, Grym has long since lost the need for most common necessities of ordinary mortals. Food, fluids, breathing, or even a beating heart are all luxuries he can do without. It has also made him surprisingly hard to turn truly dead.
Master Necromancer I As an ancient Lich, Grym has had a long time to practice his dark arts and has become extremely proficient at raising the dead. No longer does he need actual corpses near him to resurrect the dead, it is merely more expedient and less draining to do so for him. Even corpses of long forgotten beasts and foul abominations of stitched together corpses can be revived by his dark magic.
Demonologist I Although Necromancy is his magic of choice, Grym has also dabbled in Demonology and even managed to bind several weaker demons to his will.
Phylactery I Like many Liches before him, Grym stored his soul in a Phylactery in order to obtain eternal life. It has made him truly immortal, for as long as it exists, his body will reform and recover at some point, although the extent of damage done to him can delay his recovery for long periods of time.

Weaknesses: Forgetful I His many, many years of life, have made Grym extremely forgetful, to the point he has trouble remembering his own name or exactly what age it is and occasionally even forgets how to work certain spells.
Insane I Hundreds upon hundreds of years of life have made Grym a little unstable at best and utterly insane at the worst of times and he has clearly lost touch with reality a long time ago.
Undead I As most of his creations and Grym himself are long dead, he has acquired a certain weakness to fire. Mostly in the way that both he and most of his creations are extremely flammable. His body is also extremely fragile and will fall apart if it takes a serious blow.
Weak I Although he carries a sword, Grym is very far removed from a warrior. He lacks physical strength and any skill with weaponry, to the point a child with a wooden sword could overcome him in these fields.
Phylactery I Like many Liches before him, Grym stored his soul in a Phylactery in order to obtain eternal life. Should it be destroyed, Grym will simply return to his natural state, which is a pile of dust by this point. For this very reason, he keeps his Phylactery hidden and everything about it secret. He is also incapable of travelling very far from the item, as he needs to be in close proximity to his soul in order to keep it ensnared within the Phylactery.

Personality: Grym has long since lost his original personality and has since become a fairly grim and nihilistic person. Yet, he is not without a jovial side. Although he has a dark and often cynical view on just about anything, he does seem to enjoy engaging in civilized discourse and could be considered quite polite and gregarious. But one could argue that is his only positive side. He has little love for the living, even less love for the world of Drevair as a whole and especially despises Elven kind, but, perhaps surprisingly, seems to have no qualms with individual Elves. He is also quite insane. His many, many, years of life have clearly worn away at him and he lacks a good grip on reality, often confusing the present with events or things from a thousand years ago.

But perhaps his most damning feature is his lust for power. Like many Liches of the Cyth before him, Grym travelled the path of the undead in order to claim eternal life for himself, all so he can finish the great war against the Elves. Now that he has it, he has set his sights on nothing short of ridding the world of all Elves and possibly world domination, he has yet to decide on that second one. Although it could be dismissed as the mad ravings of an demented and insane soul, his great power, unfathomable experience and the sudden emergence of gods have, in his opinion, given him a realistic chance at obtaining his goal. That said, he is not above working with Elves, or even associating with them. He might consider it his duty to eradicate them, that doesn’t mean he can’t be civil about it.

History/Bio: “Shush, young one. Speak no more. The experiment will be finished soon, it is better not to move. If you are bored, allow me to entertain you with a story about my past. Ah yes, I remember it well. I was born… my, how long ago was it now? Some twenty or thirty centuries ago at least, I imagine. Not that it really matters, it was a long time ago. This world was different then. Not in any way that matters, of course. But different nonetheless. Less humans, for one. The Elves and the Fae got along better back then too. I was a young boy from a village that’s gone now. I was happy. Or maybe I wasn’t. I have trouble remembering those days. What matters is that one day we were attacked. By Elves, I’m sure. They are always like that. We were attacked and my family murdered. As was most of my village.

As you might expect, it was quite an upsetting experience. I clearly remember tears and vows of vengeance. I wandered then, young boy alone in the world and all that. Only for some fifty or sixty years or so, although, for your kind I imagine that must seem like a long time. I met a man then, or a woman, or neither, I can’t remember. But anyway, old and rotten he was. Yet somehow he spoke to me. He taught me the dark ways, the secrets that can be found in corpses. Quite an agreeable fellow looking back. If only I had known that he had planned to transfer his soul into my body. Ah well, you live, in a matter of speaking, and you learn.

Needless to say, I didn’t forgive the man for his plan. I keep his soul in a jar now. Would you like to see it? …No? Pity. Well, he did teach me many things. And the dead did hold secrets none of your kind could ever dare imagine. For example: did you know King Frederik wasn’t murdered by his brother, like everyone thought, but his wife? …What’s that? …King Frederik’s line ended nearly two hundred years ago when his great-great-great-grandson was overthrown? Oh my, he’ll be most upset when he hears that. Well, I’d love to tell you more, but it seems the experiment is about to run its course.

Don’t worry though, it’ll only hurt for a minute or so, give or take a few hours. And the afterlife is not as bad as the Triumvirate’s priests would have you believe. I’ve found it quite enjoyable so far.”

So begins...

Grym Zangretor's Story

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Character Portrait: Grym Zangretor
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Bony feet shuffled through the halls of the burned out building. Timeless pits took in every detail, every sight. From the corpses, still looking fearful as they clutched their throats, to the sword marks and copious amounts of bloods on the walls. He didn’t need his timeless experience to tell him what had happened here. It was clear to his eyes. His robe slowly swept away the dust as he made his way forwards, a strangely skeletal man following him closely, carrying many different devices.

Bony feet slowly ascended the stairwell, even as the creature in ancient armour looked around, his face set in an eternal skeletal smile due to a lack of lips. Burn marks now, how intriguing. For a moment he stopped and moved one finger up to slowly tap on his chin, pieces of which were clearly missing. Upon deciding the burned painting held no great significance, the partially mummified figure made his way further up the stairs, skeletal servant in tow.

Somehow, the undead being without lips managed to smile even wider than before. His skeletal servant slowly came to stand beside him, carefully stroking a particularly stressed looking cat.

“Master?”

The servant spoke, but the man carrying a sword from the days before metal paid him no heed. He slowly made his way forward, his feet no longer making a sound, for they no longer touched the ground. Upon reaching the corpse in the centre of the room, the power that kept him levitated ceased and the mummified figure slowly descended back to stand on the floor. Once more tapping his chin with a single mummified finger, he walked circles around the corpse, burned to such an extent it would be impossible to know even the gender. All that was obvious were the pair of pits in its stomach and chest areas and the fact it was charred to pieces.

“Amazing, is it not? That she would stand so defiant of the creature that perpetrated this feat, despite her obvious inferiority.” The mummified being spoke, his voice as a whisper heard in a house you know is empty, his voice which has a slight creaking sound to it, like the rasping against the lid of a sealed coffin.

“Master?” Was the reply of the servant. The mummified being paid it no heed as he continued. “Truly a wonderful human being, this woman. Did you know I knew her great-great-great-great-great... Hmmm, how many generations was she removed from her again? Well, it matters not. Igre! Bring me the equipment. The experiment must not be delayed.” With a nod and a hurried shuffle the servant rushed towards its master, quickly setting up the numerous devices, clearly all for the purposes of chemical analysis.

“Bring me at least six of the corpses that were suffocated and another half a dozen of those that were cut down. Leave the burned ones.” The necromancer spoke, his voice eager in its voice from the mist qualities. Without delay he began cutting away parts of the charred corpse, nonchalantly dropping them in small flasks with different coloured fluids. Almost immediately smoke began to rise and the fluids to bubble and froth. “Most interesting.” The undead creature said, as he observed the reactions, all the while tapping his chin.

As the ancient necromancer continued his experiments, slowly using up the bits and pieces still left of the corpse in the centre of the room, Igre was busy dragging corpses from the hall way up. Clearly he was troubled, as halfway through one of Igre’s arms broke off and he was forced to drag the rest with but one arm. Meanwhile the stressed cat sat in the corner, hissing at the pair. Yet the Lich paid neither any attention, mumbling to himself as he used up the resources he could find on the woman’s corpse.

It was not until Igre was done that the Lich stopped defiling the dead and turned to him. “Are they prepared?” He said, his voice like the cold draft creeping up a spine on a hot summer’s day.
”Master?" Was Igre’s reply.
“Good, good. The experiment may continue then! So far, I have theorized that this woman was killed by the power of two, not one. I judge this based on her tissue’s reaction to liquefied rat innards. You agree, don’t you?” The lich spoke, with his damned voice like the last gust of air that escapes before a crypt is sealed.
”Master?" Was Igre’s reply.

“Yes, indeed, that may also be a possibility. I had not considered the possibility of the retrograde position of the constellation of Zabarof relative to the dwarf mountains. This throws all I have assumed into question. Now, let us begin the interrogations shall we?” The lich continued, seemingly unaware that Igre had not actually answered him, or perhaps he was speaking to another, unseen party? No one present knew. The lich finally stopped tapping his chin and raised that arm. From it a dark and chilling power streamed. As soon as it had arrived, the power left and the hand rose once more to tap a decomposed chin.

Then it started, the bodies began twitching and convulsing. But only for a few moments. After the spasms were complete the twelve corpses slowly raised their heads and looked around bewilderedly. Only after their eyes settled on the undead beings before them did they stop their inquisitive glances, only to replace them with fearful ones. The lich clapped his hands together, the bones scraping against one another creating a tear inducing and wholly unpleasant sound.

“Good, good! You have returned. Very well, how exciting. I have never met members of your society before. Something about golden bosoms or something? No matter, please tell me, in your own words, what had occurred here.” The twelve mages from the Society of the Golden stared at each other, confused and fearful. It wasn’t until one of them spoke up, clearly a senior member by her appearance.

”You brought us back from the dead only to ask us this? Begone and let us rest, foul sorcerer. This world ill needs you kind.” The woman spoke in a forceful and defiant matter. Quite a feat, Grym decided, considering her head was hanging at her side, only attached by a few strips of skin. A sigh escaped from his throat, or it would, were it capable of drawing breath. Instead, a horrible sound of decayed muscles scraping broken bones against one another emerged.

“Ah, how disappointing.” Grym said, before waving his hand even as more dark powers emerged from it. Suddenly, the recently revived members of the Society of the Golden began to twitch and spasm once more, considerably more violently. Once the twitching was done they spoke once more, all in unison, as they told Grym what had occurred within the halls of Castle Dawn. Once they were finished, Grym once more spoke in a horrific voice, like the whimpering of a man buried alive.

“As I thought, they have arrived here as well. Igre! Pack up my supplies and don’t forget the cat. Oh, and take samples will you.” Igre answered his masters commands immediately. ”Master?” The skeletal servant then moved to pack up the lich’s belongings, before spending some time capturing the frightened and increasingly stressed cat.

Once Grym left Castle Dawn he looked up at the full moon that had risen in his time spent inside. “Fascinating. I wonder where they might’ve have gone before arriving here? What think you Frederik?” There was no reply to Grym’s inquiry. “Of course, of course. The humans.” Upon saying that, seemingly to himself he boarded the carriage made of bones in front of him and signalled to the driver, who was merely a skeleton wearing a cloak. The driver responded immediately and whipped the clearly long dead horses in front of the carriage and they rode off. Igre left the castle, cat clutched in his remaining arm and his other arm stuffed in his backpack, before running after carriage. ”Master?” Was his only question in response to his master leaving him behind.