Thread: Age of Strife Character Profiles

Name- Zelindor Morganion, the Demon Doctor Race- Faladorian Human, Erebus Age- 24 Physical Description- Already somewhat mentally unsound as a child, the maddening influence of his fits of clairvoyance has turned this intuitive, curious medical savant into what could only be described as a sociopath. That being said, Zel is not evil. Instead, he seems to fly over the concept of good and evil entirely, more amoral than immoral, finding himself motivated by 'more important things' than ethics. While reclusive and prone to erratic behavior, Zel is far from bad company, with a morbid, fearless sense of humor and a sharp, sarcastic wit. Alignment- Neutral Profession- Healer Battle RoleClass- Vitamancer Blood Mage Character Bio- It's rather peculiar how quickly hardship matures us - how suddenly and haphazardly our skin thickens to leather from the chafing friction of a hostile world. I think I was maybe four, five years old at the time. All I could hear were angry, agonizing roars that throbbed through my ears like a second heartbeat, echoing through the keep over and over again. The most vivid memory was the look on her face. Those glassy, empty eyes staring at me as I laid there, silently, under my father's workbench. That river of red almost seemed serene as it dribbled past her bloodied, matted hair. I imagine she must have doted on me considering she gave her life to hide me from whatever threat it was I was being protected from. I can't seem to recall her name, but I do remember that itching desire to pry her open, if only to know where all the red came from. After I was found from the wreckage, I was taken to my uncle's rural villa some twenty, thirty leagues away from the city, and he raised me from that point on. Well, I suppose 'raised' doesn't really describe it. 'Trained' seems more the right word. It was a rare thing that I saw his face at all, and even when we sat at opposite ends of the table for dinner any amount of small talk felt like he was doing me a favor. I didn't mind. I don't actually remember how long it took to forget my parents, but I doubt it was very long. Perhaps they had been the same. Or perhaps the psychological shock had locked those memories away. That's when I saw it. Felt it. Heard it, the crackling flames like a gorgeous, mesmerizing dance of foreign tongues and foreign moves, yet felt strangely, oddly familiar. All I know is that I suddenly wanted to open things. The once scratching desire had begun to swell into something I found no reason to ignore. Oh, the fun I had! Rats and frogs and even a kitten that belonged to one of the maidservants, each dissected as I slithered through blood-soaked sinews and ligaments with tinkering fingertips. Surprisingly enough, there was little to actually memorize - the whole art was one of deduction and perception, one logical conclusion following the next. Everything just made so much sense. It was beautiful, really. And then it happened again. For a second time in my lifetime, the whispers revealed themselves. Murderous thoughts slithered through the labyrinths of my mind night after night, and soon enough, it came to pass. Another attack, bandits I think, and this time I had no nameless maidservant to keep me safe. They found it ironic to torture me with the same scalpel I used, to prick me with pain again and again until I gave in and put on a pathetic little show for them. Until I begged and screamed and writhed. Amateurs. The only thing they ended up doing was unlock an even more fascinating aspect of my mind - one that I have yet to completely understand. From what little I know, it operates, like many things, on the concept of cycles. Pain and healing, suffering and power. One cannot exist without the other, one is the outcome of the other, interwoven inseparably. I could see everything - every muscle, every nerve, every bone under their skin, visualizing layer over layer, reducing them to their bare essentials. And as they yelled and bickered and threatened, my mind wandered into daydreams of those layers twisting and wrenching and rippling and rupturing, tearing apart and back and again and again. At some point during that daydream I began to hum, one of my captors struck me to silence me, and my 'dreams' lashed out at him Tearing him apart... and putting him back together, and apart, again and again. Like any child with a new toy, I enjoyed it with a wide-eyed fascination. He screamed for me to stop, to end it - but I could hear the screams of the women he raped they had said the same. Perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to have fun, but I wasn't going to play nice with someone who didn't. After all, that just wouldn't be fair. With no real home to go to, I returned to my birthplace. To Erebus. I had been gone far too long for anything to feel familiar, but with the rising tides of crime and violence, there was much need for the skills I could provide. Within the first month I found myself employed by a religious infirmary of the White Chapel. I healed enough to make ends meet, or anyone I found especially amusing, and the rest of the time I liked to just... watch the people dying. It was serene in its own way, the slow ebb and flow of life whittling away. And don't tell anyone else, but sometimes I'd snatch a corpse or two to dissect. Purely academic, I assure you. I was quiet about it, but one can never be sure around nosy, religious folk. If anyone found out, they didn't say anything. The clerics had a sort of tentative respect for me - none of them could pale to my eye for detail, my surgical ability to diagnose and cure. They wasted so much of their own magics on unnecessary treatments for imaginary ailments while the real problems evaded them until much later. It was obvious I unnerved them. I found pleasure in what to them was a dreary service to their church. I tinkered and toyed and explored with fascinated glee as they labelled me the 'Demon Doctor'. And yet, it was the demon who had become the guardian angel of so many. Character Picture-