Soul Hunter

Soul Hunter is a Grifter in the Children of Father Night guild.

His wiki handle is Saetta Folgore

**Race:**It is not currently known to outsiders whether he is a human or a mutant, but the Steel Legion dossier claims that he is a mutant that has the abilities of precognition (as evidenced by his abilities in personal combat) and prophesy (as evidenced by his tactical and strategic acumen).  Whenever confronted by these accusations, Soul Hunter is known to laugh condescendingly (this, also, is included in the Steel Legion dossier).

"What are you?"

"An informed question, but difficult to answer. I am what you see..."

-The dying question of a Steel Legion Legatus towards Soul Hunter.

**Myths and Rumors:**

It's said that because of his past experience in the frozen north, the Soul Hunters skin feels cold to the touch almost as if his blood was made from ice. The rumor has not been confirmed however, as anyone who gained the opportunity to touch him (outside of CoFN) hasn't lived long enough to to do so.

Rumor has it that as well as having cannibalistic dietary habits, Soul Hunter strives to improve his daily carb intake. Records show he has been seen man handling a baguette on more than one occasion. Though it is unclear where he finds them. there are no bakers anywhere near Greyfell...

There is a rumor that Soul Hunter's one true love was a 300 year old baguette named Jaquoline.

Another rumor is that in another life, he WAS a baguette, who in the midst of an existential crisis over being a sentient piece of bread, thougt: "I must scream, but I have no mouth."

From the Kasri Clan: Soul Hunter is a homicidal murder lawyer who worships evil Viking vampire Gods.

-Confirmed by all of Greyfell

Someone once found out Soul Hunter's deepest darkest secret, and was never heard from again.

**Personal History:**The man who would be called Soul Hunter was born in the Wastes of the far north, a region that has hosted a war between the Children of Father Night and the Steel Legion for longer than either group has ever recorded.  Growing up in an atmosphere of scarce resources and constant bloodshed, he has a disposition which matches his homeland: Cold, unforgiving, and utterly remorseless.  All men adapt to the situation that they are placed in, but the man who would be Soul Hunter became the utter embodiment of brutal, frozen warfare.

After coming of age, he quickly gained a reputation for seeking out the most dangerous foes of an enemy force, and cutting them apart with a savagery rarely seen (even in those savage lands).  This reputation led to the title Soul Hunter, a title which has been his only name ever since.

Soul Hunter rose through the ranks of Father Night's Children at a swift, but understandable, pace.  None sought to bar his progress.  Those who spoke against him found themselves added to his growing shrine of trophies.  Eventually, he became a warlord, the scourge of those who opposed Father Night's will.  Soul Hunter led hundreds of men on campaigns which involved the slaughter of thousands of Steel Legionaires.

Alas, the Steel Legion is three things above all: Vicious, tenatious, and numerous.  Soul Hunters warband killed a half dozen Legionaires for every Child that they lost, but the Legion could afford a war of attrition in a way that the Children could not, and Soul Hunter was forced to flee, alone, to the south.

There, Soul Hunter came across a Terror Campaign waged by the Children of Father Night in Greyfell, and has lent his considerable strength and skill to the effort.

An In Character accounting of Soul Hunter's life up to the Terror Campaign:

"I was born in the far north. I grew strong there. I fought there. I survived. I survived the cold that sucks the warmth from a man’s blood in minutes. I survived the long winters with nothing to eat but the weakest members of the kin band. I survived all that the north had to throw at me. But most tellingly, I survived years of war against the Steel Legion.

I fought those men and monsters for so long that my war band was whittled away to nothing. I started commanding battles with hundreds of howling Children of Father Night racing to be the first to drink the blood of the armored scum. I claimed the honor of first kill and first feast on more fields than any other. We slaughtered so many patrols and supply convoys, that they sent a full Legion to put us down.

It was a long winter, cowering in bunkers, striking out during the night. Eating their dead when we could… our dead when we couldn’t. We butchered hundreds of that vaunted force. The Sixth Legion. Pride of the Men of Steel. Even then, we could not win. With every battle we won, our capability to win the next was reduced. We ran out of safe havens. We ran out of food. We ran out of ammo. At the last, I realized that I would have to abandon the campaign when I was beating an enemy captain to death with the blood stained greaves of the last man under my command.

I would love to claim that I marched triumphantly southwards, but that would be a lie. I took enough fresh meat from that last battlefield to last my flight away from those killing fields, and put as much ground between myself and those ‘men’ as I could.

After some weeks, I encountered a small and lusterless band of the Children of Father Night. They were aimless. They were worthless. The sniveling cowards had taken to stealing trinkets in the night and trading for provisions from local traders. Shortly before ripping the souls from their worthless hides, they told of a Terror Campaign being performed by Father Night’s true Children at a town called Greyfell.

I came to lend my strength. I came to lend my cunning. The poor souls of that town would learn to fear the night, and fear the silence. I would help ensure that none felt safe there ever again.

Ave Dominus Nox"

**Art of LARPs:**

Soul Hunter had been away from Greyfell for some months now. He
didn't know or care if anyone had noticed, for the gods had called and
he was in no position to refuse. The mutant had trudged north, summoned
 to an enclave of Father Night's Children who were taking their first
steps to becoming the favored weapon of the Dark Pantheon.
Wending his way through the dimly lit caverns, he saw pairs of men
fighting, and groups of fighters jockeying for position to outmaneuver
their mock enemies. Too many green warriors. Too many mistakes. The
gods had sent him here to forge these lean men into effective killers.
It was a job that he took seriously.

 "You! Hrolf! Stop
overextending! You leave yourself vulnerable to counterattack while
trying to disengage when you step so far forward! Sven! Have a care
where you are. If you keep leaving your comrades behind, you'll die in
moments on the battlefield!" The stream of corrections was nearly as
constant as the errors by the inexperienced combatants. Eventually,
Fith, one of the men who was to be a claw leader, stepped forward,
shield and blunted blade in hand.

 "Who are you, to tell us what
to do and how to fight? We've never seen you spill blood, yet you
presume to order us around like some Grand Marshall of old?" Soul
Hunter raised an eyebrow as, wordlessly, he walked over to the rack of
dulled blades. Selecting a well balanced short sword, he squared
towards the upstart claw leader. The younger man, sure that he could
defeat any fighter around so long as he had a shield and the other did
not, grinned as he charged. Soul Hunter sidestepped the first swing,
letting Fith's momentum carry him past the older man. As the claw
leader to-be turned to reengage, he received a powerful blow to the left
 thigh. Unable to stay standing after taking such a blow, Fith sank
toward the ground as a heavy boot planted into his shield, sending him
sprawling across the ground. As the crowd gasped, he knew that he had
been beaten, but the future claw leader rolled over just in time to see
the dull short sword begin
 its arc towards his face. Too fast to
block, with his injury and his out of place shield, all Fith could do
was flinch and wait for the inevitable pain...

 Seconds went by,
and Fith opened his eyes to see a short sword hovering an inch from his
face, and an extended hand issuing a silent offer to help him back to
his feet. With pain, the younger man accepted the help, and went
vertical again, gingerly avoiding putting weight on the now injured leg.
 As Fith went to break away, Soul Hunter pulled him in closer, and said
 too quietly for any other to hear, "I am not here for needless
violence, but I did need to demonstrate my authority. I'm glad you
helped me teach that lesson, but if you need me to teach it again, I
will kill you where you stand."

 Fith nodded in understanding and limped back into the crowd. "Vylas!" Soul Hunter called out to the assembled Children
 of Father Night. "We have much to prepare for, and too little time to
do it fully. I need you all to be willing to learn, and to accept what
advice I give. Failure to learn leads to death at the hands of the
enemy. Failure to listen leads to death at my own hands. You have been
 warned. Get back to your training."

 The large mutant watched
with some satisfaction as the assembled Children got back to training.
Soon, they would be ready for the group tactics and strategies.

 "HROLF! IF I SEE YOU OVEREXTEND ONE MORE TIME I'LL END YOU PERSONALLY!"

 Until then, he would just have to teach them how to fight.

Some time later:

 Soul
Hunter began to wander through the ranks of sparring warriors of Father
Night. The figures circled each other in the gloom, but, luckily, at
this point they were fighting with intent. The point had been driven
home that each attack should be made with the intent to hit. Each block
 should be made to allow the defender to best control the fight. Never
move one foot without simultaneously moving the other. The smoky gloom
of the lit cave was full of swirling pairs of fighters.

 "The fact
 is," Soul Hunter began, "that weapons become dull as they are used.
Clash one sword against another, and they both become less useful as
swords. Idiosyncratically, clash two swordsmen together, and they both
become sharper. More useful as fighters. People progress where tools
degrade. The best way to become a better fighter is to clash with other
 fighters, and hone yourselves against their 'edge'. Many people,
throughout the ages, have advocated attacking dummies as a way to become
 better as combatants, and pells have their uses, but that use is
limited to teaching form and precision. Fighting a living, breathing
opponent, one who is actively trying to resist you, is how you learn to
\*apply\* the form that you learn from practicing on inanimate objects. A
 talented fighter from the past once said something to the effect of 'I
don't punch bricks because bricks don't punch back.' What we are trying
 to achieve here is a similar concept."

 The constant grunts, and
occasional screams of pain, continued from the collected pairs of
fighters, while Soul Hunter walked his circuit amongst them. Hands
clasped behind his back, he affected a relaxed posture while he tried to
 explain the basics of fighting. The fighters continued to sharpen
themselves on each other, but they each listened intently. Failure to
heed the lessons in this cave could lead to a swift and brutal end.

 "Martial Arts are, by definition, the arts of Mars, ancient Roman god
of war. His arts come down to how to win a fight. What needs to be
learned to win fights change as you progress in talent. At the
beginning, you should learn how to throw shots, and how to block them.
Past that, you will all need to learn how to set up your shots. How to
make your opponent react incorrectly so that the attack you use lands
where you intend. Eventually, the most important thing for a fighter to
 learn becomes a mental exercise. Some people learn to try harder, but I
 have tried to care less. Staying calm has always helped me focus
myself, and many fighters through the ages have found the same thing.
However, not everyone will act the same, given the same stimulus. Those
 who try harder, who develop a stronger aversion to failure, sometimes
find that it helps them in the press of melee combat. When the time
comes, find your own 'center,' and keep it."

 The Children of
Father Night, in the gloom of the smoke filled cave, stopped fighting.
The exercise was over, and it was time to eat, before the next lessons
began.

 "Remember what I've said. It can turn you into a better
fighter, a better killer, and, oddly enough, a better analyst and a

better person. Ave dominus nox. Good work today."

**Disclaimer:** Soul Hunter's personal information may be known, through rumor and legend, to those in Greyfell.  It is doubtful that any would know for sure what was true and what was myth, but feel free to talk to him, in game, about his back story (no guarantees on surviving long enough to get an answer, of course).  No harm, no foul.

**Post Script:** If anyone wants to edit this page to streamline the categories presented, or add anything to a "myths and rumors" section, they can feel free. Anything that I find out of line I can simply edit out later. Have fun, and thank you in advance for the help!