Ostif

Ostif is the tallest member of the Halloweenie heroes and a famous serial killer. Though his vocabulary is limited, his heart is large and he will do anything to protect his many friends, dead, alive, or undead.

## **Backstory**

“It’s just one last job, my love. I’ll be back before you know it,” the man said, comforting his wife.

She shook her head.

“It used to not worry, but it’s just after Jeri died, I feel like you don’t have anyone who’s really there for you. You don’t know those men, Ostif! Who will protect you?”

Ostif grinned and raised his mace.

“Pelor himself will protect me. And if not, I will protect myself. Jeri was a loyal friend and he will be missed. But I don’t need him, and you don’t need to worry.”

Ostif stood and walked into the next room, equipping his fur lined cuirass.

“I just don’t have a good feeling about this…”

Ostif shook his head and drew a backpack over his shoulder, making his way towards the door.

“Astrid, I have my faith and I have my steel. If I can’t rely on that, then what's the point? Look, the family we’re escorting are some nobles from a few towns over. They’re offering big money just to keep them safe as they traverse the countryside. It’s a job like any other I’ve done, and honestly, I think he may be paying gold in triple digits. You know more than anyone we need this money.”

Astrid sighed and walked over to him, crossing her arms. Looking deep into his sea blue eyes, she reluctantly nodded her head. Ostif took her hands, cupping them in his and smiling down at her.

“These jobs are straightforward and simple, and can be quite boring if I’m honest. You mustn't worry, I’ve always come back to you, and that won’t stop now.

He stopped at the door and he pulled her in, kissing his wife on the forehead.

“I’ll be back here in four days... a week tops. I love you so much.”

Ostif took a knee, coming face to face with his wife’s protruding stomach, rubbing it and giving it a kiss.

“And I love you too,” he said with a grin.

She showed a small smile, running her fingers through his curly, brown hair.

“Just please be safe, and don’t do anything stupid. I love you.”

With one last embrace, Ostif turned and walked out the door, waving as he walked down the hill and away from his little home, eyeing as his wife as she faded behind him in the morning fog.

In his last moments of her in sight, he called out.

“Just remember, in one way or another, I always come back!”

As he walked, thunder rippled through the cloudy sky, and the steel sun that hung around his neck began to weigh heavily upon him.

With the last few days of planning the escort and nights of drinking at the tavern, Ostif had put off his devotions. Crossing his heart, he began to pray for wisdom as he continued, hoping his absence hadn’t angered the divine Pelor.

Reaching the edge of town, he approached two covered wagons each pulled by two horses. A man dressed in fine attire conversed with the beast of a man Ostif could have recognised anywhere as Galmar.

The unofficial leader of their small band of sell swords, Galmar handled business as well as he could handle liquor, and it showed. With Galmar doing the talking, he always seemed to pull more coin than anyone in the party expected, bringing decent wealth to Ostif and his nine other mercenary companions.

As he got closer, the pitch of the conversation began to escalate.

“Five-hundred for the lot of you was the agreed upon price, and we will not pay a single coin more! If you’re trying to extort us I will delay my trip and find a group that will accept that. Do you understand?”

The noble looked up to meet Galmar’s gaze, pointing a finger into his gruff, bearded face. Galmar stared back for a moment, then shrugged and nodded his head.

“Fine. Fair is fair.”

Galmar stretched out his hand. Eyes darting from Galmar’s hand to his face, the noble took and shook it, turning back and approaching his carriage. As he walked back and ushered his family into his wagon, Galmar called out to him.

“Pleasure doing business with ya!”

The noble ignored him, climbing into the back of one of his carriages.

“Daft cunt,” Galmar muttered, staring at the silk curtains of the vehicle as Ostif approached.

“How’s the day, friend?” Ostif asked as he stopped next to him. Galmar ignored his greeting and continued to glare at the carts.

“Piece of shit’s trying to stiff us.”

“Why’s that?”

Galmar met his gaze.

“All the damn money in the world and he can’t afford a hundred more gold. You know I looked in the back of one of those carts? Packed tighter than a drum with chests of gold and gods knows what else.”

Ostif looked to Galmar and shrugged.

“Galmar, if five-hundred was the agreed upon price, we need to abide by that.”

Galmar grunted and turned away.

“We’re leaving in five.”

Sheepishly, Ostif nodded and took a few steps back. He had no friends here. Being a clean shaven man of the cloth, Ostif always felt out of place with these mercs. With no gods of their own, their love of coin and debauchery were their only guides in this crooked world they lived in.

But Ostif needed coin. Coin that he couldn’t get sitting in a temple reading books. He needed funds and fast, especially with his baby on the way.

And he had Jeri to thank for this opportunity. A childhood friend, Jeri had worked with these men before, making a small fortune over the course of a few years. But on the last escort mission the men worked, a raider’s stray arrow found its mark in Jeri’s right eye socket, leaving Ostif alone with the mercs.

But his clear lack of belonging didn’t bother the cleric. They didn’t have to be friends, they just had to work together and maybe crack some skulls if need be. After this quest, he would have enough to move out of the crumbling shack of a cottage he and his young bride lived in.

Suddenly, a crack of a whip drew the wagons forward. Ostif strut forward, taking up the rear. Glancing over the convoy, he noticed everyone present with Galmar at the front, deep in a heated conversation with his fellow man.

Ostif took a deep breath.

One last job, he thought, that’s all I need.

…

The sound of cicadas drowned out the distant sound of the fire as Ostif stood in the woods, relieving himself. Pulling back up his trousers, he wandered back towards the camp.

As he approached, he began to overhear a hushed conversation between his allies. Galmar leaned over the fire as he spoke.

“No one will know, we’re in the middle of ass fuck nowhere for god's sake. That coach has more coin than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Another man chimed in.

“I don’t like it Galmar, but if you think it’s the best choice, I won’t question you.”

Galmar’s illuminated grin shone over the flames as he continued. “When push comes to shove, we’ll take those prissy nobles-”

With a snap of a stick, Ostif stepped into the clearing, and his companions went silent.

Ostif knit his eyebrows.

“Alright… You all know me, and you know I can’t pretend I didn’t hear that. We are not robbers, thieves, or murderers. Whatever you’re planning… I can’t sit by and let it happen.”

The group went silent, the crackle of the fire being the only noise in the cold night. Taking a deep breath, Galmar stood up.

“Ostif… Turn around, and go home. Go home to your wife, and your unborn child, and walk away from this.”

Galmar dug around in his bag and pulled out a coin pouch. Loosening it, he exposed the gold within, then tossed it at Ostif’s feet, spewing a few of the coins as it landed.

“Take it. It’s one hundred gold, more than you would have even made on this job. We’ll never see each other again. Just take it and get out of here.”

Ostif shifted in his boots. He eyed the coins that had just spilled from the pouch, littering the frozen dirt. Ostif locked eyes with Galmar.

“Don’t do this.”

Galmar’s hand fell to his waraxe, and the men on either side of him stood, eyeing down the cleric.

“Don’t do anything stupid, friend. Take the gold and walk away.”

Ostif looked over Galmar’s shoulder, up a hill and towards the hooded wagon in which the noble and his family slept. His hand crept around the hallowed sun around his neck, whispering a prayer under his breath.

With a crack of divine energy, a thunder wave rippled from his chest, blasting the bonfire apart and sending Galmar and two of his goons flying backwards.

As the other men rushed to stand, Ostif leapt over the remains of the fire and dashed towards the wagon.

As he drew closer, the noble stumbled out of his carriage in a nightgown, awoken by the crack of thunder.

“What in the nine hells is going-”

“Take your family and get out of here now.”
 Rubbing his eyes, the noble shook his head as he tried to focus.

“What?”

“There’s no time! Get in the wagon, take your family and go!”

“Now why would I do that? I need one of your men to coach my carriage before we-”

“My lord, you must-”

Woosh!

An arrow tore itself into Ostif’s right shoulder, causing him to buckle over in pain. The noble stared in shock at the exposed arrowhead sticking through Ostif’s mail. Snapping the arrow in half, Ostif yelled one last time.

“Go!”

This time without hesitation, he lept into the coach seat, grabbing and cracking the whips. The horses reared and ran, harshly yanking the carriage back onto the road and into the night.

Drawing a dagger, he quickly hacked away at the reins holding the other two horses, scaring them off.

Stowing the knife, he drew his mace as the men approached and quickly surrounded him.

“Asshole,” Galmar growled through clenched teeth. “Fucking asshole. We could’ve all walked away rich!”

Ostif raised his hand, shaking his head.

“This was wrong, Galmar. Now you and I haven't always seen eye to eye, but breaking your bond? Stealing a fortune? Murdering a family? Please… I couldn’t have let that happen, you know that.”

Galmar scowled at Ostif.

“Fuck you, Ostif.”

Without warning, a spear thrust straight through the back of Ostif’s knee, sending him to the ground. As Ostif tried to swing his mace in retaliation, a fist cracked across his jaw, and he fell on his side.

The men swarmed him, punching and kicking him from every angle. Everytime he tried to move or stand, they’d force him down again. Through the chaos, a hand reached through, grabbing Ostif’s necklace and ripping it away.

Ostif looked up, trying to reach for his holy symbol back, just in time to see Galmar stand over him with a club, swinging it down and cracking it over his skull.

Everything went black.

…

The warm flow of blood down Ostif’s side brought him back into consciousness. Opening his eyes, he looked around in the ditch he had found himself in, and then up into the clear night sky, devoid of stars in the light of the full moon. As he tried to stand, the searing pain from the open gash on the back of his knee crippled him.

Glancing to the source of his pain, he saw it; The handle of his own dagger sticking out from his ribs, its blade deep dug into his lung.

A soft whimper escaped his lips as he tried to mutter a prayer, reaching to his necklace, the divine source of his powers, only to remember it was gone.

But the sun wasn’t the only thing absent. Everything he had on him except the worn, wool trousers on his legs had been looted, leaving him half naked in the mud. His bare torso was covered in filth, bruises, gashes, and blood.

Grabbing a handful of dirt, he dragged himself forwards, and grip by grip, and pulled himself up out of the trench and into what he could make out as a barren cornfield, illuminated in the pale moonlight.

Desperately, he looked past the jagged stocks for anyone to help.

He turned and turned, and then, through his impaired vision, he spotted a figure, standing alone in the distance, deep in the field.

“Hel-”

Blood sprayed from his mouth as he tried to shout, staining his lips and drowning out his palate with the bitter taste of blood.

Breathing cold steam through the pain, he crawled again, desperately pulling himself towards the silhouette. The dagger, still lodged inside, shifted and cut, making every inch of movement pure hell.

Several grueling minutes of crawling passed before he got close enough to make out the motionless farmer, staring off in the opposite direction.

“Sir…”

He whispered, trying to maintain consciousness. He reached his trembling hand  towards his leg, wrapping his fingers around it and squeezing.

“S...sir..?”

The leg was light, and as soon as he gripped it, his hand closed into a fist, leaving only the pant leg in his grasp. Straw fell from the open leg hole, and that’s when he noticed the pole parallel to the figure's spine.

A scarecrow.

Collapsing to his back, Ostif wept. He felt darkness overwhelming him and his feet growing cold.

Clenching his hair in his hands, he prayed as hard as he could, calling out to Pelor, pleading and begging for him to spare his life.

“Pelor… please… I need…”

All of a sudden, the crackle of hay silenced his begging, and a shadow came over his face. Opening his tear soaked eyes, the moon was no longer above him. Instead, a silhouette of a cloaked man, no larger than four feet tall sat upon the shoulders of the scarecrow, legs slowly dangling above him.

“You’ve met with a terrible fate haven’t you?”

Ostif could do nothing but stare in fear. His years of learning and reading at the temple now immediately put him on edge of the figure that sat upon the scarecrow. He could feel his energy, the pure power that radiated from him, almost distorting the air.

This was no mortal being.

“And before you ask, ‘fraid I’m not Pelor. My apologies, it appears the big man upstairs was busy.”

Ostif swallowed with the little saliva he had left.

“What… what are you?”

A sinister grin came over the man’s face.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

Raising his hands, he floated up and off the scarecrows shoulders and into the air above Ostif.

“I am the Sovereign of Chaos and Change, the Giver of Gifts, the most powerful and mysterious of the Dark Six. I am… The Traveler.”

Landing softly on his feet, he leaned over Ostif.

“You know I’ve been watching you ever since… well you happened to urinate in my general direction and I have to say… you have put on quite a show!”

The Traveler took a step back, conjuring a jet black rapier in his hand and twirling it like a fencer.

“You rejected the diabolical plan of your friend, you blasted them back with the power of the sun, you saved the innocent family from certain demise and then..!  You realised why most don’t try to pick a fight with ten men, and ended up bleeding out alone in a ditch.”

Opening his hand, the rapier disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“It makes me wonder… who really brought the chaos in that situation? The radical sell swords planning to rob and murder their gentle and wealthy lords? Or the simple holy man whose clear moral code was violated, forcing him to act? Heh. I never cease to amuse myself with such questions…”

Ostif coughed and retched again, spraying more blood over his side.

“Oh yes, of course, you’re dying, I’ll get to the point. To be honest, the reason I revealed myself was to ask you something; what was that long, heroic crawl to the scarecrow? It really was hard to watch, like really hard to watch, and probably even harder to do yourself. Did you hope to climb it or something? See if you can find a vantage point or the road maybe?”

He took a step back, slowly pacing back and forth. Then he stopped, staring over to the inanimate field construct with a half-grin.

“No… you thought it was alive didn’t you?”

He began to cackle as Ostif began to fade into the beyond.

He floated back over to the scarecrow, planting his feet at its base and staring up several feet to its head. He tugged on its hand, laughing as he spoke.

“You thought this… was alive? If this were alive, this would be the most terrifying creature I’d ever seen. He’d stand well over… well... two and a half yards! He’d be horrifying! No one, and I mean no one… would mess… with this guy…”

The Traveler slowed down and stopped laughing, pondering for a moment, his eyes darting between Ostif and the scarecrow, then grew wide in mischief.

“Ostif! Ostif!”

With a wild smile from ear to ear he lept over Ostif's chest, slapping his face.

“I have a gift... a wonderful gift! For you, no strings attached! You get to live! See your wife! Maybe even kill those men you tried to kill you? You like that Ostif? Buddy? Friend?”

The Traveler shook him as he spoke. Ostif was wary of the being upon him, and in his last moments, he tried to resist. But in his weakness and fear, felt he had no choice. Shakily, he nodded his head. The traveler’s smile vanished.

“Alright… maybe there are a few strings attached. Firstly… you need to abandon Pelor as your lord and savior and pledge your life to me.”

Ostif’s eyes grew wide with rage as he tried to throw the Traveler off his chest, but alas, his arms, cold and weak, could barely lift, much less throw the divine.

“Comeon, Ostif, this is a good thing! How long have you slaved for Pelor, and how has he repaid you? An excruciating death for standing up for HIS principles and HIS stupid code! Pelor has abandoned you! His loyal servant and warrior!”

Tears ran down Ostif’s face. He thought of his wife and unborn child, now left to wander this world alone.

“And even worse, he didn’t even leave you by yourself to die, he left you alone with me! Doesn’t he know who I am? What I’ve done? What I’ll do to… well nevermind… just renounce him! Pledge yourself to me! But hear this now, I have no power over the dead, but here in your final moments on this plane of existence I can save you.”

Ostif began to weep, opening his mouth as he tried to speak.

“As... Astrid…”

The Traveler nodded.

“Yes… yes… As...trid. You can find her! You can protect her! Just do this one thing… and you will never hear from me again. That, I can swear from the bottom of my heart.”

Finally, his desperation overcame him, and begrudgingly Ostif nodded his head.

“I… Ostif Ragnarson… swear… swear myself to you… Traveler…”

The Traveler put his finger on Ostif’s lips, cutting him off.

“Good enough.”

Floating off the ground, The Traveler leveled his hands, lifting Ostif up along with him till they floated parallel in the night sky. The Travelers began to chant, his voice contorting and changing into a primordial tongue as he rose, and beams of magenta began swirling around them.

The Travelor’s eyes turned purple as he stared at Ostif, and magical rods grew up like weeds from the ground and closer to the dying man.

Suddenly the violet beams shot into Ostif, hooking themselves into his skin and peeling it back. Ostif screamed in pain as it ripped and tore, but somehow, managed to stay conscious.

As the Traveler chanted in his diabolical tongue,  Ostif screamed as they began to lift higher, spinning in the air. Slowly, the scarecrow rose from its post and began to spin with them. To Ostif’s horror, it’s clothes and straw began to peel back, just like his.

Spiritual hands arose from the earth, floating towards Ostif and clamped onto his rips, vibrating as they held them.

Ostif roared in pain as they began to pull, and as he watched his own rib cage being pulled from his torso, everything went black.

…

Muffled movement and shifting shadows were all Ostif could make out. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was different; everything was wrong. His arms and legs felt light and heavy at the same time, but slowly, his sense of touch returned to him.

He could feel himself sitting, leaned up against a wall.

He wanted to speak, but nothing escaped his ragged mouth.

He felt a dark presence inch closer, lean in, and slowly breath over his shoulder.

“What’s your name, friend?”

“O… Ostif .”

The sound of his own name escaped his mouth like wind scraping through a nettle filled gutter.

“Ostif !”

His eyes opened, and he was alone. He called out the only thing he could.

“Ostif ?”

He tripped over his own elongated legs as he stood, and slowly, he glanced around.

Through cracks in the roof, he could tell the night had become cloudy and dark, but somehow, he could see clearly through the shadows. He seemed to be in some kind of farmhouse.

Looking over his long and flimsy arms and legs, they were no longer human, and he could see his own bones inside him behind thin patches of hay. His fingers had become steel, dagger like blades and his flesh was now straw.

But despite this, he was unafraid, as in his mind, he knew nothing different.

His head tilted as he approached a puddle at the far end of the barn, looking at his face now covered in hemp in its muddy reflection. His beady eyes, black as the void stared back at him as what could be described as a smile arose from his mouth, now carefully stitched shut.

“Ostif.”

Stumbling out into the night, we wandered into the woods as thunder rippled overhead.