(Archive) Stanton

*"You're the good, they're the bad. I'm the ugly."* - *Stanton Krieg.*

## History

   Stanton was borne to a single father, his mother having died in childbirth. The pair of them lived in perpetual poverty, Stanton being forced to work at an early age. Every day, Stanton had to bear witness to those better off than him enjoying life. Even the humble villagers in nearby towns enjoyed a better life than he did, safe behind sturdy walls and always kept fed.

Stanton's father was an unskilled laborer, who picked up jobs wherever he could. Stanton himself was much the same for most of his early life, and he hated every second of it. He grew to loathe the sight of others better off than him, and jealousy quickly found a happy home in his heart. When he entered his teens, he fled his home to join a small group of bandits that preyed the roads near Magnimar, in the largely hostile Mushfens . The bandits chose this dreadful home because almost nobody would think they would stay there.

The dangers of the swamp meant Stanton's gang could not live too deeply in it, but the creatures there gave them a cover for them to retreat to when the marshals of Magnimar gave chase. From their fetid base of operations, the gang preyed upon unwary travelers and merchants trying to get to the City of Monuments. After a particularly fortuitous raid, Stanton took a pistol from the corpse of a bodyguard. The alchemical contraption fascinated him, and though the archers of his group laughed, he insisted on training with it.

It took many years, but Stanton gradually built up a great deal of skill with his pistol, even building a second one to use at the same time. He even gained his own bounty, such was the fear his twin pistols generated. The bowmen of the gang no longer laughed at him: Now they respected him.

The good times, however, did not last. Due in part to Stanton's reputation, the marshals in Varisia began to tighten the noose on the group's location. They began to take higher losses in raids as merchants hired better guards. Recruits became thin when people began to fear them more than respect them, even if they never killed unless they had to.

Stanton was still riding high on his reputation, however, and struck out from the gang on his own. He kept on the move, never staying in one location too long while always picking the juiciest targets for himself to plunder. He robbed caravans, stagecoaches, even small convoys. He took what he wanted and relished the power and wealth he now held over others. For now, it was *he* who was in control of his life, and not the twin daggers of poverty and non-education.

The bounty on his head continued to grow, drawing bounty hunters, justice seekers, and adventurers from all around. People wanted to get their start by claiming his bounty, and it was a sound strategy. The only issue was actually finding him, as Stanton had long since learned to survive in the wilds thanks to his upbringing in the swamps. He only approached towns when he truly needed to, and when he did he always spent gratuitously in an effort to flaunt how successful he was.

This, of course, meant he had to regularly sack travelers for much of their coin. So it was after one spending spree that he was in desperate need of further coin. He stopped an unarmed merchant on the road one foggy morning and demanded he hand over his wares and coins. Distraught, the merchant indicated he had only just started his own career, and the only things he had on him were the raw materials in his cart and a few copper to his name.

Stanton, of course, didn't believe a word of it. The merchant grew more afraid, while Stanton grew more angry at being defied. After a minute of argument, his temper snapped: He drew his sidearm and shot the man where he sat. Stanton picked through his belongings, irritably finding that the merchant had spoken the truth. The most Stanton could hope to get from him was a few silver, instead of the gold pieces he had hoped to get. Infuriated at his loss of luck, he turned back to look at the merchant, and found him still breathing. He decided to vent his spleen, and thus for no good reason he unloaded several rounds into the dying man's body.

It was this act of sheer madness that altered the course of his life. As the blood spurted from the corpse, Stanton felt a cold chill run up his spine, and he swore it felt like someone had just walked across his grave. He decided to leave the area immediately. He headed for his current camp while dragging the merchant's horse and cart with him. When he arrived, he was uneasy, though there was nothing different that he could tell. He fell into a troubled sleep that night, plagued by nightmares and whispers in the back of his mind.

When he awoke, the whispers seemed to be gone, yet when he went to drink his daily ration of water, he felt them come back with a surge. The apparent cause was the cracked and dried feeling of his skin, which was now stretched taut against his bone and muscle. When he saw how horribly *wrong* his flesh looked, the whispers then became audible again, and they told him horrible things. They thanked him for his work in spreading misery and pointless death. They told him of how his robberies had inflicted untold misery on others, how they in themselves ended up causing much further death than he had ever realized. As madness threatened to overtake him, the name of a God he had never known, and yet always had, flashed through his mind: Zyphus.

He became acutely aware of how *wrong* his body now felt. He checked his reflection, and what had once been a handsome man had become a ghoul. His cheeks had hollowed and his eyes had sunken in. His breath came through in hoarse gasps and his flowing hair had turned stringy. He tried to drink a healing potion and immediately threw it back up, the positive energy burning his insides horribly. He fled, then, driven by a combination of despair, madness, and denial.

For days he ran into the woods, forgetting his bounty, his name, even what he wanted to do each day. He only knew he had to keep fleeing, because if he didn't, that horrid power that had taken hold of him would catch up completely. If that were to happen, he knew he could very well lose his most precious possession: that of his own soul.

When at last he ran out of energy, he collapsed into the muck and mud of the Mushfens. He lay there for what felt like hours, merely staring at the sun. He could feel a curious energy about him now, the power to change reality with but a few incantations and gestures. He dared not to ask where such boons had come from, because the answer horrified him. At this crossroads of his life, he became overwhelmed with self-pity and remorse, and it felt as if his soul would tear itself apart in its agony.

He fell asleep in the Mushfens. When he next opened his eyes, the night sky greeted him, along with the scratching of sand on his back and the tug of the tide on his boots. Had he drowned in the swamp waters of the marsh? Hallucinated further until ending up in a strange land? He didn't know. The townsfolk feared that he was undead when they found him, but took him in all the same.

The whispers still plagued the back of his mind, but they told him how to keep them quiet. He had to continue killing, continue causing pointless death and destruction. What better way to do this than adventure? He began by following strange posters to a junkyard, where goblins had killed the owner and stolen some fireworks. He helped to clear them out, and even managed to shoot a goblin into the air on its own rocket. It didn't calm the voice much.

He then signed up for a bar crawl, courtesy of Liam Locktickler. In the ensuing gauntlet of traps and flying skulls, he found his new magic powers a powerful aid. The voices were mildly appeased with the inanity of what he was doing, and he enjoyed seeing his caricature be placed upon the bar's wall as a winner of the crawl.

Still, it wasn't enough. He soon signed up to destroy a large infestation of engorged insects that plagued the countryside. Seizing the chance, he orchestrated a small wildfire that resulted in pointless plant and wildlife death. To his comrades, it seemed a great distraction to their foe. To him, it was a necessary means to appease Zyphus.

As a means of escaping total responsibility for his acts, or perhaps as a means to engineer further unfortunate circumstances in Zyphus' favor, Stanton applied for the position of Hallmaster of the Underworld (Spymaster) for the settlement of Valhalla's Rest.

When he received the job, he was both surprised and concerned that he had been given an entire villa to himself. As he surveyed the large property, he had to wonder: What fresh hell would await him, now that he had been granted power?

## Appearance

Stanton looks like a ghoul in many respects. His skin is pale and stretched thin across his bones. His face has sunken in and hollowed out, while his eyes have long since lost the luster of youth. His hair has become thin and stringy, and his throat is dried and cracked for no reason he can discern. He typically still wears the same garb as when he was an outlaw: a black, damaged traveling coat that still bears the scars of past fights. A large hat to keep the sun out his eyes, its old cords replaced with sturdy rope. Trusty traveling boots that still have mud caked on them in seemingly endless layers.

## Personality

Stanton used to enjoy being greedy and full of himself. Now he has very little to say. He tends to be somewhat short, though not necessarily impolite. He has nothing positive to say and trends towards being depressive in conversation. He almost never smiles, and if anyone saw him try it would be clear that the muscles on his face have long forgotten the movements for it.

The best that could be said of him is that he seems strong of will and averse to panic. He tries to stick through any situation until the end, doing his best to see it through successfully.

## Relationships

### Friends

Stanton does not have anyone he would call a friend. At best he has a few acquaintances.

### Enemies

Stanton has no one he would specifically call his enemy, though he has a distaste for younger adventurers with chips on their shoulder. Cockiness upsets him greatly, and he especially balks at anyone whose ego becomes large.

## Aspirations

Stanton seeks to find some way to either atone for his past deeds or find a way to embrace them. He wants to figure out whether he even can be redeemed, whether he *should.* He also desires a way to make the voice of Zyphus leave him alone, whether it be by shutting it out forever or by ingratiating himself enough to the god that he decides to leave Stanton alone as his avatar.