Taranis “Stormblind”

*Fight fire with fire, It's a dirty game ~*

*Gonna float like a feather in a hurricane ~*

An excitable and energetic figure, **Taranis** has a certain ‘rough-and-tumble’ charm that can either be off-putting or endearing depending on whichever walk of life someone comes from - he’s honest and amiable, but not all too great with the social graces (and completely foreign to a sense of higher class etiquette. Or most etiquette in general); distinctly lacking in table manners, which is to say food is apparently a rare commodity that just might disappear if he isn’t fast enough; and optimistic to the point of fault, which can be concerning given his main tenet seems to be “*life is absolute chaos and that’s okay*”. There’s a highly attentive presence to him, characterized by a constantly wandering attention span and notable inability to sit still without some sort of activity, cerebral or tactile.

By appearance, his attire generally seems to be as unrefined as his mannerisms - the armor is aged and seen some use, seemingly made up of whichever pieces happened to fit him, while the clothes are one-part vestments, two-parts carefully sewn over common clothes in no discernible singular style (and given he himself has no obvious talent for sewing, probably borrowed or gifted).

The most striking (and obvious) feature is the scarring across the right side of his head - thin, fractal-like scars that run from the top of the head all the way down to his lower back. Where the scars begin on the head, there’s grey streaks intermingled with the usual black hair, as if discoloured. His right eye is a similar discoloured pale tone (seemingly damaged and most likely magically repaired), while his left is hazel. His general build seems to land on the wiry side.

**“Seven”** - a small, grey and white mouse that has been tamed by Taranis and likes to hang around him, or rather, hang around *on* him as the mouse can variously be seen climbing around the folds of his clothes, settle in the nooks of armour or sleep in an old scroll case he has adapted into a nest for her.

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**Background**

Taranis’ earliest memories are of the street. They’re fuzzy and blend together, but in so far as he knows, he never really had a family other than the other urchins and feral children of the city. He ended up running together with various packs in order to survive, learning the strangely conflicting lessons of how something can be both a tight-knit community and riddled with self-interest.

Once he was old enough, he sought to find himself employment and managed to barter his way onto a ship as a deckhand. The career on the seas was not meant to be, however, as on just their 3rd voyage out the ship was caught in a storm. The young lad was up in the rigging, securing the sails when a bolt of lightning hit it. Onlookers were not sure whether the bolt hit the mast or the lad himself, but either way, when his body hit the deck many of the crew thought him already dead from the sight of the wounds across his body. Despite the odds, Taranis recovered and lived, though it left him extensively scarred as a result.

Many who knew him swore he wasn’t the same after the event, saying the lightning must have gone to his head - the quiet and attentive nature of before was replaced by a sudden restless energy and zeal for something even he couldn’t name. Some came to mockingly call him “**Stormblind**”, thinking him to have lost sight of the real world. Taranis himself gladly accepted the moniker as a badge of pride, finding it, to quote: “*Flipping epic, like some long lost hero of fables*.”

That restless energy made him leave the sailor life behind, seeking to find answers to all the questions buzzing in his mind after the near-death experience. His searches lead him to the temple of **Toulou** at first, and while he still has deep respect for the servants of *The Mother*, he had a hard time connecting to the more passive approach of nature being ordered.

The search continued and it was, perhaps, no small irony that he happened upon the servants of **The Enigma** by chance. Their teachings found a foothold in Taranis’ mind and he realized that life as such is more chaos than order, as everyone - high and low - are subject to fate and luck. It was luck that spared him and fate that can elevate those under misfortune. There's a sense of chaos to it - random, unpredictable and something which cannot simply be contained - just like lightning. To fight against it is to be destroyed by it, but much like lightning, it is a current, a flow, and if allowed to freely course *through* you, it can be directed and *guided*, to bring luck to those who truly need it. With this new philosophy in mind, he joined the clergy and has been an ardent practitioner ever since.

Although he’s been operating by himself for the most part, he’s made himself familiar with a local boarding house in **Othery** in recent years - a place he remembers having been kind with both food and housing to the urchins of the city back in his street-running days, called **The Vagrant's Rest**. Considering how many street kids visit and help out around the place while also given a place to sleep, it's essentially an orphanage in all but name. He’s been advocating for it among the low street folk, and vying for alms among the higher classes where he can - the habit of finding a pack to run with being still too strong.

It’s the matter of an increasingly leaky roof and ever colder winds blowing through the rafters of said boarding house, no longer supportable by simple alms, that prompted Taranis to search for a more ambitious solution, which eventually lead to the increasing fame of the **Six Dragons Inn** and the not-so-secret opportunity beneath..

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**Of Delvings and Stories, and Nightmares**

Corvus Vectis, as they so seriously named themselves, have been down to the dungeons on a few occasions by now, and while the finds there have been more than a little morbid (their main 'prizes' having been remains of the dead, both their own and others') rather than the riches some of them had been hoping for, the tales spun from the events have none the less proved to entertain the residents of Vagrant's Rest all the same. Taranis has shown and told the (admittedly far more flourish-filled) stories about:

* A **broken arrowhead**, snatched from a sinister trap on the wall, where a single false step on a fake floor tile could be the last mistake you made as it pierced your skull. An ever present eye must be kept on the walls, the floors and even the ceilings, for a faint cascade of shadow from torchlight could spell a hidden doom..
* A **tiny sculpture of a beetle**, shockingly life-like, from a room where the very plants drain your life away, leaving behind husks of stone and marble. There were some who argued it to be a cheap trinket, finely crafted, but cheap all the same, until Taranis pulled up the sleeves to show the grey-like tint of the arms where the magic had partly done its work. The doubters' scepticism quickly turned to morbid interest as the other urchins began a wave of questions - how does it feel, does it hurt, was it magic, is it permanent, can you punch through walls now.. The evening's entertainment had been ensured.
* A **mannequin hand**, marble and finely crafted, that brought with it the tale of a ghostly assailant, stalking the darkness with garrotte and madness. It would drag you to its workshop and let you wither away, before turning your body into a stony doll to be added to its collection. The group managed to survive the phantom and even retrieve a previous victim, before this wicked entity had a chance to petrify them for the hanging collection.
* A **book of creepy fairytales**, many of which the street kids had heard read before, but none the less crowded the common area to hear both old and new again with excitable interest. They were the Old Tales, the ones with the blood, the murder and the occasional war crime for added flavour, and morbid as they were, the audience wanted them all read in the dim candlelight of the common area, for it was the tales on which most of them grew up on. Taranis read as many a night as he could, one tale more terrible than the next (to the delight of the crowd), but in the end, he left out the most horrible tale of them all - the tale of a monster who was not so faded to legend after all, and has been wandering the darkness below their very feet the entire time..
* A **large spider fang**, a forearm in length and wicked to the very point of it's venomous tip. Regretfully the beast itself had lain dead for years, but surely must have been the Queen of Spiders Below in size and might. Perhaps her influence had once even stretched to the creepers and crawlers of the very city itself.. For who was to say how far a spider's web could stretch, and whether the Queen's brood lay as still as she does.
* A **garrotte of a nightmare stalker**, familiar and terrifying in one. Doll-maker, life-taker, a madman of the darkness, neither human nor beast. The very one who had slain The Mordish Bastard and made him into a vengeful shade, haunting the darkness below in shadow and despair. They put to rest The Bastard, they hunted down the nightmare and made sure none would fall victim to them again. And yet a mystery remained, for the nightmare stalker revered a master of their own - a humanoid shape with arms numbering eight..
* A **fishy scale**, belonging to a beast neither lizard nor entirely fish. The scale was that of what they now knew to be grindylow - slippery, sneaky terrors of the watery depths below, and the very same who had slain their brave companion within a blink of an eye. The waters of the dungeons are cold, but colder still the grindylow hearts, for as they tracked them to find their lair, to repay the kindness shown to their friend, ambushes awaited in deceptively still waters. If one wasn't careful, they could be dragged to the silky darkness below, never to surface again..
* A **crumpled stack of scribbles**, written by one who has dwelt in the dungeons since the empire of old, amid a drove of knowledge and paper stacks as high as the ceiling. Strange proof that not quite all denizens below are thirsty for blood and violence, yet a cautionary tale all the same, for even to a trained eye and academic brain, the writing contains nothing but nonsense. No code or meaning could be derived, for those who dwell below - even the kind ones - cannot escape madness in whichever form it chooses to take. For years the archivist has done nothing but write what they know, and for years hence, they shall continue to write out the madness that grips them. A fine fellow of good nature, that mad archivist.. Just.. perhaps not that great at the 'archiving' part these days.
* There was no tale told of the terror below, of the monstrous tailor and his workshop of horrors. But the **hat of the Mad Stitcher** did find its way to John Groat, proof that the threat has once more passed. And while no tale was told at Vagrant's Rest, a few coins slipped to a bard or two produced a new kind of song about a lime-bathing butcher, whose elegant finery hid a horrible beast beneath, and who ultimately lost to a trio of heroes. A jaunty song meant to bring peace of sleep for those with sharp enough ear to catch the story hidden within.
* A **corpse of a suturefly**, harmless in its dead state, but a terror of the underdark when alive. On the surface it seems hardly something to be feared, and while many want a closer look out of curious interest, some of the on-lookers scoff and laugh, saying they've seen bigger flies out in the marshlands every summer. That is, until the method of the suturefly's hunting is revealed - as a unit, it moves, with others of its kind, and it is not plain blood or feast that they seek, but silence. Once it's upon you, within a blink - stitch stitch stitch! - its terrible stringer sews your mouth clean shut. No screams, no cries, not even a prayer to the Archons can be uttered. Alone in the dark, one would surely be done for.. And, yes, to those who ask about the freshly healed wounds, the young man points out it does indeed hurt like a whoreson to cut the mouth open again.
* A **shorn flipper of a grindylow**, massive in its size for it belonged to none other than the Brood Queen herself. The same slippery ambushers who had slain their companion, had in turn become the hunted. Through tunnels and deep waters, the group finally found their nest, filled to the brim with trash and muck.. and thousands upon thousands of eggs, ready to be hatched at a moment's notice, to produce new grindylow and hunt the darkness. They took down the Queen's guards, fighting through witchcraft and spears, until at last the Queen's head was caved in by a single blow. They thought themselves safe, then, but the grindylow nest had one last trap up its sleeve, for a device to open the grate and flush the nest into oblivion nearly took the party itself down with it, never to be seen again.. Through strength of arms, they barely managed to fight the currents and come back, safe in their knowledge that their companion's spirit can now rest in peace for he has been avenged.
* A **piece of fruit**, glistening and brilliant, jewel-like in its appearance, as if plucked from the white pearl clams of the deep, rather than a tree. But it is indeed a plant, not a precious jewel, for the darkness below also holds life and light. There are gardens and flora wonders (as well as flora dreads), which could not be found above ground. Perhaps they are remnants from the Empire of old, of species since long lost on the surface.. Perhaps the dark below reshaped them into something entirely new.. Whichever the case, while their appearance is certainly a wonder to behold, the young man found the taste to be quite good, but otherwise pretty plain.
* A **scrap of ragged scarf**, the trophy prize from the fearsome Rambie the Undying. A man long since passed from the world, only to be returned to it as the walking dead, shambling and forever hungry. Six times they tried to slay him, and six times the zombie refused to remain at rest, rising again and again and again.. Perhaps he had been a great warrior in life, perhaps a mere merchant, but in unlife, he proved to be a fearsome foe, as relentless as they were stubborn to die among the horde of undead, shadow ghosts and corpse worms. In the end, it was a simple blow from a plain weapon to finally lay it to rest, proving even the relentless can eventually tire.
* A **scorpion tail with a fat stinger**, oozing with terrible venom strong enough to lay a man down within moments. These creatures seem harmless to begin with, but in underestimating them, one could yet pay the price. As proof, the young man shows off the freshly healed over stinger wound in the stomach, and spares no details about the terrible way the poison can work it's way through you, to the fascination of the crowd. When exploring the darkness below, take great care when opening chests or crates, for these beasts love nothing more than a cool, dark place to make their nest in, laying low with their terrible stingers ready. Right until someone is foolish enough to lift the lid..
* A **wicked-looking longsword**, belonging to none other than a wight of the darkness below. These ghastly horrors stalk the darkness in much the same fashion as most beasts do, but what sets them apart is cunning and trickery, for they are no mere creatures. It's possible they were once men, it's also possible they were summoned by some dark power to do their bidding, as soldiers and servants, for the deeper a delving goes, the more the ghosts and spectres of the dead begin to stir and become restless. One has to be careful when stalking the darkness, lest they be stalked in return..

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**Of Death and the Toll**

The evening is quiet and solemn at Vagrant's Rest, when The Flametouched brings the news of the latest delving to the denizens there, of the loss of one of their own - Taranis slain by the Wights and his body stolen, leaving nothing for them to even bury. There are no tears, for death is a familiar companion to those who have considered the streets their home - many before have passed, and many after shall pass still. Such was life.

But the air is heavy with silence, the trophies hung on the walls casting mournful shadows, cold and sullen, where before they had sparked wonder and entertainment. No song is sung that evening, no words spoken where glances and looks make do.

And no more tales to be told of the delvings below, now or ever, as the wind softly whispers through a leaking roof.

*Souls of gods and souls of men ~*

*Meet in cinders to ascend ~*

*Fate has chosen ~*

*And our fading light is at its end ~*

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**Epilogue**

A few months passed until The Flametouched returned to Vagrant's Rest with a bundle of various items - personal affects and other such finally recovered from his companion's remains. While some were kept as memorabilia, Esther placed the silvered warhammer on a shelf overlooking the counter, next to her own heavier 'peacekeeper', and had the name-assigned dungeon pass framed to hang on the wall behind it. Should trouble befall the Rest, the hammer would still serve to defend the denizens there.

Since then, it's not uncommon for some of the fellow urchins to leave a trinket or two on the shelf, as much in paying respects as their own small way of a ritual - A favour for a favour. A trinket traded for the belief of better luck, like before.