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Sep 17 2017, 08:21 PM
Name: Alaric

Age: 55

Gender: Male

Race: Human (Empire, Stirlander)

Sexuality: Homosexual

Allegiance: The Empire, the Golden Order of the Imperial Colleges of Magic

Occupation: Imperial Wizard of the Golden Order, Alchemist

Appearance: At 5ft9 in height, when most people see Alaric, they only see the golden robes and ornate silver mask he swaddles himself within. Under that lies a man with rather pale skin, with short black hair, laced wuth silver and a hairless face. Originally having been born with grey eyes, 37 years of tutelage in the Lore of Metal have resulted in them becoming a shimmering golden colour that is pretty alluring to look at. Alaric's thin body also serves as a tapestry of the life he had lived before joining the Colleges of Magic; all manner of scars dot his back, clearly the work of belts and hot metals. The most prominent scar is his right hand, in that the last two fingers have been replaced by a prosthesis. His face is high-cheeked, with a broken nose. In spite of his youthful appearance, the Wizard is actually older than he seems, due to his delvings into the Winds of Magic.

Equipment: Various alchemical implements, including phials of flaming naphtha for offensive use. A sword crafted by his own hands, a travelling pack, clean clothes, smithing tools and a pistol.

Woven from the finest golden Arabyan silks and infused with the wind of Chamon, these robes soft and smooth to the touch. When struck though, the magic within causes the silk to become as hard as full plate. Also, the robes are resilient to extreme heat, a necessity given Alaric's profession.

The Twins
Wrought from the gilded remnants of Alaric's original ring and pinky fingers, these jointed replacements are animated by the powers of the Yellow Wind, allowing them move as though they were fingers of flesh and bone.

Staff of the Gilded Conductor
Shaped like an eagle, this staff serves a twofold purpose. The ruby at that the top serves as a repository from which to draw magical energy. The body, wrought from magically-hardened copper, serves to channel excess energies away from Alaric; should he overextend himself, by jabbing the staff into the ground, he can earth those energies before they damage him.

Skills: Having spent much of his early life as the apprentice of his abusive blacksmith adoptive father, combined with years spent within the Golden Order, Alaric's most impressive physical skill is smithing. Combined with his prowess in the Golden Wind, he is capable of crafting beautiful blades and armour. Due to the Golden Order's close bonds with the Imperial Engineer's Guild, gunsmithing and some degree of engineering were added to Alaric's repertoire, allowing him to craft his replacement fingers. An early life spent in the Empire's most impoverished State, which also happens to border the undead-blighted lands of Sylvania, has taught Alaric how to handle a sword and firearms, a choice that is reflected in his choice to carry a sword and pistol amongst his effects...granted, they serve the purpose of being backup weapons when the Winds of Magic wane lowest. The years spent as a Gold Wizard had also resulted in potent skills as an alchemist, couple of creating all manner of lethal concoctions and solvents...naphtha happens to be a personal favourite. With alchemy comes a skill in appraisal further enhanced by the Lore of Metal...its hard to get a forged coin past the Wizard's eye. A plethora of survival skills are also present, a necessity when having lived so close to Sylvania.

Naturally, as is a requirement for the Empire's Gold Wizards, Alaric is an intelligent individual. He speaks his native Reikspiel with the received pronunciation of the Imperial nobility, though times of stress can cause his original Stirland accent to come out. He also counts the Breton, Kislevite, Arabyan and Estalian languages among his repertoire. The Wizard also has an eye for detail and an encyclopedic knowledge of crafting styles.

Lore of Metal

Stoke the Forge
By blowing on a fire, the wizard can cause it to burn far hotter for a few hours without consuming any more fuel.

Tale of Metal
By touching a metal object, the wizard can see its past. Anything done with or to the metal, the wizard can catch quick glimpses.

Law of Form
Strengthens an inanimate object, making it hard as steel for a few minutes. This has no effect on its outward appearance, but makes it incredibly difficult to damage in any way. Commonly used to reinforce doors and windows.

Fool's Gold
For a few hours, can make an object or group of objects seem more valuable than they really are. Copper coins appear as gold, rusted blades appear to be perfectly maintained masterpieces, and so on.

Secret Rune
A spell used to send secret messages between Gold Wizards. One way to use this spell inscribes a hidden message on an object. The message is completely invisible, until the spell is used in the second way. One use will reveal the message, another will hide it once again.

Transformation of Metal
Instantly reshapes any nonmagical metal object into another object of the same mass and material. They must touch the object to do this. The more powerful the wizard, the finer the craftsmanship.

Silver Arrows of Ahra
Conjures a few magic arrows, firing them ahead of the wizard. After impact, the arrows disappear.

Breach the Unknown
The wizard looks deeply at an object, uncovering its secrets over the course of a few minutes. They learn what the object is made of, how it's put together, and any workings or compartments it may have. If there are any curses or other dangers, those are revealed last.

Searing Doom
The wizard shoots burning shards of metal from their fingertips, spraying like grapeshot over a small area.

Alaric's Curse of Molten Blood
with a gesture of power fuelled by anger, the Metal Wizard forces a curse into the victim's blood. Once cast, the target's very blood is transformed into molten metal, burning them to death from the inside. Indeed, those who succumb are described as leaking the molten metal from their eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Naturally, this spell doesn't work on creatures wrought of fire, molten metal or simply lack blood altogether. Strong-willed individuals can survive, though would require healing in order to regain full functionality from their crippled bodies. Those who are naturally resilient to magic would vary; the worst being less crippling, more easily healed internal burning whilst at best, it can feel like an unpleasant fever (depending on level of resistance).

Enchanted Blades of Aiban
Infuses weapons of nearby friends with Chamon, honing them and giving them the power to harm even ghosts. Lasts only a minute or two.

Glittering Robe
Any friends near the wizard have their skin turned to living metal for a minute or two. A powerful protective spell.

Law of Gold
With a glance, a powerful Gold Wizard can seal a magical object, completely suppressing its powers for a few minutes.

Transmutation of Lead
A stronger form of Armor of Lead. Rather than making things feel like lead, this spell turns any inanimate object on someone's person into lead for a minute or two. This can affect entire groups of people, leaving them struggling under the weight of their clothing.

Final Transmutation
The ultimate spell of Chamon, and a terrifying one at that. It strikes at random among groups, turning some of them into golden statues, effectively instantly killing them. This transformation leaves everyone who sees it stunned, sometimes unable to move from the shock of what they saw.

Personality: Like many of the Gold Wizards trained by the Imperial Colleges of Magic, Alaric cuts a mysterious and aloof figure...the better to avoid hassle whilst travelling. When in the company of friends and companions, that facade is cast away, revealing a man who's very heart is as gold as the magic he utilises. Having had a most unfortunate early life, the Wizard possesses a great degree of philanthropy, having done what he can the troubles of others. Such an aspect is twisted to a degree by the fabled arrogance of the Golden Order, often seeing himself as often being in the right when it comes to the welfare of the common man. Another trait of Alaric's is that he is a studious man who wishes use his knowledge for the betterment of the Empire. That is not to say that he has his indulgences; indeed, he has been known to shape things because it pleases him to do so. Passion in the pursuit of the knowledge of Chamon and it's influences upon the world is also inherent, resulting in a strong desire to properly push this knowledge further.

It should be noted that, while the Wizard has a cool temperament befitting that of his order, one thing that truly grinds his gears is seeing those in a position of power abusing the weak. In particular, what most draws his wrath is the sight of an adult being cruel to a child. While he doesn't kill them, Alaric leaves them with a painful experience, marking them just as his own experiences of mistreatment mark him. Furthermore, the Wizard bears a strong hatred of undead, having not forgotten that it were they who pushed him into his earlier years of misery. As such, it befuddles his fellow Magisters who know this that he didn't choose the Light College instead.

History: Born at some point in the year 2453, the Wizard known as Alaric the Glittering was born to Stirland peasants who lived in a village several miles from the border with the cursed land of Sylvania. At this point, Alaric remembers little of his youth, save for the grubbiness of his old village and how destitute it was, even by Stirland's dreadfully low standards. He remembers that his birth parents were mushroom farmers, something that came in handy for the poor soil quality of the region, and often smelled noticeably bad. Because of this, while not exactly rich, the family did reasonably well and never went hungry. That wasn't to last; when he was six years old, the Wizard-to-be's village was attacked by an undead raiding party, spearheaded by a red-headed, young-looking Vampire. Swiftly, Alaric's mother hoisted him into the village well, hoping to hide him. Just as she finished, he watched as a rusty blade pierced through her back and was showered with her blood...but nothing noticed wear he was. He would be in that well for three days, surviving on the water and whatever invertebrates called the damp depths home. Eventually, he was found by the Stirland army after some scouts stopped in the area and stopped to check the well. Within, they found the boy; wide-eyed with fear and mildly hypothermic, he was still alive. They would drop him off at a town, where the local authorities would foist him upon a local blacksmith; it would become the beginning of 8 years of misery for Alaric.

Indeed, for the smith was drunken bully who would beat his charge for even the slightes mistake, or, as he suspects, simply because he enjoyed having someone weaker than him. Still, he was fed and his caretaker did teach him how to smith...even if the mistakes resulted in the occasional branding for even a slightly bent nail. Outside of this informal apprenticeship, the boy would be made to run errands around the town of Schalvend, being made to carry heavy weapons to the local garrison. No one stopped to see how Alaric was faring, save for a girl he had befriend, but in the end, he found that he did enjoy smithing, even though his teacher was a monster who'd often left him battered and bruised. One day, on his 14th birthday, enough was enough; after suffering another torrent of abuse, he finally punched his caretaker, splitting the repulsive man's lip in the process. Enraged at this show of defiance, the Blacksmith grabbed Alaric's hand and began to gradually force it into a small fount of molten gold. The boy screamed as the skin of his fingers was burned off by the metal. It was this moment that something buried within him awaking; drawing upon an energy that he had only felt before, he forced it into his assailant. Now it was the blacksmith's turn to scream as his own blood seemed to catch ablaze; it came out as molten metal from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Eventually, he collapsed to the floor with a loud clang. This event would not go unnoticed, as the locals saw for themselves the act of magic that had been formed. Before a lynching mob could be formed, the local Lord, Marius von Klieber, and his bodyguards intervened. After Alaric told his story, Marius, being a devotee of Shallya and Sigmar, took pity on the boy and rebuked the townsfolk for paying no heed to his suffering. Taking him back to his hall, the Lord offered to send Alaric to the Colleges of Magic in Altdorf; in exchange, he would become Marius' household Wizard until the day of his death. Unable to turn down such a generous offer, Alaric gladly accepted.

Those years spent at the Foundries that comprise the school of the Golden wind were somewhat unremarkable by the standards of any Wizard that attended them. He learned to hone his innate skills in spellcraft, learned the ways of the artisan...even reattached his gold-smothered fingers and animated them with magic. He would have his fair share of flings with the magic-touched sons of nobility, burgomeister and peasant alike; for most of them, it would be a phase, for him, it would become a fact of life. Eventually, the time would come for him to leave his studies and stay true to his word to his sponsor. For a time, he would begin to serve as Schalvend's Court Wizard where his talents would prove very useful. Marius von Klieber had no shortage of rivals that sought to usurp his land. Before the eyes of the Golden Wizard, no weapon could be brought to bear against his liege lord; from bladed weapons, to the metal tinctures within poisons. Throughout this time, Alaric would be paid well for his services to the Lord and would have his own personal chambers provided for him. Several months after his 49th Birthday, Lord von Klieber would eventually pass away, having become an elderly man, and his son would eventually assume his title....and would have the Wizard literally thrown out, deciding that having such a Wizard would be too expensive; Alaric suspected that he probably wanted a pretty Life Wizard to serve as Court Wizard. Naturally, this prompted the Wizard to take to the road, rendering his services to those who could afford it needed it. Sometimes, he would find himself drawn in the direction of rumours regarding a red-haired pale stranger, eager for some prospect of revenge against the Vampire who had sacked his birthplace and set him on a road to a hellish childhood.

Player Name: Kagrenak

Feedback Format: Either will do
Aug 11 2017, 07:10 PM
Boredom is a strange creature isn't it?

Anyways, the rules are simple: The first person to post the correct answer gets to ask the next question...and gets Warpstone cookies. Alrighty, lets begin:

What infamous incident befell Mordheim and what was the cause of it?
Jun 1 2017, 09:27 AM
Name: Weimar von Jermag

Age: 150

Gender: Male

Race: Vampire (Von Carstein Bloodline), born in the former Imperial Province of Marienberg

Sexuality: Bisexual

Allegiance: Vampire Counts (Nominal)

Occupation: Necromancer and relic-hunter

Appearance: A handsome man in life, and continues to be so in Undeath, Weimar is possessed of straight red hair that reaches the middle of his neck in length. His face is oval in shape, possessed of green eyes, a button nose, high cheek bones and lips that look as though they could burst into a spontaneous smile at any moment. At 6ft2, his body seems pretty lean but is definitely muscular with a few scars from living a life of rebellion against his noble parents. Of course, on closer inspection, his Vampiric traits become more apparent; his skin is a deathly pale whilst his canines are clearly much longer than that of a living human and his ears seem to have an Elven quality to them. When enraged, or when he simply doesn’t care, his green eyes become a luminous gold, his hair pales, his skin grows taut against his body, his fangs protrude and his claws grow to lethal lengths.

Equipment: In his possession, Weimar owns Bloodgout; a magical bastard sword wrought with spells that allow even a single prick of flesh to grow into a torrent of blood. So potent is the enchantment, even a blunt bash can cause unpleasant bruising. Another artefact of his is a shrunken head (Dark Breath) that serves as an arcane shield that also stores Dhar energies for emergency usage; which would ultimately cause the shield to vanish once it runs out, requiring refilling with dark magic. He also maintains two dirks at his belt should he not be able to get to his blade in time. Apparel-wise, Weimar possesses a suit of red, steel armour with a chiropteran feel typical of the Von Carsteins, a shield and all manner of fancy attire for when blending in is a must. He also rides a barded nightmare when called to battle, and maintains a black coach disguised as a standard carriage for when circumstance demands it.

Skills: Having ‘lived’ for 150 years, Weimar has honed many of the skills he possessed in mortal life…and gained new ones in his years of Vampirism. As the son of a nobleman, the Vampire had been taught the arts of the sword from a young age and had developed a knack for it. After being given the Blood Kiss by his sire, Weimar has had 129 years to further hone this skill to a degree rarely seen among mortals. He’s also an intelligent man, capable of speaking, reading and writing the languages of Bretonnia, Tilea, Estalia and even the Fennone language of Sylvania. Another mundane talent is the ability to improvise and work alone, but can work with others if necessity demands. With his induction into the Von Carstein Bloodline, his natural charm became enhanced; his physical strength and speed grew greatly, his senses keener than ever. Like the rest of his Bloodline, Weimar has a bond with the creatures of the night; bats and wolves tend to answer his beck and call, and can even assume the form of the latter.

Magic: However, as a mix of a previously unrealised spark of magical ability and the Blood Kiss, Weimar also possesses skill in the Necromantic arts. He has plenty of twisted spells under his belt, but alas, he still remains a stripling compared to older Vampires who’ve had many centuries, even millennia, to master the dark arts. His spells are as follows:

Invocation of Nehek: A spell which focuses on raising the slain, old and new, and with Weimar’s own Von Carstein talents, summoning wolves and bats.

Van Hel’s Danse Macabre: A peculiar spell that allows the caster to imbue their undead minions with unholy vigour; imbuing rigor-mortis afflicted limbs and bones with a semblance of life, thus grows the intensity and frenzy of the corpse puppets.
Raise Dead: Similar to Invocation of Nehek, but allows for the raising of new hordes on a greater scale.

Gaze of Nagash: Channeling Necromantic energies through themselves, the caster unleashes blasts f foul energy through their eyes.

Curse of Years: A spell that brings a mortal’s worst fear to life; the fear of growing old. With this spell, the caster withers away at the victim’s youth and vitality, making them weaker until old age finally takes them.

It should be noted that Weimar has some control over the weather, ensuring that he can travel in the day when necessity demands.

Personality: To understand what motivates Weimar, one must understand his ideals. Ever since the moment of his Blood Kiss; throughout his life, and ensuing unlife, he had always been ambitious. Ambitious to prove his own way better than that of tradition, ambitious enough to use the unorthodox to his advantage. He is also the Vampiric equivalent of an idealist; believing that it is the just right of Vampirekind to rule the world of men. There is a something of a dark nobility to this, for Weimar believes that the eternal nature of the Vampire purges them of the desires that have corrupted mortal rulers throughout the history of the Old World; by virtue of this, it is natural to assume that able Vampires make the best rulers…just as he perceives Vlad Von Carstein to be the epitome of this idea. In essence, such is his drive and ambition, Weimar is eager to prove himself to the rest of the family, since ascension through the ranks means power…and power means more steps closer to his ultimate goal and passion. Cunning and clever, these are the traits that will allow him to achieve these ends. The Vampire also pursues Necromantic knowledge and relics, the better to further his own ends.

For all his ambitions and idealism, Weimar isn’t without his flaws. Like any Vampire, Weimar has to confront his beast, and being a passionate being, finds himself trying to push it back when his passions lead to anger. Personally, like any Von Carstein, he exhibits the Bloodline’s fabled arrogance and it takes much to convince him that he is wrong. He is also rebellious, only following orders that mesh with what he perceives to be the right way (which is any way to be more exact). Weimar is something of a zealot in his belief that Vampires make ideal rulers…but what makes other Von Carsteins chafe at this, should they ever learn of it, is that it can extend to any other Bloodline. He would rather a clever Strigoi rule than an inept Von Carstein. Should the others learn of it, this would lead to much alienation and possibly elimination at its worst.

History: ] Born in the year 2353 in the City of Marienburg whilst it was still a part of the Empire, Weimar von Jermag is the son of Johan and Brunhilda von Jermag, two Marienberger nobles of significant wealth and influence. Raised within the confines of the nobility, the Vampire-to-be had a distant relationship with his parents; as was common amongst the aristocracy of the Old World, Weimar was often left in the care of his nanny, an eerily beautiful woman known as Matilda Nachtlieber. From a young age, the noble grew up with his nanny’s strange habits; it was always cloudy when she was around, she always attended to him even in the early hours and often declined meals, stating that she had already eaten…she even did her job without payment. Not that his parents noticed, too busy observing and enjoying the highlife that Marienberg offered to its upper classes…perhaps it as fortunate that Matilda’s talents were so diverse. Alongside her nannying duties, she served as a tutor, having travelled throughout the Old World…even as far south as the Land of the Dead. Matilda’s knowledge was great, allowing Weimar to realise the full extent of his intelligence and his gifts. However, with this awareness came another thing; his parents never cared for him, why should he care for them? After all, from his perspective, his true mother was Matilda whilst the one that carried him was too busy sucking up to a Tilean merchant-prince with a gold-a-plenty…among other things. In his adolescent years, Weimar would find himself hanging around in the Common areas of Marienberg, finding that he had more in common with the gangs there than he did his own social class. Whenever his parents took notice, they gave somewhat half-hearted approvals; as usual, Matilda approved, believing that it would shape the boy’s development in a better way.

In due time, Weimar would hit his 21st birthday; by this point, it was clear that he was an intelligent, strong young man well-versed in the arts of the sword…it was also clear that he hated his parents with a somewhat borderline murderous intent. This reached boiling point when Johann announced his son’s marriage to the daughter of a Sartosan merchant prince; upon this announcement, Weimar would storm off from the dining room, with the unusually youthful-looking Matilda following suit. Now it seemed only she could placate him. Soon, she announced that she had a special gift for her former charge; this intrigued the nobleman somewhat, who in turn asked “what is it that you have in mind?” After that was said, she then proceeded to bear her teeth, revealing her inhumanely long canines. Before he could react, his nanny was upon him; darkness fell upon him as a sharp pain pierced into his artery. Hours later, when he finally awoke, he felt a great hunger upon him…he needed to eat. As he left his chambers, he happened upon his parents sleeping in their bed. Once more anger swelled within him and before he knew it, he was upon them, tearing their throats out and lapping up the sweet, sweet blood that poured from their wounds. In that moment, he staggered away from them, horrified at what he had done…his words reflecting as much. A familiar voice told him that he was lying to himself. Glancing around, he could see the form of Matilda standing in the window; the lightning cast a most disturbing shadow. Angry, the nobleman demanded that his former nanny tell him what she had done to him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She said, “I gave you the gift of my blood…you are now a Vampire. After all these years, having seen the man you would become, I knew you’d make the perfect Get.” When Weimar tried to speak, the older Vampire placed her finger upon his lips. “Is it not fitting; I’ve always been more of a mother to you than that gilded, bloated corpse on the bed after all. Now I’ve given you new life, truly fitting is it not?” After that night, Weimar would begin his tuition in the ways of the Vampire as Matilda brought him to her manse in Sylvania; he would learn that he was of the infamous Von Carstein Bloodline, that his Sire was one of Vlad’s “Grandchilder” and would learn the Fennone language spoken by the Sylvanian populace. For a place on the outer edges of Hel Fenn, a place of unlimited corpses for any necromancer with the power to harness the hordes within, as well as the Grim Wood, the Manse was in surprisingly good condition. Maintained by mortal servants, the place was an island of beauty in a very grim land.

As the years turned to decades, Weimar would learn even more of the Von Carstein Bloodline; of how it was their right to rule the world of the living. After all, as Undead beings, they are beyond the petty wants and needs of mortal men. It was during these years that the innate spark of magical ability the fledgling Vampire had would be honed and refined with the dark arts of Necromancy. They were situated next to Hel Fenn, its marshes serving as the hotbed for zombie activity within Sylvania…and it would seem Weimar had a knack for it. Of course, there were other Vampiric powers that would grow stronger with the passing of years. Matilda would send her childe on artefact hunts, the better to increase her Necromantic power; however, after one these trips, he would find her succumbed to the true death. One of the artefacts she had was too powerful for her, thus obliterating her and reducing her body to ashes. With this happening, Weimar had inherited her manse…and her resources, favouring the enchanted sword Bloodgout and the macabre Dark Breath. He would continue this search for artefacts, garnering power of his own, hoping to hold his own against the dangers of the Old Wolrd.

Player Name: Kagrenak

Feedback Format: Either will do

RP Sample: Already done with a previous character.
Oct 9 2016, 03:03 PM

Name: Slivrak the Skinmagus

Age: 55

Gender: Male

Race: Human (technically), Kurgan

Sexuality: A twisted form of Pansexuality.

Allegiance: Northmen (infiltrates the lands of the South)

Occupation: Sorcerer of Tzeentch/Hired Spellslinger

Appearance: Like most Northmen, Slivrak is possessed of the tall physique, strong physique of his people (6ft5). Nowadays though, the Sorcerer looks monstrously inhuman; his once blue eyes have taken on the colour of molten metal. Bony spikes protrude from his chin and cheeks, the previous of which forms the twisted parody of a beard. Slivrak's hair has been replaced by numerous lengthy chitinous tendrils that resemble thin dreadlocks. His skin a deep shade of blue, which pales around his face. Clawed hands and lengthy fangs replace nails and canines, while fanged maws have emerged from his palms. All of this is masked whenever he takes the skin of a victim.

Equipment: Robed Chaos armour (bedecked with all manner of Chaotic fetishes), sword, phials of incandescent liquids, two daggers, spare skins preserved in embalming fluid and the Mark of Tzeentch.

Eye of the Entrapped
A blue gemstone set within a gold necklace, this artefact conceals a more sinister purpose. The foul magic infused within traps a single soul of any person who the bearer kills if he so wishes. In so doing, he can access the memories of the trapped spirit as though they were his own...a useful tool for one who infiltrates the ranks of his foes. Slivrak acquired the stone after murdering his mentor. The murdered Sorcerer provided much useful information.

Staff of the Skinmagus
Wrought from the twisted bones of the Hollowing spell's victims after their reclamation from the Realm of Chaos, this staff still contains the echoes of their torment as their insides were being sucked into the dominions of Daemonkind. As such, the staff serves as a magnet of dark magics, ensuring a minimal supply where the Winds wane. When the staff is full, it bursts into vibrant flames that can burn any victim that the staff hits.

Skills: Like any Northman, Slivrak is well-versed in the ways of the sword and knows how to hunt and prepare his prey (though the energies of chaos had supplanted this need). A scholar, the Sorcerer is well-versed in the tongue of Chaos itself, his native Kurgan dialect, Reikspiel, Brettonian and even the feral tongue of the Beastmen. Surprisingly, for one of his size, the Sorcerer is adept in the arts of stealth. Like any follower of Tzeentch, deception and intrigue come rather natural to him. Slivrak is also capable of creating reagents tainted by the power of Tzeentch, which can induce terrible mutations or vibrant combustions. Of course, like any Chaos Warrior, he knows how to maintain his weapons and equipment and like any Sorcerer, is skilled in the arts of Daemon-summoning.

Lore of Tzeentch
Flickering Fire of Tzeentch

Baleful Transmogrification


Treason of Tzeentch

Call to Glory

Infernal Gateway

Custom spells
The Hollowing: With a very fine degree of control, the Sorcerer can open a small rift into the Realm of Chaos within the victim's body. Agony sears through the target as their organs and bones are sucked into the Realm of Chaos. Eventually, as the rift is closed, the now-empty skin of the victim drops to floor, completely hollowed by the power of the Sorcerer. The caster requires much control in order to maintain such a small Warp rift, potentially resulting in tearing an entire entry from within and without the Realm of Chaos. Can only be used on PCs with the owner's permission.

Mask of the Empty Visage: Taking the skin of a victim of the Hollowing Spell, the Sorcerer manipulates the fabric of reality, transferring his form into the empty skin. With the writhing power of chaos, his body, and anything he is wearing and carrying, fits into the skin as though it were a perfect fit and their eyes and teeth assume that of the husk. Of course, such a spell requires constant maintenance, lest the caster violently burst out of their disguise. Of course, the Sorcerer can willing release themselves from the confines of their disguise. This spell can only be used on Humans and Human-sized Beastmen.

Lore of Chaos Undivided
Burning Blood

Touch of Chaos

Veil of Corruption

Word of Ruin

Personality: Ruthless...ambitious...callous: All these and more are words that describe Slivrak the Skinmagus. The Sorcerer cares not for how he accomplishes his goals; he will burn a village just to acquire a priceless artefact. He will swear an oath and break it the moment his ends are served. Like any servant of Tzeentch, Slivrak is cunning, fiercely intelligent and is known to lie whenever he can; he is no compulsive liar, he merely derives a perverse joy in weaving intricate layers of deceptions. As is fitting of his epithet of Skinmagus, the Sorcerer enjoys the opportunities his own journeys have led him; indeed, the look of a friend betrayed, the tainting of a good man's name and more besides provide very sweet intrigues with which to work with when one wears the face of another. Such is his love of acting as another person, that he even loses himself in the role, thanks to the bound soul within his amulet. Strangely enough, his most positive trait is his humility...though his reasoning for it is less than noble. Indeed, the Sorcerer knows that there are being who could easily crush him at a whim...he just believes he will have heir power when he time is right. Having spent his early life as a member of the Kurgan people of the North, combined with his channelling the favour of Tzeentch, he rarely stays in one place for long due to an innate wanderlust...a trait that suits him rather well in the end, given that his talents will result in going to other places

History: Born in the Imperial year 2448, Slivrak was born to a Chieftain of a small Kurgan tribe somewhere within the Chaos Wastes...yet he never personally knew his parents. Mere weeks after his birth, his tribe would be slaughtered by a rival band of tribesmen. He would've died from the freezing cold had he not been found within the arms of his dead mother, by none other than his mentor, Virglax who saw a potential asset within the baby that he could mould to his benefit. Raised essentially by a Sorcerer, Slivrak, then named Thok was exposed to the full nature of the power of the gods of the North from a very young age; whether it was in his blood or even greater exposure to the Ruinous Powers than normal, the spark of magical ability flared within the young man. Impressed, Virglax would further begin the orphan's tuition in the arts of Chaos. Finally, Thok would learn the names of the four gods, and that Tzeentch, the Lord of Change, the Unknowable Unknown, would be his god. Years would continue to pass as the older Sorcerer continued passing on his dark knowledge onto his protege; or, at least enough to give Thok an appetite for it, but not enough for the boy to outshine Virglax in anyway. However, as is the fate of all things bound to Tzeentch, few things ever go as one expects, for the Lord of Change is a fickle patron indeed. One day, whilst practicing the rituals that would bind a Daemon to his will for a period of time. As reality parted, the Tzeentchian Herald, Az'hly'rano'thax manifested before him, proclaiming intent in correcting a profound injustice. Knowing full well that the Daemonic servants of Tzeentch were deception incarnate, Thok was nonetheless intrigued by what the Fiend had to say...and many things it had to say from its very many maws.

"Heed me now, Slivrak, son of Mogenar and true name of Thok, under the roof of treachery you live. The false-father who had made you his, had betrayed your blood to another; few infants, even those of the North, would've had a chance to survive as you did."

The Daemon than reached out, and promptly touched the young man on the forehead. Within an instant, images flashed within Thok's mind, images of a most sombre nature. First, it began with a younger-looking Virglax speaking with a large Chaos Lord. Perched upon a cliff, they overlooked a small encampment; Thok's mentor simply pointed his finger in their direction. The images then flashed again; in that same encampment, the yurts were burning; heavily armoured Warriors slaughtered barely-armoured Marauders. The Sorcerer-to-be watched as one of them impaled a woman with a runic blade. Dying, her arms still clutched a bundle within them, one that the invaders didn't seem to notice. Later, as the concealed sun stained the clouds red with its passing, Virglax seemed to walk amongst his handiwork. As he wandered, he caught sight of the same woman with the bundle...only it seemed to squirm. Taking a hold of it, he noticed a bloodstained infant within the swaddle. They then returned to the present, the Daemon spoke once more before it returned to the dominions of its master.

"Full circle it will come, as it is so with all those who serve the Lord of Change himself. Will he do the same, or will you repay it Slivrak?"

With that final syllable, the Herald then vanished; Thok was left to wonder...did the Daemon speak a compelling falsehood? Or did it speak a truth that would spur the action. Knowing the nature of anyone that pledges itself to Tzeentch will betray anyone that they come across. That night, the young man impaled his mentor with his own sword and promptly imprisoned the Sorcerer within his own amulet, the Eye of Entrapment. From there, Thok meditated, spending the night assimilating Virglax's knowledge into his own...and from there, he learned that the Daemon spoke true. That his mentor had betrayed the boy's tribe and had ultimately planned to other him to the Dark Gods. As the sun rose, Thok was dead, now stood in his place was Slivrak...and he would begin a new road. More years would go by, and the Sorcerer would offer his services to many Chaos Lords, often having his services bought through any means that had taken his fancy. One night, one of his servants, one of his client Lords had a conundrum involving conflict with a rival. Slivrak had an idea, involving the recently arrived messenger. That afternoon, he invited the messenger to his tent; and that was when the Sorcerer wrought his new extension of the Sorcerous arts. Drawing upon them, he opened a Rift within the rival Northman's body, sucking his bones and organs into the Realm of Chaos until his empty husk dropped to the floor. Beginning the next phase, drawing upon the powers of Tzeentchian magic, the Sorcerer channelled himself into the messenger's body and occupied the husk. Presenting himself before his liege Lord, and using the skin to assassinate the rival, Slivrak became known by the epithet of the Skinmagus.

In time, his peculiar skills came to warrant the attention of any Chaos Lord who had no qualms with his methods. When he wasn't in their employ, he would venture down South, infiltrating the Empire and the Bretonnians. There, Slivrak would glean the situation within those lands, notifying his liege Lords of any that seem ripe for the picking...if he wasn't doing the ripening himself. In the midst of all this, the Skinmagus continued to seek out the Daemon that had granted him the revelations that led to his awakening, hoping that the Herald could be bound to his service for its insights. In the meantime though, the powers of change began to seep within the air. Something momentous was brewing, something that caught Slivrak's intrigue; more opportunities to participate in the intrigues, more opportunities to display his powers, and to hone them even further.

Player Name: Kagrenak

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RP Sample:
The cold wind of the night blew within the lands of Nordland, howling as it entered the cave. It was dark, save for the light of a small fire; its illumination cast itself upon what looked to be a man...if the thing could be considered as such. The fire glinted off gilded runes sown into a blood red cape and the armour underneath, which seemed black in the current light. The being's face, while hooded, revealed bony protrusions and a pair of luminous eyes, glowing with malice. This creature seemed busy, tending to something that had been hoisted onto a rack; closer inspection revealed it to be the hollowed-out skin of a man, with sockets empty and hair blond. Oh, the monster knew who it was; the stone upon his breast, writhing with a trapped intelligence, revealed as much. The husk had been Gerhardt Nachtburg, a young nobleman from Talabheim, on his way back from a successful business venture in Kislev. He had hoped to return home with the news, hoping it would make him even more of an ideal candidate for marriage to some southern girl. Yet the Lord of Change had other plans, seemingly steering the noblemen to where the Sorcerer made his temporary den. Oh, he remembered with sadistic glee as his magic hollowed the weakling out; watching him writhe as his insides were sucked into the Realm of the Gods. Gradual, the southerner's body grew emptier, and emptier with arms dangling uselessly, legs unable to support even the lessening weight. Yet still, the rift within had held him aloft, until the Sorcerer's work had completed. The foul being caught Gerhardt's skin just as it was about to fall to the ground, and he held it there for some time.

Gazing deep into the vacant eye sockets. Slivrak closed his own eyes and begin to whisper an incantation in the tongue of Chaos itself. The air shimmered with power, the cold air became replaced by a cloying heat and the visage of reality seemingly to bend and buckle, as though it rebelled against the very words that the Skinmagus was ululating. With each foul syllable uttered, his body seemed to slowly dissolve into a bluish-red smoke which poured into the mouth, ears, nostrils and eye sockets of the skin. The more the Sorcerer dissolved, the more the smoke entered the husk, seemingly filling it. Fingers once more began to fill, and the feet slowly seemed able to hold itself up. Eventually, he was gone, and now the empty vessel had been filled. It opened its eyes to reveal green eyes that should've been the colour of molten metal; with the stolen knowledge held within his artefact, Slivrak had to cast himself aside for now, and become Gerhardt Nachtberg.
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