The Three Kingdoms of Azura
My path was chosen for me, but I will chose my own.
My appearance has always concerned. I try not to draw attention to myself. But don’t get me wrong, when I need to, I will use my shocking countenance to my advantage….
Embergrim has dark gray skin, with highlights of deep purple if the light hits him just right. He has orange eyes that contrast harshly with his skin tone. Otherwise, his face is attractive. His black hair is thick and hangs to his shoulders.
He carries himself as a warrior should. The black chainmail he wears seems to hang loosely on him and never impacts his movement. The rest of his clothing is dark, including his tattered black hood and cloak.
At his hip is a long black katana. The dark blade has an unfinished appearance, except along the edge. There is a fine line of mirror polish along the keen edge.
Across his back is a two handed Odiachi, a great sword Katana. He wields this only in the most serious of fights. Both weapons were given as gifts, but his patron Xtaclaxal. They arrived one evening as a bolt of lightening split the sky.
My weapons give me a sense of stability. Since the moment they arrived I knew they were a gift from my Patron and that he would want me to use them for his ends. I will refuse for as long as I am able.
Character Sheet PDF is Here: [[File:704482 | Embergrim_-Pal_1_-Jeff.pdf]]
I know what he shows me in my dreams has been changed somehow. Like looking through a strainer, or the sheer curtains across a window. In my mind, I can feel that I simply can’t fathom all that I am truly looking at. For that I suppose, I must be grateful.
A mortal mind would shatter into insanity if it witnessed the scene. Infernal horns blow, resonating with both sound and pure force, like fearsome hate itself. Chimes ring like crow’s claws being drawn across glass.
Drums are pounded by the fists of immortal horrors. Their infected and scaled hands and claws striking the surface of the drums. The skin pulled across the great drums, have identifiable features.
The Destroyer stands in the center of the throng. He is in his realm, beyond the understanding of mortals. Describing it is impossible in this limited language, but like a shadow, he can be understood, through our limited experience. A small and shattered mind witnessing scene would perceive the entity as a towering living cloud of black and gray, with a face like a stretched hollow skull. Its face seems to be made from metal glass. His body and robes twist and coil, a tantalizing and terrifying mixture of recognizable human, claw, tentacle and anatomy.
In front of the Lord of the Realm is a pool, a small font with a golden liquid swirling within. The gold is the only color in the entire scene. Looking within, and contrasted to the throngs around it, is a scene every mortal would recognize.
By the side of a bed stands a man in simple clothes. In the bed is a woman in labor, close to birth.
The Destroyer glides forward. His legions swirl and shriek, celebrating in a mad swirl of violence and horror. Monsters tear at each other’s eyes and throats. The Destroyer draws a knife from what might be his clothing. He draws it across his skeletal finger as he dangles it over the golden fluid.
A single drop of black ocher drops into the pool and the Legion explodes in rage and violence as across the planes a new child is seconds away from coming forth to the world. The drop of ocher slips into the golden fluid, and a woman’s scream can be heard above the raging throng. Below, in a different world, a child is born into the world he is meant to help destroy.
My father may be unknown to history, but he is a hero on par with any legend. Imagine this holy man, shaken by the birth of a son that is terribly tainted and burdened with an unfathomable loss. No one would have blamed him if he had given me away, or worse. I wouldn’t have blamed him. Imagine this, though, he did so much more. He stole me away, he protected me. Most importantly, he taught me free will
The child was a horror from his birth. The man Gyril Denal recognized in the small features of the dark skinned child those of his wife. The midwife was a trusted friend, and with the deepest sadness knew that there was nothing she could do. Gyril took the child and quickly wrapped it. Seeing the horror in her eyes, he simply gave her an understanding smile. He begged her not to say anything to the villagers. He promised he would take care of the child.
It was enough for a few days, while he made the arrangements. He stole away early just three days after the birth, child wrapped securely against his chest, riding his trusted pony. Olive, his hound chasing close behind, expecting a grand adventure.
Gyril had been the abbot in the Village of Anscular. He had sent word ahead that he was being called to a new life. That of a hermit. The traveled to the temple of Valdier in the Grotto. This consecrated space protected the young baby and strengthened his father through the years of growing and living together.
Despite his heritage the man found his young son to be spirited and kind. He reminded Gyril of his mother more often than he could count. There were signs of course. Screaming nightmares gave him little peace. He would often sit at the side of his young son, a single white candle burning in the corner, praying until he would return to peaceful sleep. Sometimes, that would occur after the first touch of dawn would lighten the gloom in the cave.
By the time the boy was eight or nine he started showing martial prowess, so Gyril befriended the Captain of the Guard in Valdier Village below the Temple. The Captain was more than happy to start training the boy after he met him. Even at the young age, the boy was showing a full rejection of his nature. Through the kindness and love of his father, he was already feeling the call for a different kind of life.