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« on: October 19, 2010, 10:21:57 PM »
Not so much a character backstory as his endstory, but I felt it was appropriate to post.
His name was Dargan Blackblood.
Slayer.
Murderer of Brother, Wife and Son, though few ever uncovered this. He found out his wife was cheating on him with his brother, and that his son was truly his nephew. In a blind rage, he slew them all. Hey, it might sound soap-operaish but give me a break, I was 12 when I made this character.
Throughout my gaming life, I've had one character that I've kept falling back on. Dargan Blackblood. He wasn't my first, but he was my longest. Since I started gaming, 10 years ago, Dargan has been my main character that I've played. For nearly half my life, I've roleplayed a slayer. 10 years real-time, decades in game-time.
Back in the begining there were 12 of us. Two slayers, an scout, three outlaw types, a merchant, an engineer, a priest, a bounty hunter and a wizard. We rarely played together in one massive group, but all the characters were generally present. Over the years they died, save Dargan and Edgar Shcnult, the priest. We went through 8 years of gaming.
Then tradegy struck.
Over the last two years, we started losing players. Some died. Some moved away. Some lost interest. Until there was 4. So, for everyones sake, we put the game on hiatus.
Then we started playing again, scant months before the next edition of the game came out.
At the time, we were heading to Khemri to find the skull of Nagash, for no reason other than obscure player logic. After a long discussion in game, we decided it was a stupid idea and that there would be no glory from dying of starvation and thirst in the desert. So we started treking north, back towards the Empire. When we heard the whispers of the coming Storm.
We talked long and hard with our GM. We wanted to play with the new edition as soon as it came out. We also wanted to start new characters, begin afresh. Our four characters had too many memories of the old group. So, after much soul searching and not a little crying, we decided that we would kill our characters off. For the games sake, anyway.
Of the surviving four, there was Dargan, Edgar, Wolfgang the Antagonist and Marcus the Charlatan. Of the group, I was the only real fighter. And of the group, Dargan was the domineering character. His history, his style, his life had more or less controlled the group. The others were bound to follow him, to record his death and his feats (not original, but very poignant). I just didn't feel right to simply 'kill him off', after all he's been through.
He's slaughtered family, maimed ogres, vivisected elves, eviscerated beastmen and, through a simple trick of thermodynamics, asphyxiated an entire warband of orcs hiding in a cave system. He's lowered daemons, lesser and one great (A Keeper Of Secrets, burnt through 2 Fate points alone trying to take that monster down, but that's a story in itself, a cult dedicated to 'The Twister Of The Sacred Flesh'). He was a hero. Though he felt no shame over being a kinslayer. This lack of remorse was in itself one of the reasons he took the Slayers oath. His weapons of choice? A crowbar (we even had stats made for it, basic handweapon but -1 damage and +10 to Parry) and the hammer he used to crush his nephew's skull with, a permanent reminder of why he had taken the oath.
So, after discussing it with the GM, we came to a conclusion.
What better place for a slayer to find his death, than at the forefront of the greatest Chaos Incursion the Old World had yet to see.
We were deep north, heading to Erengrad with the idea of heading to Norsca, when we were captured. An advanced scouting party, but bigger than most armies we had ever seen. Dargan slew three dozen before he was concussed and captured. The others surrendered swiftly afterwards. For agonizing hours they discussed our future, before deciding to take us to there masters to try and earn a little pride and respect in their ranks.
At each stage, we were forced to fight. Wolfgang was gutted fighting a Bezerker of Khorne, but not before taking the beasts eyes out with his knife. Marcus was ripped apart by Ungors and his innards fed to carrion birds. Even Edgar lost his leg to a Chaos Champions axe. But through it all, Dargan fought, and slew. Until he came to the attention of Archeon.
They presented him up as a prize. He was battered, weak and bloody, but his eyes still burned with fury. His tongue had been ripped out years before, and he said naught when questioned. Archeons plate mailed fist left it's mark upon his face. Eventually, the captured priest Edgar spoke, telling him of his tales and his woes. Archeon smiled beneath his helm. He tied Dargan to a great banner, his arms outstretched and his weapons lost to the horde. For days it was told of his feats and his battles, paraded around the army like a prize.
Until the fight came.
We all know how hard it must have been for Archeon to keep the four powers of Chaos united for so long. He need a morale boost. By now, a great chunk of his host had heard the tale of the Silent Slayer. They all longed to see this monster in action, to see him move with an axe in his hand. And, in classic poise, Archeon granted them their wish. The bringer of the Storm of Chaos took up his axe and hewed Dargan from his prison. He was unfed, unwashed, wounded and beaten, but still he lived. Still a great fury burned in his chest.
The gave him a hammer. An old, rusty, broken whelp of a hammer. In a broken hand he took that weapon up and, in a feat that was in and of itself legendary, stood before Archeon, the Bringer Of Darkness.
Edgar watched all this, memorising every moment, recording every move.
We rolled the dice, but that was moot by this point. The real story was in our words.
We spoke of Dargans charge and his wide eyed stare. He swung that hammer like an wood chopper, trying to break Archeon in twain. But no matter what angle he came from, Archeon's axe was there to block. He knew Archeon was toying with him, but he didn't care. He had this one last chance at redemption, and he was intent on taking it.
Eventually, Archeon tired of this game. He had shown his force what this beast could do and now, like a horse with a broken leg, he was going to put it down. He swung his axe but, to his surprise, found Dargan's hammer up to block the blow. But the axe Archeon wielded was a weapon of Chaos. And the force that drove it was enough to break an Ogres back. It shore through the rusty steel of the handle, snapping it in two and gouging a great trench into Dargan's chest.
Dargan fell back, broken, beaten, bloodied. And defeated. A plated boot fell to his chest, driving him into the mud. Archeon stood boastful over the body. He spoke of the coming of the end of times. Of the dominance of Chaos over the forces of the Old World. He spoke of his might, of his rule. And while he spoke, he raised his axe, preparing for the coup de grâce.
But Dargan was not ready to die just yet. His fingers squeezed tightly around that broken shaft. With the lust of his might he lunged and, through the grace of the Ancestors, buried that metal shaft between the plates of the beasts armour, lodging it into his ribs. It was merely a mosquito bite for such a creature, but it had been Dargan's mosquito bite.
Dargan knew he looked upon the very face of death and, for the first time, truly knew he was going to die. He understood out his brother must have felt. Why his wife had screamed as she did, and why his son-come-nephew had made no sound. In the darkness of his mind, he begged for their forgiveness.
Archeon buried his axe into the dwarves skull, and the light of Dargan's life disappeared into the void. His corpse was decorated and tied to their banners once more, flying daemonettes plucking at the decaying flesh and dessicated body.
Edgar was released, sent to tell the tale of the dwarf's fall to the world. He wrote Dargan's memoirs and retired a wealthy man. He was assassinated in his sleep by a cult dedicated to the Twister of the Sacred Flesh. He had no family to speak of, and his wealth was donated to the Cult Of Slayers, such that it was. Dargan's name was finally carved into the wall of shame, along with the names of countless other slayers over the years.
We like to think that it was Dargan's blow that saw the eventual defeat of Archeon and his forces. That it was that slight wound that slowed the beast down just enough to allow others to defeat him. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't.
Probably odd to think that such a big part of my life was laid to rest when he died.
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