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Inzaarid ‘Gramps’ RiverRage - Ol’ Man River
A Morbid Tale
It’s hard to begin describing Inzaarid’s life. His childhood was almost meaningless. He remembered only terrible cruelty, and being locked away in the special ward of Teron’s hospital for more years than he could count. Within the dark confines of solitary confinement, he could only remember shedding blood in a most sinister way—he gorged out a man’s eyes with his bare hands, and was hauled off, all the while beating his unholy fury into his nameless victim. He couldn’t even remember what the man had said to him. Nor could he truly express sorrow for what he did. Only the bitter anger sustained him as he was fed tasteless mush in one bulk serving for what he imagined was a day. The numbers of bland plates reached the thousands.
Freedom came in a most chance way. As Harlequin warred madly throughout Teron in desperate defense against the Western Crusade and Eastern Manifest Destiny, a Harlequin warlock’s fireball struck the hospital. Caught in a small confine surrounded by smoke, fire and walls, he lunged through the fire madly in a desperate attempt to save his meaningless life. He woke up, filthy and unknown, on the streets of Teron some two centuries before today.
A natural trickster, his career as a fighter was marked not be extraordinary fighting skill, but supernatural wit. There were few people he could not fool, and few limits to the depravity of his sick humor. His favorite joke in all his days was to dress as a sorcerer, and encourage others to fight him in a duel to the death, provided the other party would wear no armor. Who wouldn’t enjoy beating up on some obviously foolish spellcaster? The surprise on the victims face as he bashed them to the ground, and pulled out a magically augmented weapon and cut into them to pieces is inexpressible. He was also known to pick fights with giants and murder them for no good reason, other than to prove a deep-elf could do it, and often easily.
A large portion of his early life was spent as a Jester. All manner of well known never-do-wells were his to call allies. Seram, Krok, Kyori, Umiro, Sique, Putar, Raylo, Zinfalas, Aroik and a score of other names he has grown to aged to properly remember were some of the early Jesters he served with. His violent temperament made him something of an outcast among Jesters as time wore on, but his unusual ability to plan and trick made him famous almost over night. The world soon gossiped about the deep-elven fighter from Teron, and when he finally failed an assassination in mimic’d form, his position as a Jester gave him villainous notoriety.
The Jesters became compromised in some time by disloyal traitors. Among Inzaarid’s tasks of war was to help find the spies and disloyal, and have them removed, seldom peacefully. Inzaarid sadly remembers walking on of his very mentors to the Harlequin tent’s flap, and asking him to leave forever. More saddening is that, to this day, he can not remember the man’s name, only the convincing sadness on his face.
Inzaarid also remembered when his dear friend Premonah was relieved of service—the halfling necromancer had given him lavish birthday gifts, and when she died, he never celebrated his birthday again.
His first object of affection ever was Nirali, a woman of the wilds who could wield two swords at once with ease. It became common in his life to be loved and have love for women who were much better fighters than he. It was the druid, Nirali, who convinced him to grow is hyper-coiled hair into dreadlocks. For most of his life, dreadlocks were what he wore, in memory of her.
Service with the Jesters was like family initially. But, time unraveled the last of Jesters like a cat batting at a frayed ball of yawn. Leadership was cast to newcomers in a grand upset that made many hungry for Umiro Lorashi’s blood. To their dissatisfaction, age soon claimed him. Many loyal Jesters were ousted, and wild coup de etats were planned, only to be infiltrated and ruined by those loyal to the new and alien leaders. Ever since that day, the Jesters were never the same, and never again will they be what they once were.
Inzaarid, a natural ringleader and troublemaker always found himself with a large cadre of quite random friends. He could make friends of any man, and organize any small force to inflict disastrous affect. Hunted by impostor Jesters he could no longer stand beside with honor, he turned to former Jesters and freelancers to murder to organization he once so loved. During this time, he and former jester Slayne became great friends. Friendship escalated to brotherhood, and with many former Jesters, they swore retribution and to obtain unforeseen power.
But this was not fated to be. Many former Jesters lost the heart to fight anymore. Their broken hearts manifested in the most macabre way; many died off within a two year period, leaving Inzaarid quite lonely, and in mourning of men and women whom he considered family.
In this time of mourning did Inzaarid become the most devout servant of Death. He was to sorrowed to feel much of any other emotion, and rampaged the realms alongside whom would one day be Emperor of the Empire, Slayne des Granges. They held legendary status for trouble making. Slayne’s mightly cleaves were only seconded by Inzaarid’s annoying iron arrows. Their were many laughs, and much sadness was forgotten.
As a zealot of Death, and a former Jester, Inzaarid’s dislike for the western organizations achieved a deadly level. Omnn, Shaloryim and Elspeth, long time leaders of the church of Death, were wayward to him. Elspeth was one who had taken the oath alongside Inzaarid and Slayne to avenge the Jester family, but as Time wore on, he saw how consumed she was with all sorts of other things that had little to do with the oath.
He made friends of all the young who were inducted into the church, and with his charisma, incited them and long standing members against the Druid leadership of the Faith by Shaloryim and Omnn. Elspeth, Omnn’s wife, was inadvertently dispensable to him. Pretending to be her friend was the hardest thing Inzaarid had ever done in his life. Angry, still, was he, that she could have so little care for Nath, her first husband, and also a dear friend to Inzaarid. Nath’s signature of his soul over the Cult, was quite likely the beginning of his undoing—Inzaarid secretly felt responsible, because his hateful speeches and sermons about enemies had likely motivated Nath to take such a path in life.
Inzaarid also wanted Omnn and Shaloryim murdered because he’d always felt it his rightful place to lead the church after the Cult warrior, Nephias, had disappeared without a trace, forfeiting his position in the clergy. Elspeth, Omnn and the newcomer, Shaloryim, oversaw the church, and Inzaarid was outraged and jealous. Omnn was murdered and disgraced, leaving on Shaloryim and Elspeth. Still posing as Elspeth’s friend, Inzaarid thought about how to remove the both of them when suddenly Achernar took him away, and told him of his long due position as high clergyman. From that day forward, Inzaarid has always been one of Achernar’s favorite children.
Inzaarid spent some years possessed by the spirit of Achernar. One day, as he walked the long roads between the nation of the Empire and Uxmal, wounded and weighed in snatched battle spoils, he became overwhelmed by a realization; as old as he was getting, he would spend an eternity dead, and had already spent an eternity not existing. As the epiphany hit him, he exalted Achernar’s name with a mighty yell that turned into the screeching insectoid cry of the Scarab. He renamed himself Red Scarab, and one of his lavender eyes had turned into a murderous crimson, signifying that something was not quite the same with him. He dropped all his martial wares, among which were some of the realms most prized possessions, and destroyed them in a reckless fire. Red Scarab was a more peaceful being, and it was a pacifist for almost a decade. As suddenly as the Change had overcome him, so did it leave him, reverting him to his former, honorless and wily self.
As Slayne began to run into battle with his newfound and powerful armies, Inzaarid got more creative with the freelancers he worked with. He associated with former Talons, among them Korv, and dismissed cultists, among them, Satomi. Korv helped Inzaarid more indirectly than anything—all Inzaarid needed was manpower, and then finding out who was where was very easy, and Korv’s powerful voodoo could undo select individuals, making raids easier.
Satomi and Inzaarid fought unusually well together. Both sad people, they talked about things in life that hadn’t gone as they would want, often times even as they fled from some murder scene. Similar to Inzaarid’s reputation with Slayne, Satomi and Inzaarid were never successfully apprehended or defeated.
These were the times of the new crusaders, notably Arsilan and Sithara. The Fist had also become more powerful than it had ever been. The combat savvy of Inzaarid’s opponents reached record highs—Coupled with the short lived elf, Nalkiali, Arsilan’s armies proved difficult to route. Inzaarid lost many battles, and was hunted by many forces. At one time in his life The Thieve’s guild, The Ayamaoan Alliance, The Cult, The Harlequins, The Hammer, The Peacekeepers, and The Talon all wanted him dead at the same time—he began relaxing in the North, protected by the ironclad law, and in the East, protected by Slayne’s armies.
These were also the times of his truest love, Maylu. Originally from Taslamaran lands, he met her as a young woman, and spoke to her of his faith and of his travels. They became friends instantly, and she traveled in his company often, witnessing the hardship and terrible oppression he endured daily, and also his profound love for a good time and story-telling. Their love was pure and rare kind that only comes every couple centuries or so, and even when they married, never did they make love, always talking and carrying on until they collapsed from exhaustion from battles and laughter.
They were also a mighty combative duo—Maylu adopted all of Inzaarid’s enemies and Inzaarid adopted all hers. For many years, they rampaged unchecked, picking off weakened fighters as armies fought one another, and looting mercilessly. Maylu’s soft heart often pleaded with Inzaarid to show compassion, but whenever she looked into his mismatched eyes, she was powerless to resist. Things went so far as to murder her own church members. Ironically, the Harlequin brought an end to their combative spree, chasing the duo through many miles of plains and forest, and constantly using every resource possible to apprehend the two.
When Maylu died, it was one of the few times that Inzaarid had ever cried in his life. Few things felt better than to hold her, and paint, with words, their ever-optimistic future. When she passed, so to did Slayne soon withdraw from active combat. These were among the loneliest years in the latter half of the deep elf’s life. Her death took the fight out of his spirit, and left him a shell of his former warrior self. The notoriety of Inzaarid’s shenanigans in combat and trickery began to decline.
He spent his days talking with other old souls in the realms; Gallus Altari, a Hammer that dated back to Frollith’s times; Sterk Stone, a former Talon turned Teronian loyalist after the Grand Civil War in the South; and other souls he met on his foot travels, spreading the word of Achernar.
Not a timid soul, he sent a letter to an old guard of Nerina named Avice. Her late husband, Karn, was a warrior-crusader, and in Inzaarid’s younger days, he had fought and killed both Karn and Avice as a Jester. Never having any malice for the woman, he extended to her an invitation to spend her aged days in Teron. As he talked to her, he saw how much of her former beauty she still retained, both within and out, and he enjoyed her company until her resting day.
When Avice died, Inzaarid had truly outlived the longest lived of his generation. Life lost a lot of its boom and bluster, and the mischief he got into diminished to almost a crawl, save for those few moments he and Achernar would go on their notorious walks. The God, Achernar, whimsical and hungry was like a patient and bland father who doted in his wild and unpredictable child. Inzaarid and Achernar were more than Son and Father, but were also friends. They spent precious quantities of time together, much to the chagrin of the realm they often haphazardly caused mischief for.
The last day of Inzaarid’s life came as somewhat of a surprise. As he went to a store to get his weakened blade repaired, Achernar sprung forth from nothingness. Ever eager to serve, Inzaarid asked how he may best oblige an old friend—He knew, from the look in Achernar’s midnight blue eyes, that it was Time. Gathering all the faithful for one last walk, they scoured the realm in the same whimsical manner that characterized both their existence. Inzaarid fed Achernar elven children, and told all the passerby on the roads goodbye. It did his soul happiness to find not one face in all his last day’s journey, a stranger’s face.
The last moment of his life was…unexpected. He stood before the spire of the old cult that plagued the realm. Asked to leave by the northern guardsmen, Benjamin, he laughed and declined affront the armed and bloodthirsty NPC assembled. The weakened spire churned loudly once, and as Inzaarid went to make a typical, smart-assed remark, the tower crashed down right beside Achernar--and right on top of him. Everyone laughed—Inzaarid’s spirit did, too.
The confused ghost of the befuddled ancient is said to still wander the realms, hitting up random adventurers for money he won’t pay back. Occasionally, they say, a lone iron arrow will fire from afar and land dead between the feet of those the walk the roads about the city of Teron, where a young Inzaarid RiverRage was infamous for his brigandry. His ghastly form is said to manifest, one eye of lavender, one eye of crimson, and wild dreadlocks, spectral cackle an onslaught to the tranquil night.
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Pretty easy to avoid dying when flee(and WoR) is your favorite command and you use it as soon as a fight starts to look like it'll go bad.