Morte

🧑‍🎤 Overview

• Full Name: Morte
• Race: Eldritch Dark Elf
• Class: Warlock & Sorcerer
• Alignment: Lawful Neutral
• Age: 83
• Background: Sage

🎭 Personality & Motivation

• Core Traits:
  • Wants to Belong
  • Has Been Corrupted By Duende, and was puppeteer-ed for a time
  • Struggles with his faith in the Fae
• Flaws & Weaknesses:
  • Indecisive
  • Anxious
  • Imposter Syndrome
• Personal Goals:
  • Defeat Duende
  • Try to retrieve his path to the Fae (aka get soul back)
  • Be valued in the eyes of people he values.

⚔️ Combat & Skills

• Primary Fighting Style:
  • Began as ruthless and self sacrificial, using the blades of Duende to deal damage, and corrupted grey beams of necrotic power shattering the bodies of his enemies.
  • When moved patron, his style of combat is more tactical and based around protection of those he values. His magic is gore-ish in nature, almost Necromantic, though at times he will get his
• Notable Abilities:
  • Summons beams of grey light from hand
  • When with Duende could summon blades
  • When with Deric Turn into Zombie
  • Magical Dysfunction (1 in 4 warlocks suffer, see your local cleric)
• Weapons & Gear:
  • Cloak of Charisma

📖 Backstory

A consistency you will find along these backstories, as much as I wish to dismay these allegations of unimportance - some influences on our lives are not for our control, as the following Elven man will lay testament to. Some even feel to be put on this realm’s grounds to be used, puppeteerd and manipulated. For some, that is exactly what they become, so enveloped in this ideal that they manifest it as truth . For this soul, my hopes that their path can be self fulfilled and effected.

A great family , but not in the traditional sense that you might be familiar with. They inhabited the land itself, considering the fey domain to be theirs, steering away from the, so called, civilised factions of the realm. Traveling by the shadows of night, and sleeping under that protection of either nature’s magic or the will of the fey. Prior generations would tell the young ones of an agreement for their travels to be left uncontested by the kingdoms work, with the agreement that their alliance would work in favour for the kingdom should a great threat come upon his reign.

If you were to glance upon the sub divisions of this great, dark elven, clan, you would be unsuspecting of the culture outside of its fundamental equipment, and an existence that lent itself more to the wild than to technological. Only looking deeper into the societal behaviours would you note that each of the children in a tribe would only share a vague resemblance to the local adults, in the same way people of the same town might begin to resemble each-other. None of them were directly, biologically, related. Thats the beginning of this tale.

Morte had only known ‘Mother’ as a form of authority in his life. Not his pre-destined mother mind you, but a maternal, kind, and strong soul who guided the little ones through life. As a consistency amongst traveling tribes like his own, this general figure of ‘mother’ meant that despite the democratic way the groups would run themselves, that induvial always seemed to have the most sway.

He was young, maybe 20, much too young to be making decisions for anyone, even himself. His brethren were not exactly kind to him, and while they would move forward and advance to greater skills in battle, fey understanding and general magic - they would often look back to spit on him with words akin to his worthless attempt to assist the tribe in his ways. Morte was powerless.

The boy could conjure the burst of magic, found commonly in the Eladrin race, but this did not mean anything in a society where speakers were able to communicate directly to the beings of magic, and the hand-combat skill average could turn him to pulp in minuets. His people would not soon let him forget it.

This particular afternoon, his growth spurt of a youth filled child finally setting in, the boys had been particularly cruel. Not just mean, but viscous in their mockery. Not till the floods of an emotional river pushing their way out of his eyes did they lay off for even a moment. What hurt more than the words themselves, was the accuracy he found in them. Beyond that moment, it took ‘Mother’ a second to register what had happen and make a move to help with damaged boy.

Emotional guidance as always. The strength that came from a voice knowing, but not telling, of they great expectations they had for the child. That was what mother was always like. It would work most of the time, with Morte more assured of his position and value. But this time-

It was too late, the seed of self doubt, if not buried already, was set to grow like a tree within. The -roots taking hold of his soul, a grasp on his inner-self. No one could tame this beast of self mage.

Many moons later, a young adult Morte, now of 78, would stand, shook to the core of himself, found to be not only an outcast, but a traitor. A crime he did not commit, with evidence of his face laying bare to the act, in front of all to see.

Most nights were lead by his teasing and this one was no exception. A now Man child lay a hot iron upon his heart, the tune of worthlessness forced down Morte’s ears. A Melody very familiar, for he now sung it to himself ritualistically. The words no long piecing, but acting as leverage to widen a chasm of self loathing, that was already miles wide.

You may ask why I haven’t given you names as to who, this time, was tormenting Morte. That is due to the unimportance of it. Morte himself, even as the act was happening was not even registering the person who was bestowing agreement upon his own self-doubt. The act itself was one that mattered more than the vocal cords who issued it. It matters more purely for the fact that a man can not exist, live, and work within a community built on the usefulness of each member, and not go crazy with it all.

Morte’s will must have been strong, especially to have endured the brunt of torment as a concept, and to have remained sane, without some form of visible issues to his peers. But the cracks would become to great for this fragile tower, and as gravity is strong, so is the pull of negative mental health.

‘Mother’ noticed though. Breathing heavy, that was the cue. He would shallow his breathing, forcing the tension in his heart to travel his body, down his legs, into the floor and burst it into the ground. A mental ritual, with the only physical notion being his breathing, and Morte loved ‘Mother’ all the more for the fact that she cared to notice.

This night, the breathing was not working. The pressure to strong within his throat, the legs to weak to stand for himself or even to stand at all. No ‘Mother’ to guide and notice him in a time of need, or to work in bringing his self hatred to a halt. No. None. Alone. Useless. Useless. Useless.

He ran. Not for himself. Not from the foe made brethren. Not for any purpose at all. His legs were taking him. Once a Jell-O form, meant to buckle under the weight of negative opinions bestowed upon him by the people he was meant to see as family, now iron in strength and will. His muscles acting in self preservation, denying his conscious thought the reigns to his own body.

Morte's breath waned under the immense weight of strain he was putting his body through, and -in parallel - impacted by the course of thoughts running through his brain. He must be useful. He’s useless. No value. Powerless. I need power. Power to have use. Power to exist. Power to not be a rat in the thoughts of my people. Soon this reached the catalytic event of an over load in both mental and physical effort. He’d been running for hours at this point, having been contemplating weather he should be worthy of the life the fey had provided upon this mortal flesh. Has he earned it.

Then… He collapsed. Weather from the chilled air acting to freeze him in place, having only the thin cloak to keep the winds at bay, or from the shock that realisation brings. The sharp voice of a woman, akin in nature to the tone ‘Mother’ used when soothing him;

“You’re worthless my child.”

It was to much, and so, he collapsed.

I tell you something, and again, this seems to be a consistency within these possible heroes; Even when desolate of people, void of connections, and existing a place where even the keenest of hearing doesn’t bother to listen to you, you might still have an effect. Those rituals of Morte’s, to flow his anger at himself and with the people he admired so dearly straight into the ground. To dissipate into the earth and never to retreat again for as long as his breathing be steady and his thoughts devoid of emotion. It provoked something. Something that would take a liking to this, oh so easily manipulated, soul. A being that would observe till it would work to her favour.

Morte rose, unawares of his surroundings, only knowing the trees looming over head, and the dirt beneath him to be familiar in the way only a nomad would recognise prior trodden ground. Everything seemed right. No, wait. He could hear cheer, and a great one at that. Despite having ran for hours upon hours, letting time fly by as he flew over the earth, he had risen from the ground in ear shot of the campsite.

Then he felt it.

Stemming from his feat, a cold chill, as if a frozen volcano erupted with all the might of the fey, winding its way round his veins. A viper in its accent, the coldness, yet clearly disliked by Morte, had a familiarity to it. It pierced through his lower abdomen, working through and to his heart. Clearly, once it had reached there, it had access to his very being, and what was once a cold burst through his veins was an unmistakable magical chill running the course of his body.

She manifested before Morte. What a hellishly beautiful sight those eyes were, almost as if someone had plucked the dangerous clouds from the sky and infused them into two gems. Those eyes could pierce his heart, and he’d want them to. Uncaring for the curved horns that lay upon her head, and the outrageous flamboyancy she wore death within her dress. Fitted with head of a snake on the left epaulette, and a crow on her right. What chaos? What spiteful gorgeousness?

Then Morte would notice something. Despite the clarity he could see in the sharp knife to his upbringing, that was the dress she wore, and the eyes that gazed at him unblinkingly, he could not make a detail out of the face. Every time he would fix on a detail, it would disappear from comprehension. Though one thing was for certain, this wasn’t a Tiefling.

Morte had met the horned humanoid race before in passing, selling what little he hunted for in the woods from town to town. Never before had his natural affinity to detect antient magic been so clear. He wasn’t the strongest to detect arcana, but out of his similarly aged peers, he was the best.

To my reader, the ability to enact this sense is not like the ones you and I use on our daily journeys across this earth we rest upon. No, its like activating the part of the self, dedicated to the creation of magic, but instead of pushing magic through it, you pull the magic within. This has the great effect of acting as a radar, since within the region of a greater source of magic, it will be easier to absorb the flow of magic that emanates off a magical being. The Specific race Eladrin, which Morte is a child of, follow this in the hopes to reunite with they magically descended brethren, and treats magic as a blessing bestowed upon them. This has meant it is a common trained skill within this clan.

“Oh dear child, your so wounded. Do you need help?” The sharp voice cut through the silence.

This struck Morte as odd, since, from what he could tell, physically he was un injured. Verbally batting the question away, he asked;

“who are you, and what do you want?”

She poised for the question, and seemingly replied bluntly as she could.

“I am Duende, your salvation. And I have come to help you, as such you asked for.”

In rapid response, Morte retorted;

“I called for help, you are a stranger to me. I have never met you before.”

The stranger nodded, as if admitting that they had never met, but stated plainly once again;

“Oh, but I know you. I’ve watched you for 60 of your 78 years on this plain. You have been calling down upon for help all this time, and now, as you have been so loud and vocal in your plea. I provide you with what you have craved so much. You’re soul is damaged young one, you see. I have come to… patch it up as you might say”

She chuckled, a play on words that she clearly thought was funny, unexplained and not obvious to Morte. Though, his ears were pricked. Attention grasped. Oh how easy it is to play with mortals. Lassoed on intrigue, he pressed with questions. One after the other, like ‘How?’ and ‘Why?’

Chuckling even more so, she put a hand up, halting this elf in his excited curiosity, and hoping also to stop him from being so curious as to question her actual intent.

“You are powerless.”

It was stated with so much force, and with the accuracy of a well thrown dagger, it had struck Morte Dumb. In that moment she began talking again, magic began to expel of her body, creating pockets of darkness, light glowing with magical power, and fog trailed up to create a sort of imagery over head.

“I shall fix that. You shall have worth to your people. I will provide you a connection to my essence, and in return you will forever a child of Duende. You will be an individual I can call upon for any reason. You will be tied to me under the bond of a fiend pact. This all comes with a cost dear child. Though I shall tell you, I have taken a rather liking to you boy, so don’t fuss about your life expectancy. I suspect that you will be around for the full length of your Elven generation.”

Morte drew in breath, holding the gaze into those dazzling beautiful eyes. Those horrifically attacking eyes. Oh how they were cutting through his very essence.

“I am you’re humble servant, any price. I wish to have use in this mortal flesh.”

This young man of only 78 years of age, filled with his own worthlessness, and the notion that power was to never be something he could wield in the name of his people, was bowing before this creature. A creature of marked chaos. As he leant over, the gesture of submission he found most suitable. A searing pain flashed upon the back of his neck.

Even though the pain was only there for an instance, it felt like it pulsed round in his body. Bouncing round like a voice in a cavernous space. An image fell upon his mind, one of blades. One of an elegant dagger crossed in to a tapestry. No, not a tapestry. A web.

The moment was over. He looked up, knowing that this was likely to be a decision he’d regret. Yet not entirely doubtful of the positive effect it will have for him. He could be accepted. A true member of the tribe. Morte’s eye crossed the location where his, now, master was standing a moment before. Gone. A wisp in the wind.

As Morte attempted to recall the events spanning only 5 minutes prior, he noticed that even the thought of the lady felt like it was vanishing. The image like the hazy fog of a dream you’d just woken up from. Thinking, he felt up to his neck, the etching into his skin like stone. The mark of duende

Screaming. The blood curdling sound of a child’s scream of terror. In the same instance that Morte had recalled that the hooded lady - Duende? - had mentioned a price, the cry called. His name rattled the empty forest as the winds shifted around him.

Drawing a sharp breath he moved to the campsite, noting as he came up to it, most of the heads were pointed in a single direction. One that all focus collided in with… Morte’s face. A replication of himself stood there, and even winked at him. What in all the names of Fey was happening? Then, to the morbid dismay of Morte, he noticed that in front of this Imposter was ‘Mother’. A blade against her neck. Two short breaths. The breaths of panic. The breaths of a fear for another's life. The fear of loosing everything. A million thoughts trapesed the inside of his brain. Actions to prevent the very obvious undeniable act before him from happening.

Two breaths can be such a long time for the individual. In reality however, its such a short amount of time for action. Those moments were torture, more than the aftermath. To be grief stricken for an person who you hold dear, this isn’t even dead yet. To process the loss of a person who can still speak to you. More torturous than the loss itself. To feel helpless, defenceless and have no way to deal with it, all the while feeling dumb knowing it hadn’t happen yet.

Slit.

The sound ricocheted. A shotguns fire to him, all pelts striking the heart. No. This couldn’t have been happening . Why?

Who ever it was, was quick to take to the forest and disappear, followed closely by cries of revenge. The people, jeering at the name of “Morte”, worked a group together who, Morte knew, were more than capable of slaying him.

So he ran once more that evening. Away. Away from the only family, friends, and people he had known. Ran from people who knew him to have murdered the only person to show him kindness.

The journey spent a sleepless night. Moving through the forest to a place any self-respecting individual would not go, for they knew it was to revoke everything they believed in. He went to the civilisation.

🕸️ Relationships

• Allies: Vidal Sunshield, Ga-al - SpiritLifter, Jewels
• Rivals/Enemies: Duende
• Organizations: The Atlas Anderi, Morte's Tribe