Mortivore Urn, Psychemancer

Biographical information

Birthplace Gild Born Died Age 59 Home Vel Anir Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Human Sub-Race Gender Male Height 1.90 metres Mass Solid Hair color Grey, long Eye color Flint flecked with grey Skin color Leather brown

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Dreadlords mage / mage hunter / spy Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Darkweaver Created on Avatar AI

Mortivore's Theme

"Now feel the wrath of . . . oh . . . uh . . . what was I saying?"

- A Cortosi rogue mage

The world would be better off without magic. A sentiment often heard in Gild, and as they say, once a Gildan, always a Gildan.

Born under the name Bast Urn, Mortivore grew up with younger brother, Aske, their early years spent in the religious city state of Gild. But these peaceful years would be brief. Soon, the Praetors broke down their doors, intent on apprehending their parents for the practise of magic. The Urn family fled as far away as they could, travelling all the way to Alliria, where they lived for a few months - until the agents of Gild came for them again. Fleeing further southwest, they finally came to the fortress city of Vel Anir, where the presence of the Dreadlords could deter the reach of Gild. This is where their parents abandoned them inexplicably - leaving Bast and Aske without a word, left behind in a lodged room.

From one day to the next, the two brothers were orphans. They decided to adopt new names, the better not to be associated with their parents. Taken into an orphanage, their carer gave them names that read like curses - Mortivore and Orpheus, always the troublemakers. They adopted these names, though privately, they kept their family name - Mortivore for the sake of revenge, Orpheus for the sake of remembering.

Each one blamed their circumstances differently. Mortivore cast the responsibility on their parents, having absorbed more of the Gildan mentality, whereas his younger brother, enamoured with the idea of them but lacking in memory, blamed the Praetors for their plight. When the Dreadlords went their rounds seeking children with magical potential, they soon found the two orphans. Mortivore stayed, but his brother fled Vel Anir, seeking to find their parents.

Abandoned by his last family member, Mortivore joined the Dreadlords. He had an aptitude for illusions and magic of the mind, which the organisation made full use of. Recruited at the older age of eleven, he made up for his lacking training by his magical aptitude, having to work twice as hard to catch up on martial prowess.

Today, Mortivore is a mage who hates his own craft. The reason for him using it? It is the best means to fight other magi, by destroying them with their own means. Should the Herald ever decide to curb all magic, Mortivore certainly wouldn't mind. But since magic is an unfortunate fact of life, he works to undermine it by its own means.

And there is one rogue mage he seeks in particular. His brother, Orpheus Urn. Perhaps still on the loose. Perhaps dead. Regardless, Mortivore would like to know of his fate.

His magic and knowledge specialises in the dismantling of spells, confusing other mages by infiltrating their minds and countering their deadly magic. The spells woven by Mortivore carry a pernicious stamp, warping and twisting the minds of his opponents and anyone in his way, obliterating them from within. Often, his victims show few signs of physical injury - the only evidence of his touch the vacant look in their eyes, a tendril of drool at their lip and perhaps, for added cruelty, just enough memory left in their brain to realise what they have lost.

A severe man, often with an inscrutable countenance. He is like a tall shadow, towering over most of his own kind, often draped in dark clothes suited for travel and weather. His long, braided beard spills out from his hood like a cascade of iron filings, above which a pair of narrow, flint-coloured eyes sift, dissect and analyse the people he encounters. Indeed, if there was a describing element that could be assigned to this man, it would be something metallic, something as hard and as unyielding as his countenance. A large nose adds some flawed humanity to him and his skin is tan as leather, hinting at a life spent outdoors or on the move.

In his belts, he carries a curious set of items. The most eye-catching of them would be his iron spheres, impeccably shaped and crafted by some strange blacksmith. One of them is attached to a chain and a hilt, like some decorative flail.

He has a habit of hiding and clenching his hands, and indeed, since the Dreadlords have instilled in him an ability to keep his face blank so as to not betray his emotions, his hands are the more telling. Aware of this quirk, Mortivore works to hide them from any who might be discerning onlookers.

+ Powerful psychemancy, capable of manipulating the minds of others through magic. He can dominate, deceive with internal illusions, break, siphon and store information from other minds. He can even draw mana from the minds of others, leeching their power to fuel his own.

+ Dreadlords martial training. While martial abilities are taught, these are not the skills Mortivore rely the most on. If he has to resort to direct violence, usually something has gone wrong. It has, however, kept him in shape in his later years.

+ Reading people. Beyond his magic, Mortivore has trained in reading the desires and fears of other people.

+ Rudimentary sailing. Having been close to the sea often, especially on the long retreat of his family, Mortivore has learned a few things around the seas, though he is by no means a sailor.

- Humorless. There is not a bone of laughter in Mortivore. It can often unnerve those around him, though he has grown too old and bitter to care overly much.

- Direct and tactless. Perhaps in spite of, or perhaps because of his ability to manipulate others through magic, Mortivore can be impatient with subtler, more social means of manipulation, preferring a blunt force trauma approach to getting what he wants.

- Mortivore is steadily feeling the effects of age. He is not as nimble or strong as he used to be. Sometimes, his back protests against his endeavours and gout has begun to plague his wrists.

- Blinding hatred. Mortivore is still consumed by his hatred for magic, decades after the events that put him on his path.

Perhaps the cosmos has a sense of karma. In the case of Mortivore, having robbed many victims of their spark and vivacity, he seems himself extremely dull and grave, about as rambunctious as a sepulchre. He is of a paranoid and guarded mind, rarely underestimating those around him. Knowing his own powers of uncanny scrutiny, he is fully aware that others exist that can mimic his deadly magic. He even suspects his own memories to have been tampered with already. Perhaps by an enemy on a previous mission, or perhaps by a master Dreadlord. Regardless, he treats his own, wandering thoughts with equal suspicion as those around him. He cannot even be certain he can trust the past he believed he knew, hence why the finding of his brother is even more important.

Occasionally, he can warm up to initiates or students taken under his wing. Those that train under him for an extended period of time, he tends to treat like he once did with his brother - full of advice and admonishing, an extension of his own caution, but also freely granting from a deep well of wisdom and insight, as well as granting a fatherly (and at times patronising) protection.

He tends to respect authority to a fault, though still waters run deep, as they say. Often, he follows the orders of the Dreadlords impeccably, with his own machinations in mind.