Vaezhasar Drakspae
"Let them huddle in their incense-choked temples, mumbling half-remembered litanies to gods who haven’t answered since the stars were young. Their doctrines are a patchwork of contradictions, cobbled together by prophets with more zeal than sense. I’ve heard their 'sacred truths' recited in ten dialects and none of them more convincing than a street conjurer’s patter. Their deities, when they aren’t suspiciously silent, issue commands through middlemen with suspiciously full purses and a penchant for persecution. I’ve no patience for bowing to stone heads or seeking leave to speak freely. I’ll leave reverence to those who enjoy genuflecting before thunderclouds and talking furniture."
Appearance
Vaezhasar is a tall, imposing figure with skin the hue of aged leather and a muscular build. In armor, he wears ornate, gold-trimmed blue and violet warplate adorned with arcane motifs, skulls, and large crimson gems. His helmet is crowned with elaborate, curling horns and flowing ribbons. Without the helmet, he has long, sleek dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes lined with dark markings, giving him a regal yet enigmatic presence. His features are sharp and symmetrical, with a composed, commanding expression.
Skills and Abilities
Vaezhasar is a formidable sorcerer known for his mastery of conjuration, destructive arcana, and magical craftsmanship. Towering in presence and feared in reputation, Drakspae is most renowned for his unique ability to forge sentient familiars—arcane constructs bound with shards of his will—and for crafting enchanted relics from spellforged steel and brass. His creations often serve as scouts, assassins, or extensions of his own power in battle.
A scholar of forbidden lore and an artisan of living magic, Vaezhasar breathes purpose into constructs and breathes fire into the hearts of his enemies. Vaezhasar possesses unparalleled mastery over magic, enabling him to disrupt and counteract the spells of other casters with precision.
Vaezhasar’s living armor functions as both shield and reservoir: it absorbs ambient magical energy, storing it like a battery to power defensive wards and repair itself. It grants resistance to physical and arcane attacks, feeding off residual spells to sustain and strengthen its host.
Despite his overwhelming magical prowess and formidable creations, Vaezhasar is not without vulnerabilities:
1. Reliance on Constructed Power: Vaezhasar's strength is amplified through his sentient familiars and living armor. Severing his connection to these constructs—through anti-conjuration wards, dispelling fields, or spatial disruption—can significantly diminish his combat effectiveness and mobility.
2. Arcane Saturation: His armor absorbs ambient magic, but in areas devoid of magical energy or steeped in nullifying enchantments, it becomes inert—weakening his defenses and regenerative capabilities. Overloading it with chaotic or incompatible magic can also cause internal backlash.
3. Obsession with Control: Vaezhasar’s constructs reflect fragments of his will. Should one break free or be turned against him by potent mental manipulation or corruption magic, it could disrupt his focus or even injure him directly through psychic backlash.
Personality
Dutiful. Arrogant. Inquisitive. Vindictive. Power-hungry. Surprisingly enough, honest (unless lying puts him in an advantageous position). Hates ignorance and has little patience for the stupid and the feeble-minded. A megalomaniac with penchant for theatrics and moral ambiguity.
"Ah, well, you see—that’s where I tend to diverge from the common herd. Most people, when they stumble across some disagreeable quirk of the world—poverty, injustice, howling geometries—they grumble into their porridge or write strongly worded pamphlets. Some even convince themselves to accept it, as though acquiescence were a form of wisdom and not merely laziness in a robe.
But me? No, I’ve always believed in a more hands-on approach. If some corner of reality offends my sensibilities, I don’t brood—I adjust. If adjustment proves unfeasible, well… I obliterate. Methodically. Cheerfully. With spells that have footnotes. I’ve no qualms about burning the house down if the foundations are rotten. Ashes, after all, make for excellent new soil.”
"Ah, well, you see—that’s where I tend to diverge from the common herd. Most people, when they stumble across some disagreeable quirk of the world—poverty, injustice, howling geometries—they grumble into their porridge or write strongly worded pamphlets. Some even convince themselves to accept it, as though acquiescence were a form of wisdom and not merely laziness in a robe.
But me? No, I’ve always believed in a more hands-on approach. If some corner of reality offends my sensibilities, I don’t brood—I adjust. If adjustment proves unfeasible, well… I obliterate. Methodically. Cheerfully. With spells that have footnotes. I’ve no qualms about burning the house down if the foundations are rotten. Ashes, after all, make for excellent new soil.”
Biography & Lore
"My father is a Kurgan—a Cimmerian by birth, if one adheres to the antiquated tribal delineations—hailing from the vast, wind-scoured steppe where a man’s worth is measured by the sharpness of his blade and the steadiness of his gaze. He was copper-skinned, blue-eyed, and possessed of a mane of dark hair that he took no small pride in grooming with a bone comb. To hear the old campaigners tell it, his prowess in battle was something not quite mortal; he was said to have split a horse and its rider in two with a single stroke, though I suspect the tale improved in the telling.
Though no scholar of the mystic arts, my father was no superstitious yokel either. When my own magical inclinations became apparent—rather earlier than is comfortable for any household with livestock—he wasted no time in arranging my admittance to a proper Academy, complete with grimoires, tutors, and all the inevitable squabbling over etymology that comes with the study of magic.
Curiously, I’ve long suspected that the old man himself has some latent spark of thaumaturgic aptitude. But whether from sloth, disdain, or the simple Kurgani conviction that no sorcery ever solved a problem that a good axe couldn’t solve faster, he doesn't pursue it. That, or he finds the robes undignified."
Though no scholar of the mystic arts, my father was no superstitious yokel either. When my own magical inclinations became apparent—rather earlier than is comfortable for any household with livestock—he wasted no time in arranging my admittance to a proper Academy, complete with grimoires, tutors, and all the inevitable squabbling over etymology that comes with the study of magic.
Curiously, I’ve long suspected that the old man himself has some latent spark of thaumaturgic aptitude. But whether from sloth, disdain, or the simple Kurgani conviction that no sorcery ever solved a problem that a good axe couldn’t solve faster, he doesn't pursue it. That, or he finds the robes undignified."
References
