Hekate De Morten

Biographical information

Birthplace Thanasis Born Died Age 36 Home Ragash Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Human Sub-Race Gender Male Height 6'3 ft. Mass 278 lbs. Hair color Black Eye color Golden Brown Skin color Ebony

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Guardsman Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Exisarl Created on Avatar imagine.art

Skin as black as midnight, eyes of fool's gold, soul severed in twain in ribbons of crimson and gray. With a broad chest, chiseled musculature, legs like tree trunks, and arms hewn from stone; Hekate is a veritable wall of a man. Standing just over six foot and carrying enough mass to sink a rowboat, he's no stranger to the wayward eye. His hair shaved and trimmed to a close fade as his face is well-groomed and devoid of beard or blemishes; save for the gnarly scar that runs on the underside of his jaw from corner to corner, silvered from years of healing.

Ocassionally draped in his ceremonial leathers when behind closed doors, Hekate is most comfortable in these black leathers and gray cloths; adorned in his father's heirloom cape of blood red. Though, he is commonly wrapped in the effects of the Ragash guard when on duty. A disguise, a ruse, a mask.

- Necromantic sword, capable of light blood magic
- Exceptionally skilled in combat; armed, unarmed, and most blades and mauls
- Tactical expertise
- Versed in espionage, though a spy by no means
- Military experience, organized and guerilla

It can't be said Hekate is aloof or undisciplined. Never one to rise after the daylight, nor rest before its setting; always quick to routine and daily ritual. A creature of habit and precision, he holds his small symmetries as treasures and a link to a past left behind. Folding his linens in compact triangles, clicking his boot heel in quiet rhythms as he works, fashioning his blade to more fluidly escape his scabbard. A million routines hidden within one another that create this human machine.

Hekate was born into a clandestine and ill-reputed family of dragon riders; the eldest of four, the first of two brothers, and heir to the bloodied legacy of a cruel parentage. Molded by his father, Demities', demons, he became a proficient accessory of war with more bodies under his name by age sixteen than many adventurers can boast in a lifetime. All under the will of Demities would Hekate and his siblings succumb to a dark ambition to reclaim and unseat the most prolific names in Thanasis. Demities would talk as he worked his children into enslaved weapons - muttering of a fulfilled home he built for them, a promising career he abandoned for them, a love broken for them.

Once a man in his own right, Hekate and his youngest brother, Elduul, had been tasked with a quest of utmost import. The two would assassinate the heir to a competitor's fortune, leaving the riches to be Demities' and his family's alone. His children were blinded by his propaganda and so set forth to win their father's prize. Descending upon a derelict facility in a dead grotto, the pair struck at nightfall with precision and deftness of blade. They moved through a clutch of well-armed guards and into the heart of this ramshackle fortress until they found their quarry; a boy, cooing and laughing from a softly swaying bassinette. The two brothers wavered as they took in the scene. Questions flooded as adrenaline took hold and rattled their senses. Demities was cold, ruthless, but this? Hekate knew they must act before reinforcements made their way into the chamber but Elduul would not move from a hunched position over the boy. Clinging to the boy, tears streaking across his flushing cheeks, Elduul begged his elder brother to see reason. A chorus of dissensions and raw emotion poured from the pair as their rationale turned to a screaming match, growing louder and closer to sore nerves and a lifetime of sibling bitterness and resentment before... Red. His blade hissed a cold, rattling snicker as it glided back into its scabbard at his side. The leather soaked through with splotched blood and the steel pulsing with an energy that inspires only one sensation... Dread.

Hekate fled, the blood of an innocent and his brother now a familiar taste on his blade. Searching for a place to forget and repent, he is now on the run from his own shadow. But one cannot outrun one's own dread.

- Voice Claim : Magneto, X-Men '97
- Anthem : V.A.N by Bad Omens and Poppy