Mordecai's page

Str 12 (+1), Dex 12 (+1), Con 12 (+1), Int 12 (+1), Wis 16 (+3), Cha 16 (+3)
(2 + 2 + 2 + 2 + 7 + 5 = 20, +2 Cha as a Human bonus, +1 Wis at 4th)

HP: 10 +4 +4 +5 +7 +8 +4 (FC) (37), AC: 19 (+5 +1 mithril shirt, +3 +1 darkwood shield, +1 Dex), Spd 30 ft., Init +5, Saves: Fort +6, Ref +3, Will +7, BAB +4, CMB +5, Atk: +5 Morningstar (1d8+1B/P), +5 Dagger (1d4+1 P, 19-20/x2 crit, 10 ft. range), +7 Hand of the Acolyte (Morningstar 1d8+1 or Dagger 1d4+1, 30 ft. range)

+2 Charisma, Favored Class Cleric, 1 bonus feat, +1 skill point at levels 1 and 2, +1 hit point at levels 3, 4, 5 and 6

Aura of evil, bonus proficiency in Scythe, Channel negative energy 3d6 (will DC 16 for half) 6/day, Domains (Death (sub-domain Undead, Death's Kiss, cause a creature to count as undead for negative / positive energy interactions for rounds equal to 1/2 cleric level, 6/day), Magic (Hand of the Acolyte, make melee weapon attack a foe within 30 ft. 6/day using Wis mod for +atk)

Blind-Fight, Toughness (+3 hp + 1 hp / HD after 3), Selective Channeling, Improved Initiative

Looking for Work (+1 to Perception checks, always a class skill)

Languages: Osirioni, Common (Taldane), Goblin
Skills (2 (class), +1 (human), +1 (Int) x5, +2 for FC:
Appraise 2 (Int, +6),
Craft (alchemy) 1 (Int, +5),
Diplomacy 6 (Cha, +12),
Heal (Wis) 2 (+7),
Knowledge (arcane) 1 (Int, +5),
Knowledge (history) 1 (Int, +5),
Knowledge (nobility) 0 (Int, -),
Knowledge (religion) 1 (Int, +5),
Knowledge (the planes) 0 (Int, -),
Linguistics 1 (Int, +5, Goblin),
Perception 6 (Wis, +12),
Profession (Wis, embalmer/mortician) 1 (+6),
Sense Motive 3 (Wis, +8),
Spellcraft 1 (Int, +5)

Craft (alchemy), Heal and Profession (embalmer/mortician) come from the years of preparing and using unguents and scented oils on the bodies of the undead, although the applications apply as well to the living, or merely dead. Perception is as good as it is because of the dimly-lit chambers of the Obsidian Palace, and his need to be ever-attentive to his Dark Lady's wishes (and the whispers of Vessels who coveted his position and would move to undermine his station). Diplomacy comes from learning to flatter her and not arouse her ire. Knowledge (religion) and Spellcraft are more recent developments, as he has begun religious instruction and wishes to learn as much magic as necessary to bring about his own introduction into the society of the night.

0 (4) – Detect Magic, Light, Purify Food & Drink, Stabilize
1st (3+1+1d) – Cause Fear*, Infernal Healing x3, Murderous Command (Will DC 14)
2nd (3+1+1d) - Ghoul Touch*, Lesser Restoration, Spiritual Weapon x2
3rd (2+1+1d) - Animate Dead*, Cure Serious Wounds x3

2 Daggers (4 gp, 2 lbs), Morningstar (8 gp, 6 lbs), +1 mithral shirt (+4 armor, 2100 gp, 10 lbs, +6 MDB, 0 ACP), +1 darkwood shield (1257 gp, +2 shield bonus, 0 ACP, 5 lbs), Masterwork Backpack (+1 Str for encumbrance, 50 gp, 4 lbs), Bedroll (1 sp, 5 lbs), Rations x5 (2.5 gp, 5 lbs), Waterskin (1 gp, 4 lbs), Flint & Steel (1 gp, -), Signal Whistle (8 sp, -), Belt Pouch (1 gp, ½ lb), Traveler's Outfit (- gp, 5 lbs), blackened silver holy symbol of Urgathoa(25 gp, 1 lb), wand of cure light wounds (50 charges, 750 gp, 1/2 lb), copper amulet with continual flame on dark red semi-precious agate inside locket (125 gp, -), mostly empty traveling spellbook (used to take notes, 10 gp, 1 lb), quill (1 sp) and glowing ink (2 vials, 10 gp).

Encumbrance: (Lt 50 lbs, Med 51-99 lbs, Hvy 100-150 lbs), 49 lbs carried (dropping backpack with rations, bedroll and book reduces combat encumbrance to >35 lbs)).
Spent: 2345 gp, 5 sp of 3000 gp.
Spent this adventure: -30 gp., -2000 gp
Current cash: 624 gp, 4 sp, 9 cp.

Chosen as a child from Garundi slaves for his physical beauty, strength of limbs and vigor, Mordecai bears little resemblance to the man he could have become. His dark skin has become greyish, as if the privations of his past have somehow drained the very pigment from his skin, and he has pronounced scars at wrist, throat and the crook of his elbow, where his vampiric mistress fed from him. He still has the proud nose and high forehead of his breeding, and his voice has a shadow of the deep timbre of those people, even if he rarely speaks above a whisper.

Mordecai dresses primarily in black, and in layers, as finds the temperatures this far north too cold for his liking, and yet also is uncomfortable wearing such heavy cloth, and fidgets with his cloak and hat impatiently, having spent his youth wearing only sparse bits of silk, at his owners insistence, as he padded around the Obsidian Palace on bare feet.

He sits very still when not in motion, a remnant of the years he spent knowing that calling attention to himself was invitation for a beating, and his face most often shows only a vapid accepting expression, again, the result of learning too-well never to show disapproval, squeamishness or doubt.

As a sacred vessel, he was fed only the finest foods and drinks, which were shared vicariously with the creature who fed upon his blood. He has developed a taste for the silken clothing and fine cuisine of his youth, and will never deny himself these simple pleasures, although he has a visible distaste for Vudran cuisine, or, indeed, Vudrans in general...

His gear is an eclectic mix, with one of his daggers being of Osiriani or Kelish make, curved and gleaming, if worn, and the other being a poinard that looks like the simple strait work of an Ulfen smith. He wears his chain shirt openly at times, or under a poncho-like mantle at others, but does not always carry his shield. When he leaves his room, his backpack, containing his bedroll and other sundries, lies in the center of the floor, surrounded by a pentacle he has made from red wax, with a burned-out candles at the points. Fine powder visibly covers the pack (ground incense) and might billow up if disturbed by a sudden movement of air (such as the door opening quickly, or someone coming in the window), creating a brief scent of brimstone. There is nothing magical about this pentacle, it is merely for show, in the hopes that no intruder will disturb his belonging.

“I remember being a small child in the slave pens of Geb. At night, we would huddle together, for warmth, but also out of fear, because the Lords came after the sun fell from the sky, sometimes to feed, sometimes to steal children away, and sometimes just to kill slaves, seemingly at random. During the day, we would labor in the fields, using ointments on the zombie laborers to keep their dead flesh supple, and different oils upon those that were nothing but skeletal remains, to keep their clattering bones from drying out and cracking under the harsh sun. We were diligent in caring for these dead laborers, for if any failed under harsh work, we knew the Lords would come and kill enough of us to replace the workers that they had lost.”

“My mother was pureblood Garundi, as was I, it seemed, and she would fiercely elbow aside other slaves when it came time to take our daily gruel, making sure that we both got fair portions. And then she would always give me extra from her own bowl, telling me that I must grow strong and tall to escape this life.”

“I have no knowledge of the years, but I was somewhere between a child and a man when her wishes came true, and I escaped the life of a field-slave, to a life more beautiful and terrible than she could ever have known. The agents of the Lords came in the night, as always, and selected a half-dozen of us, all young boys who had grown strong and tall despite the harsh conditions. We were brought before the Dark Lady, who never told us her name, not in the three years I ended up serving her.”

“We had to unlearn some things, and learn still others. A slave was never to avert his gaze from the Dark Lady’s face. She demanded that her slaves look her in the eye, and show no sign of fear or doubt, or, especially, anger or impatience. Two of us died absorbing such basic lessons, and over the next months, we quickly learned our place, and that we each were competition to the others, and that only one would survive at the end, breeding in us a fierce desperation to see the others fail and be slain, instead of ourselves.”

“I scarcely remember such days, as they were followed by years as the favorite, the Chalice of the Dark Lady. Other slaves might serve as Vessels, to slake her thirst from time to time, but only I slept in her chambers and brushed her hair and massaged scented oils into her cold flesh. While the other slaves wore white linen, for slaves were allowed no other color of cloth upon their frame, I was draped in snow-colored silks, often mere scarves and sashes, for the Lords and Ladies did enjoy the sight of bare flesh, and jewelry of flashing silver. While the other slaves fed upon bread and rice and thick beer, I was allowed the taste of meat, the flesh of swine and geese and lambs, seasoned with exotic spices and washed down with chilled wines and honeyed mead. The Lords and Ladies believed that they vicariously shared the tastes of these fine meals when they supped upon the blood of their Chalice, and who am I to discredit that belief? Perhaps a fine meal *does* enrichen the taste of the blood, and certainly the strong wines made the experience more bearable for the one serving as his master’s private larder…”

“Still, being the favored Vessel of a vampire is equal parts pain, as well as pleasure, as the Lords and Ladies had fearsome tempers, and my Dark Lady would carry a silken scarf of crimson, set with many tiny razors of obsidian, with which she would lash me when she had received distasteful news or her researches had gone poorly or merely when the savage mood came upon her. A Chalice, or any slave, for that matter, was forbidden to turn away in these times, and to do so, or raise an arm in defense, was a death-sentence, and a painful one at that. While my back remains untouched by the scars of the lash, where one would expect a slave to be beaten, my chest and stomach still have many fine scars where the obsidian razors snagged and dug deep.”

“I remember a time when she had received a social upset from a hated rival, and she beat me so long that the tiny obsidian razors had been shaken from the silk or dislodged within my flesh, and in the end she was just slapping me with a blood-drenched length of silk, growing ever more furious at her inability to inflict more punishment. I had to gently take the silk from her and go to her chambers to bring a fresh lash, razors intact, so that she could continue, but I had lost so much blood that I fell unconscious on the way back, only to awaken later in her chambers, to her gently removing the obsidian shards from my skin, and lapping at the blood that welled up.”

“But all things must end, and my time as Chalice came to an end when those damned Vudran slaves were brought into market. Other Lords and Ladies swore by their dusky taste and heady blood, and even imported Vudran chefs to prepare strongly-spiced meals in the Vudran style, which the Lords believed only strengthened the rich taste of Vudran blood. At great expense, my own Dark Lady purchased a half-dozen Vudran slaves, never one to be left behind the fashions of the times, and I helped to train them to learn their place, and, in so doing, to take my place. I knew that I would be discarded, and thought that my sentimental Lady would drain me completely, and then have my body burned, as was sometimes the way with favored Chalices.”

“While she was away, trying to acquire the services of a Vudran chef, I prayed for deliverance, to Urgathoa, the goddess praised by my Dark Lady, for I knew of no other. I filled a bowl of bone with my own blood, and smeared it on the walls outside of the small slave chamber I had usurped for this private purpose. As I intended, flies were soon drawn to the scent of blood, and were enticed into the room as well, swarming around the bowl of blood. I prayed, my stomach heavy with the strong meal and stronger drink I had consumed, ritually feasting in the tradition of the Pallid Princess, and my deliverance came when an uncontrollable urge came upon me. I snatched and seized at the flies buzzing around me, fattened on my own blood, and forced them down my own throat, consuming them in return, as they had fed from me. I remember draining my own blood from the bowl and cleaning the room, hiding all evidence of my ritual, and staggering out into the public areas, where I collapsed in a feverish state.”

“My Dark Lady returned to find me flush with sickness, and would not feed from me in that state. She ordered her new Vudran Vessels to wrap me in linen and hurl me into the streets, lest I infect them with my sickness, and that was the last I saw of that life.”

“The next days were a blur as I was always running, always hungering, always desperate and fearful of the uncertain future. The light of the sun blinded me, as I had not seen it for over three years, and I huddled in an alleyway, with garbage pulled up over myself, until the night came. My belly ached with hunger, as I had purged it several times during the day, and purged the fever as well. All that I could find was discarded waste, fragments of bone and spoiled vegetables, and I prayed once again to Urgathoa, stuffing my face with this foul fare. She answered my prayers, and I watched as spoiled food became, if not fresh, at least edible, within my hands, and I recognized that I had indeed been delivered through her blessings.”

“I traveled north, secure in my ability to transform famine into feast, devouring rotting carcasses of animals lost in the desert, or the bitter flesh of the cactus. When I thirsted, I found that I could but pray for water, and it would begin to flow from my hands like a river. It was in Osirion that I first contacted priests of the Pallid Princess, and learned of the many other blessings that she could bestow upon me.”

“But even Osirion proved to be unwelcoming to a pale stranger who bore the marks of being a servant of the walking dead, and a slave besides, and upon overhearing a few traveling companions remarking that I could fetch a decent price at market, if they were short on coin, I fled again, taking the first ship I found north. I used the prayers I had learned to purify the foodstuffs and drink of the merchantmen I found myself beholden to, and so earned my berth, as they sailed to Korvosa.”

“I was in Korvosa less than a day, hearing on the docks of the blot in the skies of Riddleport, and realizing that whatever force could blot the sun from the sky would be the answer to a vampire Lord’s prayers, and that if I ever wanted to become a Lord myself, I would have no better chance to locate a new Dark Lord to serve, here in the barbaric north, where one who was once a slave might yet become a Lord himself.”

Mordecai had quickly come to the realization that this town would suck him dry long before he found the source of the Blot, and so he traveled to the Boneyard every morning, and ministered and advised those who had brought their dead for burial, taking whatever small coin the grateful poor could spare.

“I don’t have much coin, I’m afraid, but I know that Jaylin would want to be given the rites.” the worn-out looking woman pressed. “Can you commend his soul to Pharasma?” she asked.

With a tight smile, Mordecai agreed, scrambling to remember the empty platitudes and drawn-out tone of speaking preferred during funerary services to Pharasma. “Of course, and do not worry about the coin, I’m sure that your son would prefer you spend your coin on the living.”

“Oh.” The woman said, with a wounded look, “Jaylin wasn’t my son, he was my husband.”

Looking at the young man, who couldn’t have been much more than halfway through his second decade of life, and the woman, who had to be in the midst of her fourth, he bit his tongue, as he was no stranger to the touch of an older woman. A much older woman…

“My apologies, I thought I saw some resemblance,” he backpedaled, and was relieved to see the woman’s anger dissipate as he compared her weathered features to the smooth skin of her young lover.

Turning to the deceased, he arranged his limbs, palms facing upwards, and then corrected himself, and then folded them palms downwards, in the traditions of the faith of Pharasma, and began intoning the solemn words, his nose crinkling as her remembered the heady incenses that would traditionally be burnt during such rites.

Assuming that such rites weren’t being performed for a whore and her teenaged lover in the midst of a swamp, by a priest of another faith entirely, that is…

“Grey Lady, accept into your strong halls this young soul. Across the dark waters, carry him safely to his fated destiny and guide our prayers to his ears. Take away the fear and uncertainty from those he has left behind, as we await our chance to be reunited under your benevolent protection. Let us find solace in the shadow of his passing, knowing that he has a greater destiny to serve in your manse than in this place of tears.”

He sprinkled droplets of clean water, which he had never claimed specifically to be blessed, over the body of the young man and then moved closer to the woman, who was now openly sobbing.

“It is time. I have aromatic oils, which are said by the Osirioni to produce a scent pleasing to the gods, so that their attention be drawn to this moment, and ensure that his soul travels quickly and safely to its destination. It would only be a few coins more.”

The widow, for such she was, even if Mordecai was certain that she had never been married to her young ‘husband,’ pressed a few silver coins into his hand, and murmered, “I have no more, we will have to bury him here.”

Fortunately her eyes were still upon her lovers’ corpse, as a look of distaste crossed Mordecai’s face. Surely, the state of the other graves would be enough for anyone to realize that scavengers would be at the body? Perhaps even ghouls… Still, it was her decision, and a few silvers would not cover the cost of the oils, so he laid his hand on her shoulder, hoping to quickly make his exit before the obvious question followed. “Go in peace, lady. I am certain that Jaylin has.”

As he turned and hastily attempted to retreat, her voice rose uncertainly, cracking in her grief. “Could you? Would you help me to bury him?” She pulled her hair back from her face and arranged herself, as if unconsciously, and for a moment his gorge rose as he thought she meant to entice him to help her with the promise of her favors.

Tempted to hurl her silver back in her face, Mordecai struggled to maintain his composure before turning and saying in a strained tone. “Of course. It would be an honor to see this duty to its completion.”

And so it was in an ugly mood that Mordecai went back to his room at the Golden Goblin for mid-day, hands blistered from unaccustomed work and back sore from leaning, attempting to dredge enough muck from the moist soil to create a hole large enough for a body. How these people could bury their dead in a swamp, instead of wrapping them them in linens and bathing them in oils, before setting them aflame, that they might rise like smoke into the afterlife, was beyond him, but the silver would be enough to pay for a few more meals, and he spared no expense on rewarding himself for his day’s work, having the finest meal this wretched place could supply, and eating it in the gambling hall, which was still a tolerable dining place, as it had not yet begun to fill up with smoke and noise, as it would this evening.

Too many silver spent on these so-called ‘fine meals,’ and he knew that he should head back to the Boneyard, to see if he could make some more coin today, perhaps enough to have something special for dinner…

Custom Trait - Master's Voice (+1 caster level when casting Summon Monster spells to summon bats, rats or wolves)
Applies to;
Summon Monster I - 1 Fiendish Dire Rat
Summon Monster II - 1d3 Fiendish Dire Rats, 1 Fiendish Wolf
Summon Monster III - 1d4+1 Fiendish Dire Rats, 1d3 Fiendish Wolves, 1 Fiendish Dire Bat
Summon Monster IV - 1d4+1 Fiendish Wolves, 1d3 Fiendish Dire Bats, 1 Fiendish Dire Wolf
Summon Monster V - 1d4+1 Fiendish Dire Bats, 1d3 Fiendish Dire Wolves
Summon Monster VI - 1d4+1 Fiendish Dire Wolves