About Cen MehevThe Tale of Cen Mehev, the Lover Feign:
Cen Mehev was once a lad of cheer and youthful passion. An entertainer of the near-famous troubadours 'The Green Legs', he was a traveling musician and a theatrical fencer. He made his troupe many a shiny penny with his talents, but the life of ceaseless travel left the boy lonely. He would travel from town to town, capturing the hearts of the daughters of smiths and officials alike, but their affection passed with each horizon, and he never had a love of his own. After several a year, The Green Legs became old news to the towns they were familiar with, and had want to tread to new grounds to stay afloat. They traveled far and wide, and found new villas where they performed with all the fire in their breasts, but were paid little for their work.
They traveled farther still, to a land ruled by a tense monarch, renowned for his iron-clad rule and cruel guardsmen. Here the Green Legs were forced to settle down, for their money and luck had finally run out. They played shows for months on end, scraping to get by. One night, Cen was playing his usual set for the clammy crowd, and spotted a damsel he thought more fair than he had 'ere laid eye upon, her own pupils fierce, the locks of her hair shone a crimson flair. At the end of the show, she met him, and gave him a large brooch made of pure gold. He asked for her name, and for her hand to wed, but she shook her head and ran away without word. The months groveled on, without much luck or success after meeting the fair fire woman. Cen's sister, Havila, had been growing more bitter and discontented with the city they lived in. The guards were all but kind to the Green Legs, and eventually things broke into conflict. One of their elders, 'Ol Urden, had gotten into a bind with some of the guards over a menial squabble, and was flogged to near death by them. This sent Havila off her wits. She was known in the troop for her own angelic voice, and her skills with longbow trick shots. This night Havila cursed the monarch, and her compassion for the burdened people of the township made her hatch a plan: she would assassinate the king, in hopes that the country would be freed from his heartless rule. "I can't do this alone, Cen. I need your help, a second set of eyes, and your keen blade." Cen didn't know what came over him, but he agreed. He thought it was crazy, but he had his fill of the hypocrisy of the guard and the tension that the whole town had held. He agreed, and they set off in the night. A fool's dare. They planned on scaling the tallest tower of the king's castle, and wait until he was in his bedchamber, and shoot him through the window. With much meticulous climbing, they were able to scale the tower undetected, but when Cen had looked inside the window, into the bedchamber of the monarch, he saw two bodies in the bed. One of the fat, pestilent king, and the other of that fiery woman he had met those months ago. "Wait," Cen said. "Stay your bow. We need to take her before he dies." Havila was furious. The dogged passion of her brother would doom their already implausible cause. But he was her brother, and she could not stop him. Cen crossed a rooftop and scaled the other tower, sweeping into the bedchamber like a swallow. He crept over to the woman, and whispered into her ear, boding her to come away with him and from this slug king. But at the sound of his voice and the appearance the woman shrieked, and jumped. Where Cen saw a woman worth fighting a whole kingdom for, this woman saw an assassin, out to attack her. As the woman jumped, the king woke up, and Havila took her shot on him. It struck him in the back of the calf, but as a raging boar the monarch leapt upon Cen and began to strangle him. The plan was shot. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..……………………. If it were not for the supplications of the kings' fiery consort, Cen would have been gutted on the spot. Havila, however, was none the more lucky. She was captured by the merciless guards, and was never seen again. With the mercy of the kings' consort however, also came reprisal. Cen was taken home to the Green Legs by guards. And then, he watched as they butchered the troupe one by one, holding him down, muffling his screams. They then stripped him of everything he owned, flogged him, and threw him out onto the streets. He lived, but he never saw the fiery consort again. Why did he have to live? Why did he have to live through this? Questions he could never answer. Over the next few years, he turned to the bottle. He was taken in by a pitying inn, where he worked as a janitor during the day, and played his lute at night. Over time, the ale took him, callousing his broken heart, making him forget. He was able to get back on his two feet. He had some money, he had good clothes, he had a fine new lute, and was even able to cop a rugged rapier from a trader one day. But it wasn't enough. His sorrows continued to hearken to the liquor, and the liquor drowned the once young man into stupor. It was a fateful night. Cen had finished his usual set, singing songs of love and bright days, but his soul was a liar. It was a good night, many of the patrons had bought him a good few rounds, which he drank up instantly. He was barely conscious, when someone had begun to talk of the kings' business. They said he had got a new consort, from the wester lands, and for the past month, none had seen him with his old one. They rumored she said something too wise, and was dispatched. Cen was already drunk, but in this moment he blacked out. What happened after was just as tragic and just as damning as the night he climbed the tower. In his blind drunkenness, his blade had all but lost its' grace, and it beautifully sliced through six men. Cen faded into consciousness for only a short second, to the sound of shouts and screaming for the guards to come. Cen ran, out of the inn and into the street, around every corner he could, bloodied thrusting sword in hand. Eventually they caught him, like a rabbit to wolves. They cornered him, chided him, insulted him, and as they walked forward, Cen almost blacked out again. He thought this was the end. However, from behind the guard, there came another man. A man who shone a red glitter, and wielded a blade of his own. The sheer sight of him rung true in the doomed boy's ears. A magician! The drunken Cen thought. And what unfolded before his weary eyes was truly an eldritch occurrence. The glowing man with uncanny speed came up from behind the guards, and within a moment slew the five of them where they stood. Cen watched as their blood fell to the ground, as if they were all cut in half with the same slash. "Stand to your feet, son." The arcane swordsman took Cen's hand, and made him stand. The swordsman explained himself, and offered the young one a challenge. As soon as he touched the magician's hand, Cen was fully sober, and focused like a hawk. "I've been watching you, boy. You're one worthy, one I've been looking for for a long while. There aren't many men who can slay with the caliber we possess. My name is Behemoth, and I mean to duel you. If you accept, and you will accept, we shall make a wager. If you defeat me, I will use the powers which I control to give you one wish: the deepest desires of your heart. If I defeat you, you will give me your soul. If you don't accept my terms, well, I can just kill you now." The young Cen gulped hard. He was now inside of something far deeper than he had ever imagined he would be. He nodded, and drew his blade. The two met steel to steel, for minutes which seemed like hours, flashing back and forth the dance of the sword. At the end of the duel, both swordsmen had ended up piercing the other through the middle of their extended off-hand: a draw if there ever was one. As it took place, the magic swordsman chuckled, and his body began to transfigure into a large demon, standing over twelve feet tall, and fatter than three oxen. His head stayed the same size, and from it sprout two long curved horns. "Well met, young one. Time to pay your dues..." The large demon took the trembling boy up in his hand, and with his other hand stole the soul from his chest, writing a rune of service on his breast. "Liar! Monster! That was a draw as clear as DAY! Give me back what is mine!" Cen, knowing he was facing death, had gained a sense of fool's fight. Behemoth replied thus: "Boy, I am honoring our duel. I've been watching you for a long while, Cen. You long for respite from your heartbreak and the loneliness of your soul. I have given you this respite, for now your soul is mine, and no longer your problem." And then, in an instant, Cen was no longer inside of the grim township which took all he had from him away, but now in a cave infernal, the dwelling place of Behemoth. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. In this place where the sun never rises and day never comes, this pit infernal, Cen stayed for many years. By the demon Behemoth he was trained to obey by fear of torture. Many years Cen spent hanging from hooks, in anguish and pain. With his soul bereft from him, he lost all sense of passion and life. He was a soulless one, a vessel filled only with apathy, a hollow person. His desire to feel was still the same, but the fulfillment of this desire was now nothing more than a fairy's tale. Through these years he was conditioned into the slave of Behemoth. He learned the darkest art of collecting souls, and became a crooked man. His life was now about keeping Behemoth satisfied, and keeping Behemoth from hurting him. When the many rituals and dark processes had been completed, Behemoth broke off one of his long horns, and fashioned it into a spiritual waterhorn. He had given it to the boy, and told him to go forth, fill it up, and bring it back to Behemoths' lair, FULL. If it was not full, Behemoth threatened, there would be hells to pay. And so Cen Mehev stepped out again into the light of day. He entered into the world of the living, seeing all the beauties it held, and he took it all in… but he felt nothing. There was no difference between this place now alien and the cave from which he'd come. The inside was still the same. But he had work to do, and he set off to do it. At first he decided the most ironic thing to do would be to find that godforsaken town with its dreadful monarch, and slay all who dwelled there. He set off, and did the deed, bathing the town red. But it was a hassle! Guards would spring up everywhere, in droves, and almost overcome him. There were moments where he almost died! But Cen knew that even death was no rest from this, for Behemoth held his soul. He fought on, and slaughtered all the guards who had flogged him years ago. To his bewilderment, Cen had felt alive in these moments! His heart, although void of soul, rushed whenever he took the blade to a pitiful guard, or a townie. With this sense of jaded joy, Cen walked straight into the castle walls of the old cruel king. One by one he mowed down all who stood before him, and up the tower he went, back into the old bedchamber. What he found would have been dizzying, if he was who he once was. In the bed now lay a younger lad alone, not the old frog who had once destroyed Cen's family. Regardless, the inheritor would inherit Cen's blade as the former king would. The town was red. The town was silent. Not a soul to be found. At the end of the campaign, the horn was only a third full, and Cen was tired. "There's got to be an easier way to do this, without all the hassle of the powers that be." Cen rested in the old town for a week, just thinking. He strolled through all the places he once knew, the tower where he and his sister climbed, the place where the Green Legs used to set up shop, the silent marketplaces, the inn where he used to work and drink himself to death… ...While in the inn, Cen had found something that made his hollow heart jump. His old lute was still there! He immediately dropped his sword, found a stool, took his gloves off, and began to try a few pickings. His talent did not go with his soul. He found the corner where he used to play for money every night, and began to sing to the corpses rotting on the floor. The only songs he ever knew were love songs, and he thought it quite amusing to hear himself play them. When he found the case to his lute, he decided to take it easy, to meander awhile, get his footing on life back on track. He had found a good horse sitting in the stables of the kings' castle. He saddled it up, stowed his armor and sword away, and began to do the work he once did. He meant to entertain, and to put up a show to die for. It took him some time to find a good road. Once he did, he tethered his horse, and waited. Back in his old life, he spent a good amount of time frustrated over the pains of the patience of fishing, but the wiles of his dark mind set the succulent prize above whatever cost it might take to get it. He just sat atop a stump on the roadside, playing his love songs, until the right caravan came along. And it did. A family of eight rode on their buggy, two horses, stacks of wheat breaking their backs. Not much to look at, but it was eight souls for his horn, and this new method made for easy pickings. "Hullo, weary travelers! I am Cen Mehev, Bard Extraordinaire, and I wish to allay your burdens for not but a pence." Without offering them response, the once young man ended his holler and began his greatest piece, for their mutual enjoyment. The children in the buggy began to laugh and clap along, the father smoked his pipe, and the mother held his arm… and their damsel daughter took a twinkle to her eye. Cen watched and grinned as he completed the song, for this would be a perfect night. They lauded his performance, but they apologized for they had no coin to spare. "That's quite alright good sir, it is my joy to entertain. However, I am in want of companions. I mean to make a long trip down this road, and wouldn't want to meander any farther without good company. ...you know what can happen on the highways… Could I join you as far as you go?" The unsuspecting family was all but welcoming to the murdering musician. They traveled far off, until night took the road. They made camp on the wayside, with a fire and meat. Cen played for them more songs, with each one passing the damsel daughter eyeing him with the gravitation which is only natural for the youthful. As silence took the music away, and sleep took the lot of them to dream, Cen found himself talking to the damsel daughter, and with his sweet words he enticed her to give him everything, which he did not refuse. He drank of her body, and enjoyed her soul. But she could have never known that he meant to keep it. He rest her to sleep, and when she was sound, he took to the cart, fumbling through its contents to find the one thing he cursed himself for forgetting- a dagger. I knew I needed one, WHY didn't I take one… stupid… GAH! There was none in the cart. He kept searching the contents of every single compartment of the belongings of the family, for what seemed like hours, until he found a glint in the moonlight, strapped to the side of the bearded sleeping father. Nothing without a bit of humor, I suppose... Cen lifted the dagger from the man's side, and slit his and his betrothed's throats, while they lay in the other's arms asleep. He then turned the father's knife upon his children, whistling as he did. Visions of Behemoths' wrath subdued any sense of callous remorse or morality from the vile lad, and the promise of touching the intoxicating substance of spirits for even a second made the once young Cen keep his feet swift. He decided he liked this method better. Much less hassle, much less sweat. He loved the art of war, but it wasn't something he'd want to do endlessly. This way, he could at least live amiably while he did his job, take some fun in it, take some pride in it… and if things did get messy, he could pick up the old blade and have himself a slaying. But sometimes he just wasn't in the mood for it. He collected the eight souls into his horn, unlocked the dagger holster off the dead man's leg, put it on his own, untethered his horse, donned his cloak, kissed the damsel one last time, and head off into the night.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. This work continued for some time before its' perks and pleasures began to mute. It soon became a chore for Cen, because it was too easy! Sure, he had to make a run for it, and had cycled through several stolen horses in order to do so, find a new country here and there, but the fulfillment of the initial sparks he had fanned began to smoke and flicker out. He decided it was slaying season again. To make things worth his time, he decided to just walk into the town with his sword drawn. No hood, no cloak, no mask, just his rapier, his horn, and his mail. Whistling as he went. A thrust here, a stab there, and soon his footsteps were a crimson trail. He came upon a temple in the middle of the place. Cen had always stayed far from those places, even before he met Behemoth. The people within were always so stingy, predictable, and uptight. But this time, something different happened. The temple came to him! Rather, something came to him. In a flash, he felt heated steel upon his person, almost cleaving through his thrusting sword. A faithful, a knight came from the temple. But his blade was more than mundane, and his furor was more than that of a simpleton townie hero. This man had powers. When they manifested, Cen's endowments also came into the light. His aura began to trickle darkness to contrast the knight's sheen. But Cen was caught offguard, and the knight pressed his advantage. Cen had to withdraw or be slain! As he ran, the knight shouted a holy word against him, and Cen could feel his back and his hair burning- burning not with the same flame of Behemoth's lair, but this one, so white hot, so much more encompassing, so much more painful. Cen was afraid for the first time in a long time. He rode his horse for three straight days without stopping, going back down the long road, past the old cruel lordship, back even into the lands he performed in at first. He composed himself, and decided that trouping would be safer for awhile. He'd been burned enough in the other world, he didn't need to be burned in this one as well. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. After much labor, Cen had finally filled the horn with souls. As it filled, an arcane seal manifested on it, and transported Cen back to the smoggy lair of Behemoth. "Well done, faithful slave." The demon growled. He took the horn, and drank of it. As he did, Behemoth grew larger, the souls nourishing and growing him like a steroid. When he was done, he threw the horn back at the boy, and said. "Well, go on! You think you're finished working?" And Cen was thrusted back into the world of the living, yet again. But this time he pondered possibilities. What if the horn was mine to drink? Can I just, take souls for myself? If I did, I could… grow stronger, and... kill Behemoth. This time, he went into the world with renewed purpose. He meant to learn the complexities of the rituals he had been taught, and to learn how to drink for himself the substance of the souls of men. Maybe… if I find the right soul… I can drink it, and make it my new one. Maybe, I can be, free? He set off with lavish vehemence to test his theories, and sought knowledge on the matter. Eventually he did find that the rituals were vastly too complex for his threshold of magic. Behemoth had only taught him how to collect the souls of the recently dead, and to put them into the horn. The magic had even been limited by the horn. He only found solace in the short moments he held the souls in his hands before he poured them into the horn. But he had a new idea: If I can get Behemoth to open the horn, and then, somehow, steal it from him, I could drink it, and have enough strength at least to get away from him… And if I bring the horn with me, then I could start to collect for myself, until I'm strong enough to face him as he is. If I fail… well, I've gone to hell before. The once young Cen had filled the horn again, this time in half the time spent. He meant to drink from it. He gave it to Behemoth, and as the demon opened it, and reared his head to receive the souls into his gullet, Cen threw his sword into the demon's eye! To behemoth this was only a mild distraction, but it did make him drop the horn. Cen had the end game in his sights. He sprinted to the horn, and lay hold of it as a cup, and did drink of the human elixir! The ecstasy he felt was like nothing he had ever known in all his life. He felt rejuvenated. He felt actually alive. It was as if he could see colors for the first time in years. He felt stronger. But Behemoth was stronger. He took the man in his massive hand once again, with furious countenance. "YOU MEAN TO USURP ME, WHELP? YOU ARE MY WORM, AND NOTHING ELSE. YOU WISH ME TO DESTROY YOU? I'LL NOT GIVE YOU THAT SOLACE. YOUR EMPLOYMENT IS FAR FROM OVER, CEN MEHEV. " Cen had failed. What proceeded was much like the first time he was conditioned to the demon's service. Long years of torture, physical, mental, spiritual. If Cen did regain a soul in his imbibing, the demon had once again ripped every drop of it out of him. After these years he was once again bone dry hollow. When the demon had deemed him fit for service, he gave Cen back his effects, and also two 'helpers'. "These imps will watch you when you sleep, when you wake, when you eat, when you drink, when you defecate, when you speak, and when you kill. If you do anything, irksome, they will tell me, and I will find you. You do not want me to find you, scum. Get to work." And Cen was released into the world of the living a third time, this time the least free he had ever been. His mind was consumed with finding a way out. Whatever sinful joys he had experienced before were now worthless. Whatever horrid hope or solace he once had in rebellion was quashed. But now it's all he can think of. Psyche:
External Face: He is a person who exudes personality, with much talent and capacity for wit. He will make friends with people, help them, and feign care for them. When he has these friends, sometimes he will ask them to do favors for him which seem weird or odd. He is a masterful lutist with the most beautiful voice. All the songs he sings are love songs of the most passionate caliber. He is quick to help people he deems friends or companions, and invest in them personally to gain trust with them and influence over them. He will also do things which other people would see as abrasive at times, or just plain selfish, seemingly out of nowhere. He emphasizes personal privacy, and when it is attacked, he will defend himself first with intellectual arguments, then with subtle threats. When he is slighted by a person, he will remember, and wait. And at the right moment, he will exact his vengeance upon them in secret. Internal Soul: He has had his soul taken away. He is consumed with apathy, longing, loneliness, and envy. He has no soul! Because he has no soul, he cannot feel positive emotions, like empathy or love, which is his deepest desire to gain. The closest thing to emotions he can feel are base rushes of adrenaline and the pleasure of sex, battle, and ENVY. He is filled with envy of those who have what he considers a 'full life', those who have love, or those who 'have it all together'. Envy is the chink in his mask which makes him break his cover of false compassion and altruism. Has his qualms with status-quo and 'the way things are done', because before, when he did have a soul, he acted in compliance to that way, and was slighted by the world for it, and lost everything. He feels bound by social norms, standards, and rules. He believes them to be things instated to control people. He believes he needs power in order to survive, and believes he doesn't have enough of it, so he will control people to try and gain it, so he can survive. In truth, he is a liar, a murderer, a seducer, a manipulator, and completely self-absorbed. At his deepest core, he only desires to feel empathy and compassion of true companions and lovers, and for what is now broken to one day become whole.
Stats:
Init. +3, Senses Perception +5 DEFENSE AC 18, Touch 13, Flat-footed 14 HP 15 Fort +3, Ref +5, Will +3 OFFENSE Speed 30 ft Melee: +1 Rapier +9 (1d6+4) STATISTICS Str 9 Dex 16 Con 12 Int 14 Wis 12 Cha 20 BAB +4 CMB +3, CMD 16 FEATS 1- Weapon Focus: Rapier H- Fencing Grace Gestalt Class Features:
Antipaladin/Swashbuckler Gestalt 1 Antipaladin Class Features
Detect Good (Sp)At will, an antipaladin can use detect good, as the spell. An antipaladin can, as a move action, concentrate on a single Item or individual within 60 feet and determine if it is good, learning the strength of its aura as if having studied it for 3 rounds. While focusing on one individual or object, the antipaladin does not detect good in any other object or individual within range. Smite Good (Su)Once per day, an antipaladin can call out to the dark powers to crush the forces of good. As a swift action, the antipaladin chooses one target within sight to smite. If this target is good, the antipaladin adds his Charisma bonus (if any) on his attack rolls and adds his antipaladin level on all damage rolls made against the target of his smite. If the target of smite good is an outsider with the good subtype, a good-aligned dragon, or a good creature with levels of cleric or paladin, the bonus to damage on the first successful attack increases to 2 points of damage per level the antipaladin possesses. Regardless of the target, smite good attacks automatically bypass any DR the creature might possess. In addition, while smite good is in effect, the antipaladin gains a deflection bonus equal to his Charisma modifier (if any) to his AC against attacks made by the target of the smite. If the antipaladin targets a creature that is not good, the smite is wasted with no effect. The smite good effect remains until the target of the smite is dead or the next time the antipaladin rests and regains his uses of this ability. At 4th level, and at every three levels thereafter, the antipaladin may smite good one additional time per day, as indicated on Table: Antipaladin, to a maximum of seven times per day at 19th level. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Swashbuckler Class Features
Critical Hit with a Light or One-Handed Piercing Melee Weapon: Each time the swashbuckler confirms a critical hit with a light or one-handed piercing melee weapon, she regains 1 panache point. Confirming a critical hit on a helpless or unaware creature or a creature that has fewer Hit Dice than half the swashbuckler's character level doesn't restore panache. Killing Blow with a Light or One-Handed Piercing Melee Weapon: When the swashbuckler reduces a creature to 0 or fewer hit points with a light or one-handed piercing melee weapon attack while in combat, she regains 1 panache point. Destroying an unattended object, reducing a helpless or unaware creature to 0 or fewer hit points, or reducing a creature that has fewer Hit Dice than half the swashbuckler's character level to 0 or fewer hit points doesn't restore any panache. Deeds Swashbucklers spend panache points to accomplish deeds. Most deeds grant the swashbuckler a momentary bonus or effect, but some provide longer-lasting effects. Some deeds remain in effect while the swashbuckler has at least 1 panache point, but do not require expending panache to be maintained. A swashbuckler can only perform deeds of her level or lower. Unless otherwise noted, a deed can be performed multiple successive times, as long as the swashbuckler has or spends the required number of panache points to perform the deed. Derring-Do (Ex): At 1st level, a swashbuckler can spend 1 panache point when she makes an Acrobatics, Climb, Escape Artist, Fly, Ride, or Swim check to roll 1d6 and add the result to the check. She can do this after she makes the check but before the result is revealed. If the result of the d6 roll is a natural 6, she rolls another 1d6 and adds it to the check. She can continue to do this as long as she rolls natural 6s, up to a number of times equal to her Dexterity modifier (minimum 1). Dodging Panache (Ex): At 1st level, when an opponent attempts a melee attack against the swashbuckler, the swashbuckler can as an immediate action spend 1 panache point to move 5 feet; doing so grants the swashbuckler a dodge bonus to AC equal to her Charisma modifier (minimum 0) against the triggering attack. This movement doesn't negate the attack, which is still resolved as if the swashbuckler had not moved from the original square. This movement is not a 5-foot step; it provokes attacks of opportunity from creatures other than the one who triggered this deed. The swashbuckler can only perform this deed while wearing light or no armor, and while carrying no heavier than a light load. Opportune Parry and Riposte (Ex): At 1st level, when an opponent makes a melee attack against the swashbuckler, she can spend 1 panache point and expend a use of an attack of opportunity to attempt to parry that attack. The swashbuckler makes an attack roll as if she were making an attack of opportunity; for each size category the attacking creature is larger than the swashbuckler, the swashbuckler takes a –2 penalty on this roll. If her result is greater than the attacking creature's result, the creature's attack automatically misses. The swashbuckler must declare the use of this ability after the creature's attack is announced, but before its attack roll is made. Upon performing a successful parry and if she has at least 1 panache point, the swashbuckler can as an immediate action make an attack against the creature whose attack she parried, provided that creature is within her reach. Swashbuckler's Finesse At 1st level, a swashbuckler gains the benefits of the Weapon Finesse feat with light or one-handed piercing melee weapons, and she can use her Charisma score in place of Intelligence as a prerequisite for combat feats. This ability counts as having the Weapon Finesse feat for purposes of meeting feat prerequisites. Skills:
Acrobatics:+5 Bluff:+9 Diplomacy+5 Disguise+5 Intimidate:+9 Perception:+5 Perform:+9 Sense Motive:+5 Stealth:+5 Languages:Common, Elven, Abyssal. Live Inventory:
Coin 15 GP Gear
Misc
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