Dembe of Lost Tears's page

Dembe is a serious, often morbidly and bluntly so, character on a mission of redemption. He was a former Red Mantis Assassin in-training who balked on his first mission and now seeks atonement (I had heard that Red Mantis were involved in this AP, so it sounded like an appropriate background). The obedience to Damerrich, the god he now worships, requires the recitation of the names of every person you have ever killed along with your judgment of your actions. As part of his penance for his misdeeds in the past, Dembe is returning to the Mwangi Expanse to discover the names of the people that he killed there. I figured I could perhaps work with the GM to determine who these people are that he is looking to learn about so that his journey may be tied-into the story more closely. That said, he is not so single-minded that he cannot be drawn into the main storyline.

Dembe has lived a life of escapes. Born to a tribe of rainkin half-orcs on the border of the Mwangi Expanse and Sargava, he spent his childhood as a shaman's apprentice learning to walk the jungle, to read it's signs, and to speak them in turn. To an outsider accustomed to the maze of urbanity, this feat sounds like an accomplishment; in truth, all he had to learn was three signs, an ordered rhythm: hunt, kill, eat. As long as you were good at the first two, you would be allowed the third. But in the realm of the Gorilla King of Ugaro, someone was always better. When the charau-ka razed his village and burned everyone he had known for fifteen years, he was only good enough to kill one. He ran, and escaped for the first time.

He ran far, through the mountain pass to the north and across the plains. Whispered hatred of the Chelaxians in Sargava made him halt for a moment as the city came into view, but his fear of the demons drove him forward. He smiled when a Mwangi man opened the door he knocked upon, but he frowned when he saw the man wore Chelaxian clothes. The man asked where Dembe was from and why he was so tired. “I ran from my village,” Dembe said. Ubutu asked where his village was, and Dembe described it as best he could. The man smiled, the glint of gold on his teeth. “My name is Ubutu. We are in Crown's End. The place you describe is by a tributary of the River of Lost Tears. It is at least 25 miles away. I can use someone like you.” Something about how he said “use” made Dembe want to run again, but his feat would no longer move, and Ubutu's men carried Dembe in. For a year, they whipped him as he ran, riding next to him. They wanted him to run for Ubutu in something called the Sargavan Chalice so that he could win and Ubutu would have even more riches. When Dembe didn't run, he fought. Ubutu smoked his pesh, drank his wine, and took his slave women to bed while Dembe killed men in the arena. Ubutu had to keep him strong and feed him well if he was to win, so Dembe waited.

On the day of the race, there would be no men with whips riding beside him. When the day of the race came, he ran into the jungle as he was asked. He knew the jungle well from his training, and he circled back around to the docks. Ubutu must have used some magic to watch him, as his men were there looking for him, but Dembe remembered enough of hunting to evade their notice. He stowed on the first ship he saw, not realizing it would be leaving within the hour. Thus, he escaped a second time.

He hid in the hold for weeks. He had learned to make himself small and quiet during his time with Ubutu. Even a seven-foot-tall half-orc can be small and quiet, if he knows how. He lived off rats and condensation as much as he could, only taking food when it was absolutely necessary, so as not to alert the crew. The contagions of the rats were more than his body could handle, and he became feverish, his condition worsening until he finally collapsed, surely dead.

He awoke in a room to the sea's gentle rocking. He was bound to a chair with rope, and his hands and legs were held with the finest shackles he had ever seen. A Chelaxian woman leaned on the windowsill, the lithe muscles of her back and arms apparent even in her loose blouse. Two men in black and red stood at either side of him.

“Leave us,” she said, and the men left. She did not turn around as she spoke.

“I knew you were there from the moment you crawled on board,” she said, “I know every rat you ate, every puddle of water, and every grain of bread you stole.”

Dembe felt death approaching.

She laughed. “And none of the others noticed you. You could teach them much.” He could hear the smile behind her words. She turned around. She had a single lock of red hair running down the left side of her face like a blade. Two swords with blades like saws were in her hands, and then they were at his throat. “First, I have two lessons for you: how to die, and how to kill. Which would you like first?”

Dembe said what any reasonable person would. “How...to kill?”

The woman smiled again, and her swords were gone as quickly as they had appeared. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Dembe” he replied.

“Just one name?”

Dembe had never had another name. He knew that other people had second names that said what they did or where they were from. He had never done anything worth a name with his tribe. “Dembe of Lost Tears,” he said.

“A fine name.” She waved a hand and his shackles unhooked and the ropes fell away. “As for me,” she said, “I only have one name that anyone knows. Jakalyn. You may hear the other if you survive your second lesson.”

Thus, Dembe escaped a third time.

Dembe's training in the jungle and with Ubutu gave him no edge in the Crimson Citadel. His blood joined with that every other Red Mantis upon the walls of the Ruby Halls as he was subjected to every endless torture, ravenous beast, and trial of will the High Killers would dare to pit against him, and they are quite daring. His blades became his hands, their sawtooth blades his fingers. He learned how to walk the Path of Blood with the Mantis God. He rarely saw Jakalyn outside of the public occasions—as public as the Crimson Citadel gets, anyways. She smiled at him in a way that she didn't at others, the same way the she did when he answered her question, as though they were both still in that moment on the boat, her swords at his neck. While the other initiates enjoyed the pleasures of the Honey Gardens, Dembe would study. Ubutu smoked pesh, drank wine, and took his slave women to bed, and Dembe would never do like Ubutu. Dembe had no great love of The Mantis God or his worshipers, but he knew of nothing better, and he was not ready to learn how to die. Because of his diligence, the time came for Dembe's final test much sooner for him than others, only four years after he came to the Crimson Citadel.

As typical for this test, he was to accompany a senior assassin on a mission, a wiry blond Chelaxian woman in this case. They did not know each other's names. They were to kill a Chelaxian judge in Egorian to prevent him from ruling against their client. Dembe had killed many men in the Ruby Halls, but those kills were so disconnected from the outside world that they felt unreal. They were to kill a man in his family home, surrounded by his history. The man being a Chelaxian made it easier, and Dembe kept telling himself on the boat to Cheliax that the judge must have ordered the execution of many men and women himself, people that he forgot as soon as he wrote the warrant.

While the woman wore her red and black mantis armor and her swords, Dembe wore peasant clothes and carried no weapon. He was there to observe and assist and to provide a fake witness or even scapegoat if needed. Entering was easy; their client had made sure the evening guards would be indisposed, and they were given a key. Dembe was confused by the interior. He had been told the man was rich, but the barely-lit rooms were purely practical, consisting of nothing but books and ugly, boxy furniture. He had expected lavish accoutrements on-par with stories of the Honey Gardens. Because of his darkvision, Dembe was sent into the man's room first. If he made no signal after several minutes, the woman assassin would know it's clear. The sleeping judge had the severe, thin face of an elderly man, though he was barely middle-aged. As Dembe cleared the room for ambushes or traps, he noticed a hidden panel in the wall. Expecting a hidden bodyguard on the other side, he pressed it.

He saw no guard, but he did see a weapon. He saw dozens of candles burning low in front of a greataxe on a table barely wider than it. The axe's shaft was topped with a white dove. A book with a picture of the same axe rested on the table. Dembe picked up the book and opened it. It seemed to be some kind of holy text from his skim of it. He caught a couple sentences: “You must feel the weight of every swing” and “We carry great weights so that we may learn great strength” and “The hand that passes the sentence should swing the axe” The back of the book gave him pause. A list of names, dates, and manners of death. He felt guilt, so much guilt, as his hand wandered to the axe and he lifted it. He had never felt the weight of an axe before. He always used small spears and nets in Ubutu's arena and small, light weapons in the Ruby Halls. Dembe suddenly remembered the time, and he knew the woman would enter any moment. He turned around and saw her enter, slinking up to the bed. Dembe was upon her in a moment, and the axe swung down. She only surprised for half a moment. She brought her right sabre up to parry, her hand moving to draw her left. Dembe felt the weight of the axe as he brought it over his head. He felt it as her sabre crumpled. He felt it as her skull crumpled, too. He felt the weight of the swing, and it felt right. The judge shot up out of bed, and the room filled with light from a cantrip. Thus, Dembe escaped for the fourth time.

It took only a few small edits for Dembe to change his prepared witness testimony into a tale of common valor, especially with the cooperation of the judge. Dembe had learned some of doctoring crime scenes at the Crimson Citadel, and he tampered with the woman's wounds to make it seem as though they were inflicted with her own weapons so that no one would find the judge's secret. The judge, Draxus Leroung was his name, was happy to shuffle the whole business away quietly when Dembe told him his story. After the guards left, Draxus brought Dembe into his study. “I will not live much longer,” Draxus said, ”My enemies wish me dead no less now than before, and I cannot back down from my duties.” He patted the book with an axe on it. “Anything I have is yours, just name it.”

Dembe knew that the judge was right. He got lucky and would not be able to protect him again. As he considered this, Dembe's eyes fell to the book. Draxus smiled.

“It's yours.” He stood up and walked to the hidden room, emerging with the now-cleaned axe. “You can take this as well. It does me no good here.”

Dembe nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “It shall bear your name.”

Draxus reached up to clasp Dembe's shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes. “That is a great weight to carry. Are you sure you can bear it?”

Dembe smiled for the first time in years, for the first time since the charau-ka burned his life to cinders. “We carry great weights so that we may learn great strength,” he said.

Draxus was dead within the month. For the last ten years, Dembe has wandered Avistan, seeking to learn more about his new faith and to train himself. He needs to be strong. He learned from Draxus's book that those that follow Damerrich—the empyreal lord of executions, judiciousness, and responsibility—must recite the names of those they kill when they do their prayers. For most that find the faith of Damerrich, they content themselves with only speaking the names they know. Dembe has resolved himself to know every name, from those he killed in the arena in Sargava and the Ruby Halls, to even the charau-ka he slew in his village sixteen years ago. He knows that such an endeavor is almost certainly doomed to failure, but he does not care.
He would never escape again.

Dembe of Lost Tears
Half-Orc (rainkin) Inquisitor (Infiltrator, Santified Slayer)/1
LG Medium humanoid (human) (orc)
Init +1 Senses: Perception +6
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Defense
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AC 16, touch 11, flat-footed 15 (+5 armor, +1 Dex)
HP 14 (1d8+3) Current HP: 14
Fort +6 (+8 vs poisons), Ref +3, Will +6
Immune Blue Whinnis Poison
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Offense
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Speed 30 ft. (20 ft. in armor)
Melee Greataxe "Draxus" +3 (1d12+4/x3) or Morningstar +3 (1d8+3/x2)
Ranged Shortbow +1 (1d6/x3)
Inquisitor Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +3)
1st (2/day)—Divine favor, Shield of Faith
0 (at will)—Read Magic, Create Water, Stabilize, Guidance
Domain Justice Inquisition
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Statistics
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Str 16, Dex 13, Con 14, Int 10, Wis 15, Cha 10
Base Atk +0; CMB +3; CMD 14
Feats
Toughness, Endurance
Traits
Boarded in Mediogalti, Almost Human, Fate's Favored
Race Traits
Darkvision, Chain Fighter, Sacred Tattoo, Shaman's Apprentice, Orc Blood
Skills (Background Skills: Knowledge (geography) and Sleight of Hand
Acrobatics +0 (-4 with armor)
Appraise +0
Bluff +4
Climb +3 (-1 with armor)
Diplomacy +4
Disguise +2 (+6 to appear human)
Escape Artist +1 (-3 with armor)
Heal +6
Intimidate +0
Knowledge (geography) +1
Knowledge (religion) +4
Perception +6
Perform +0
Sense Motive +6
Sleight of Hand +2 (-2 in armor)
Stealth +5 (+1 in armor)
Survival +6
Swim +3 (-1 with armor)
Languages Taldane, Orc, Polyglot
Combat Gear
Greataxe, Morningstar, Shortbow, 20 cold iron arrows, 20 blunt arrows, Horn Lamellar
Other Gear
Explorer's Outfit, Waterskin, Crowbar, Earplugs, Flint and Steel, Silk Rope (100 ft), Journal, Pencil x3, Trail Rations (7 days)
Money
1 sp 7 cp

Judicious Force (Su) (2/day): If you or an ally within 10 feet makes a critical threat with a melee or ranged attack, as an immediate action you may add +4 to the confirmation roll. This does not stack with the Critical Focus feat. You may use this ability a number of times per day equal to your Wisdom bonus.

Studied Target (Ex): At 1st level, a sanctified slayer gains the slayer’s studied target class feature. She uses her inquisitor level as her effective slayer level to determine the effects of studied target. This ability replaces judgment 1/day.

Misdirection (Sp): At 1st level, each day when the infiltrator prepares spells, she may choose an alignment. She detects as that alignment as if she had used misdirection on a creature with that alignment (this does not change any divination results about her other than her alignment). This power replaces stern gaze.

Guileful Lore (Ex): At 1st level, the infiltrator’s will is bent toward subterfuge and deception. She adds her Wisdom modifier on Bluff and Diplomacy skill checks in addition to the normal ability score modifiers. This ability replaces monster lore.