Draco Victores's page

Draco had just been kicked out of Lastwall as a 16 year old. He had successfully killed three orcs, claimed an orc hornbow as his reward, and showed the proof of his kills to his superior only to be dismissed from Lastwall. Why? Too aggressive. Too “morally flexible.” His kind, the violent and excitable kind, would never last in the “purity” of the Lastwall environment. Granted, he probably didn’t have to parade the three orc bodies on the back of his horse- but still.

It wasn’t long after that that a lantern guided Draco’s way through the dark of the Belkzen deserts as he began a new, unknown path. It brought him to a particular tattoo parlor in Freedom Town, where he got a tattoo that covered his back appearing just as the lantern. Some odd glowing orb of gold surrounded with a circlet of runes. After it guided him to a tavern in the city where he came across an annoyingly dashing and handsome rogue, “Lucky.” “Lucky” had a disappearing knife to “ooh” and “aaah” the ladies and gentlemen with, occasionally flicking it past Draco’s face for giving him a dirty look. Draco asked if he’d like to try for real- winner take all. The rogue got three cuts into Draco, and Draco put three arrows into the rogue. The rogue died, and “Lucky’s Magic Glove” was his for the taking.

Next the Lantern guided him to that year’s Witchmarket in Varisia. After travelling along with them and learning tales of a “Lantern King”, Draco was grasped at as someone pointed him towards another fey. At first glance she was mesmerizing and beautiful, but Draco shortly realized she was no Fey at all. Instead, at night, she would lead a customer away and feast on their blood from their neck. Draco grinned as he walked in on the act one night, the lantern shining bright outside her tent, and challenged her to take his blood next.

She couldn’t, of course. Her claws cut deep, her teeth certainly drew blood, but once again Draco’s arrows pinned her to the ground and soaked her in the blood she loved so much. A special and shining chain shirt was around her chest. Draco took it and to his surprise learned that it could heal him on command, no spells necessary. He thanked fortune for this great prize and beautiful kill, and waited with the caravan for the lantern to shine again.

Eventually, as the Witchmarket came to an end, the lantern guided Draco across Golarion to the Whisperwoods of Cheliax. Here roared a powerful Cleric of Sarenrae and her followers, warring against Devils who would dare to come out of the woods. Draco drew his bow and felled her followers with ease, dragging them out to her as her fury distracted her from his slaughter. Gaining her attention she flew with great wings of an angel against him, spheres and balls of fire chasing after him as he fired arrows after her. It took a while, and several times he had to rely on his chain shirt to survive it, but she lost in the end. He claimed her wings as his prize and chuckled as he thanked his fortune for the win, struggling to learn how to fly near the woods until the lantern appeared again.

It had been almost a year since the lantern had appeared, so long that once it did Draco almost didn’t recognize it. He swore his back tattoo tingled for but a moment, forcing him to turn around and catch a glimpse of its light. It took him to the coast and asked him to cross the sea. Having mastered how to use his wings he took flight until he found himself caught in a storm. A Druid had seen a barrel too many of oil spill into the sea from the Chelish war boats, and had conjured up a massive wind and storm to dissuade sailors from crossing. It hindered Draco’s flying, so he called out a challenge to the nature lover. It wasn’t long before he found himself fighting vortexes and winds, sharks and snakes, being poisoned and fatigued. He surrendered his bow, strapping it onto his back as he found he could conjure up a sword of force. The Druid could stop him in his tracks quite often- but rarely hurt him enough to hinder recovery. He raged, swimming after the druid with a spell to keep pace. After nearly twenty swings the druid reverted back to its normal humanoid form, and a cracked stone gleamed on her forehead. He plucked it out and placed it into his own, happy to find it made how he could use his powers all the more powerful.

As he rose up to the shore he made a name for himself. The Rahadoum looked at him and muttered “Storm-Ender, Storm-Ender, Storm-Ender.” They celebrated the end of the storms and the lightning, the fires to their boats and the unjourneyable winds. For several months Draco Victores the Storm-Ender partied and celebrated. His boredom ceased for those several months before he fell back into the melancholy of a life without challenge.

Finally an answer came. This time the lantern guided someone else to him- a beautiful Arcanist who weaved spells with every breath. They were quick- should would give a flick of light into his face and pelt him with missiles in a matter of seconds. Draco grinned- it was his turn to die. This was it. This was the game the Lantern wanted to play all along.

He used a gift from one of his fans- a wand of shield - to negate the magic missiles. The Arcanist began to teleport about him every which way, faster than he could fly, faster than he could climb, faster than he could swim. Fireballs surrounded him as a wall of fire encased him, trapped. Once she found a spot she liked, a wall of wind encased her, his arrows flicked away as if they were weightless. Draco laughed as the arrows fell away- a real challenge. All he could do was suffer the spells, resist her attempts to dominate him, and manage to dodge and heal through what he could.

And he did just that. Soon the Arcanist became frustrated, pulling out wands and creating pits in an attempt to slow him. One step after the other, spell by spell he began to flick them away. He felt a surge of energy and resistance overcome him as he marched, his blood curdling smile and lustful eyes falling on this new challenger. Ice spears pinned him to the ground as she flicked through her many books for spells, but he tore them out and kept on marching.

Exhausted, out of spells, and nothing but a magical sword to fight with, Draco knew it was time. He took out his bow and fired arrow after arrow as she tried to teleport away. The City of Azir was quiet for almost an entire day as they fought, resource after resource expended. In the end he won just as he won his first kill- the blunt end of a hornbow, his quiver completely empty. In her hands was a magical rod that fit perfectly in his “Lucky” glove. He laughed in the middle of the desert’s cool night air, hoisting the rod into the air as he exclaimed, “I WON! HAHAHAHAHA! BEHOLD, AZIR, BEHOLD! NO LONGER AM I DRACO VICTORES, THE STORM-ENDER! BUT HEAR ME, I AM DRACO VICTORES THE LEGEND ENDER! AHAHAHAHA!”

He returned to waiting in Azir for the lantern to bring him another opponent. Instead, it returned to its old habits, guiding him away from Azir with a great good bye and into the unknown, what would soon be him going face to face with the Qlippoth Crisis abound.

His next great challenge.

Standing at 6’10, Draco needs to do very little to make an appearance. Not only is he muscle bound, but rather beautiful in a rugged sense as a half-orc. His sheer force of personality allows him to intimidate the lesser and common folk with ease, while those who are mighty and strong he’d rather spar with or kill instead. Long jet black hair crowns his deep green skinned face and ocean blue eyes.

He wears a chain shirt with basic tunic made pants, a hornbow around his shoulders and no other weapons apparent on him. He makes no attempt to impress, aside from a glove he earned in one of his first conquests on his left hand, nothing but word of mouth itself would tell someone he is Draco Victores the Legend Ender.

Draco Victores is Chaotic Evil, but not Chaotic Evil Stupid. His simple goal, having been rejected from the Lawful Good Paladins of Lastwall at an early age, is to grow his power. He does no specific rituals, though he does always thank the Lantern for his good fortune when it comes across.

Gold, food, families, life- these are just things people tell themselves matter. All that truly matters is power. Should the Lantern guide him to a Qlippoth he will happily slaughter them. A Sarenrae Cleric? The same. He is unbiased in his murderous intent, simply enjoying the game board the Lantern King has set him across. The lantern narrated in his lore can be seen as the "invisible hand" of a GM, had a GM put forward sessions for the previous 14 levels.

Up to this point, from every great foe he has fought, he has collected a token that represents his victory. A Glove of Storing, Wings of Flying, Rod of Quicken Lesser, etc. etc. While this may not continue in the future, he enjoys using these as “proofs” of his record as the Legend Ender.