Dragos Vaako's page

The power of a antipaladin’s aura of evil is equal to her antipaladin level..

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At will, an antipaladin can use detect good as the spell. As a move action, she can focus on an object or person within 60 feet and determine if it’s good, learning the strength of its aura as if having studied it for 3 rounds. While focusing on one object, she cannot detect good on any other object or person in range.

As a swift action, add Cha bonus to attack rolls and adds her antipaladin level to all damage rolls made against a single good target. If target is an good outsider with the good type, good dragon, or good cleric or paladin, the bonus on the first attack increase to 2 points per paladin level. Smite good automatically bypasses DR, regardless of the creature’s type. She also gains a deflection bonus equal to Charisma modifier to her AC against attacks made by target. If the target is not good, the smite is wasted with no effect. Smite good lasts until the target is dead or the next time the antipaladin rests.

Beginning at 2nd level, an antipaladin surrounds his hand with a fiendish flame, causing terrible wounds to open on those he touches. Each day he can use this ability a number of times equal to 1/2 his antipaladin level + his Charisma modifier. As a touch attack, an antipaladin can cause 1d6 points of damage for every two antipaladin levels he possesses. Using this ability is a standard action that does not provoke attacks of opportunity.

Alternatively, an antipaladin can use this power to heal undead creatures, restoring 1d6hit points for every two levels the antipaladin possesses. This ability is modified by any feat, spell, or effect that specifically works with the lay on hands paladin class feature. For example, the Extra Lay On Hands feat grants an antipaladin 2 additional uses of the touch of corruption class feature.

At 2nd level, an antipaladin gains a bonus equal to his Charisma bonus (if any) on all saving throws.

At 3rd level, the powers of darkness make an antipaladin a beacon of corruption and disease. An antipaladin does not take any damage or take any penalty from diseases. He can still contract diseases and spread them to others, but he is otherwise immune to their effects.

At 3rd level, an antipaladin radiates a palpably daunting aura that causes all enemies within 10 feet to take a –4 penalty on saving throws against fear effects. Creatures that are normally immune to fear lose that immunity while within 10 feet of an antipaladin with this ability. This ability functions only while the antipaladin remains conscious, not if he is unconscious or dead.

At 3rd level, and every three levels thereafter, an antipaladin can select one cruelty. Each cruelty adds an effect to the antipaladin’s touch of corruption ability. Whenever the antipaladin uses touch of corruption to deal damage to one target, the target also receives the additional effect from one of the cruelties possessed by the antipaladin. This choice is made when the touch is used. The target receives a Fortitude save to avoid this cruelty. If the save is successful, the target takes the damage as normal, but not the effects of the cruelty. The DC of this save is equal to 10 + 1/2 the antipaladin’s level + the antipaladin’s Charisma modifier.
Sickened: The target is sickened for 1 round per level of the antipaladin.

When an antipaladin reaches 4th level, he gains the supernatural ability to channel negative energy like a cleric. Using this ability consumes two uses of his touch of corruption ability. An antipaladin uses his level as his effective cleric level when channeling negative energy. This is a Charisma-based ability.

At 5th level, a knight of the sepulcher gains a +2 bonus on saving throws against mind-affecting effects, death effects, and poison. He is harmed by positive energy effects and healed by negative energy effects as though he were undead, although negative energy effects that don’t heal undead (such as enervation) affect him normally. The knight of the sepulcher has a 25% chance of ignoring critical hits and the bonus damage from sneak attacks as though he were wearing armor of light fortification.
This ability replaces the fiendish boon ability.

Dragos Vaako is a weapon that wants a target. A weapon that is not used, is useless. If he is not fighting, or dealing with battles and matters of conquest, he is useless. The Midnight Lord teaches that useless and weak things must be expunged from the world to reveal the true beauty and perfect form within. If he is useless, Dragos must be removed. It is the only way to bring order and beauty to the world. From birth, these lessons have been drilled into Dragos' mind; First, at the stern feet of his father, Vitomir Mislav, an able-bodied warrior and head of House Mislav, a distant and tiny off shot of House Orlovsky with a fief in the crags and mountains near Claw Point. He also learned His father taught him the importance of strength and power. The weak serve the strong, and the strong only command respect for as long as they are strong. A man’s word, once given, must never be broken or called into question. To do otherwise, would be weakness, and invite others to question his resolve and intent. The Dark Prince demands that his servants be held in high regard, so that they can more easily spread his beauteous words of peace and love. Dragos learned the rudiments of swordplay and horsemanship, and underwent trials designed by his father to test moral resolve and character--tests that always pitted a relief or avoidance of punishment versus immediate self-aggrandizement and gain.

His mother, a priestess of Zon-Kuthon, guided Dragos spiritually. She nursed his wounds when he was hurt, and taught him to remove his weaknesses and imperfections through the Rite of Mortification. He was a flawed being, just as Zon-Kuthon was once, long, long ago. But, by confronting his failures,and excising them, he could improve himself, and become a sublime being. After all, Zon-Kuthon had followed the same path. No one could hope to achieve the perfection the Midnight Lord had attained; after all, no mortal could endure the steps needed. But, that was a mortification that mortals needed to endure, themselves. Any mortification, or pain, no matter how small, was a joyful act, and showed dedication of purpose to self-perfection.

He loved his parents very much, and they him. But, as he grew older, they realized that they needed to experience a great mortification: he needed to be sent away to be trained in the warrior’s arts that he might deliver the love of the Midnight Lord throughout the world. He cried bitter tears of sorrow, fearing that he would never see his beloved parents again.

They sent him to a small stronghold hidden far from the prying eyes of greater Brevoy. There, the priests and temple soldiers worked him night and day. He was a lump of iron in their hands, and they would forge him into steel. He endured months abandoned in the wilderness, learning to survive on his own meager knowledge of nature, and sheer willpower. The mind is a weapon, and must be shaped accordingly. In the wild, he learned to impress his will upon the simple beasts of the chaotic nature around him, bringing them to heel and serving him as he saw fit. He demonstrated his mastery by breaking a fierce stallion to his will. It took several days, but, eventually, he succeeded, and Joyful Noise has served him faithfully ever since.

Then, he was brought back to the stronghold, and drilled constantly in tactics and warfare. Every day brought new successes, and new chances to make joyful noises to to glory Zon-Kuthon. Each day was a host of mortifications and moments of self-improvement. He became a tactician and warrior, skilled in countless arms. His trainers taught him to impress his will upon his foes, manipulating them into acts of recklessness. Even as he became skilled in manipulation, his trainers taught him the beauty of serving his betters. He was a weapon, weapons need a hand to wield them.

When he was ready, he was taken into a dark room and given a celise to wrap about his right arm, as a symbol not only of his devotion to the Dark Prince, but also to show that his future liege, like the celise, would entwine about Dragos, and guide his hand. His arm and weapons were but extensions of his liege’s will. It may be painful, all good things are, but he would endure, and serve faithfully and well. Then, he cut out his own last name from the record books of the temple, and took the name Vaako, so that he could not profit from the glories of his old House, but needed to succeed on his own.

He left the temple and found a man named Kazimir who he deemed worthy of his service. Kazimir was a brutal highwayman, making profit from the merchants who brave the barren roads of Brevoy. And, while Kazimir’s band were successful, Dragos was not pleased. Battle was in his blood, the endless clamor of conflict was music to his ears. But, Kazimir refused to pledge himself to a greater lord, or even to take a mercenary contract. Still, Dragos was thankful of the mortification. He needed to learn to serve without question. He had pledged his loyalty to Kazimir, and so he needed to be corrected so he would learn his lesson. The pain he felt was demonstration of his weakness. He was selfish. Eventually, Kazimir’s own men betrayed him. Dragos fought as many as he could, but, sadly, he was not enough, and Kazimir fell. Those few who remained did not last long beneath Dragos' fury.

Wealthy, but masterless, Dragos returned to his parents. They welcomed him with open arms, and feasted his return. For the first week, he forgot his misery entirely. But, the Midnight Lord was gracious and returned his pains to him threefold over, soon enough. He was despondent, unconsolable. After all, what good is a dog without a hand to hold his leash? His loving parents even feared for his life. They prayed to the Dark Prince, and made offerings of mortification and sweetmeats. And, Zon-Kuthon blessed Dragos with a vision!

Awaken, my loyal servant. The Master calls to you. The time has come to release me from my infernal prison of Gallowspire. For this task, I am calling forth my most capable of subjects both near and far to do what must be done. Enter the portal, and join with the others..."

Dragos' heart leapt with glee as he bolted upright in horror from his sound sleep. He made many offerings of joyful noises to the Dark Prince, wracked with happiness at finding a new master to serve, but agonized that it was not one of the faithful. The Whispering Tyrant called him, it was the Midnight Lord’s will that Dragos serve him faithfully. It was the greatest of mortifications to serve someone who defied life and suffered existence in unchanging imperfect unlife. But, it was a great honor to obey someone whose power defied the gods and brought all the world to its knees before him. He would serve the Whispering Tyrant faithfully in the Midnight Lord’s name, until the Dark Prince called upon him to mortify himself and betray his master for another. Until then, he would serve, and bring war to the Tyrant’s enemies, and deliver unto them the truth and beauty of the Dark Prince’s words.

A dark figure in blackened armor and tattered cloak strides into the inn. Dragos is an imposing man. He stands nearly six feet tall and walks with the sure grace and measured steps of a seasoned warrior. He has broad shoulders and thick arms, and he gazes intensely from beneath a dark helm His armor is covered in cruel spines and razors. The plates and bars of his scale mail mold perfectly to the contours of his body and bend perfectly with his every movement like a second skin. A spiked shield is strapped to his back and a long sword hangs from his belt.

Without speaking, he pulls his helm off and sets it on the table, revealing pale skin and piercing hazel eyes. His hair is a dark black gelled into severe spikes on the top of his head. The sides of his head have been shaved down to the skin, and the top of his hair grows down to a mane at his shoulders. He waves the barmaid over and speaks softly to her for a moment.

”Beer, please, and some of your roast with bread.” His voice is deep and commanding, but quiet. It’s the kind of voice that carries across a room without needing to be raised. It is the voice of a man who is confident and sure in himself. He is someone who can do great violence, or prevent it. The maid blushes, whether in fear or delight is uncertain, perhaps even to herself. Either way, she gives a slight curtsy and scurries off, returning moments later with his food. For a moment, the hard lines of his mouth curve into a smile as he nods his thanks to the servant girl. His hazel sparkle with mirth, and she giggles into another curtsy before departing. Dragos’ eyes freeze as she scurries away, the hard edges return, and he methodically eats his food. He tosses a coin to the singer on the stage and asks for a particularly raunchy ditty about a horse, a knight, a sword, and a maiden.

Dragos in armor
Vaako without armor

Dragos needs a master. A lifetime growing up in a Kuthite household has taught him the joys of complete subjugation to a stronger force. He welcomes the mortification of being denied what he wants simply because someone stronger than him has willed that he must go without. His heart yearns for the battlefield. He wishes to bathe in the blood of his enemies and be deafened by their anguished screams and the clang of and din of battle. He wants to tear down the great works of his foes and scour their very existence from the face of the world. He wants to paint the sky in flame and blot the sun with the smoke from charnel fires. He wants someone to hold his leash and restrain him from battle. He will love the carnage all the more when his master finally allows him to run.

Despite his lust for destruction, Dragos loves children, and is always kind to them. He genuinely wants them to be happy and to live long and fruitful lives. He donates money and time to orphanages in the hopes that he can find some that will be receptive to the truths of Zon Kuthon’s words and become warriors of his faith to spread more mortification upon the world. When he can, he educates them to be strong in body and spirit, so that they may endure the many mortifications of the world to better appreciate the boundless beauty of this world.

Dragos wears a celise and whips himself every night with a flail to purge the weaknesses from his body. When he speaks out of turn, he swallows small acids or hot coals. Once, he sewed his eyes shut for a month because he was curious and read a holy text of an impure faith. He catalogues and measures each failure and pays them in kind with mortifications of the flesh or spirit to strengthen his resolve and to better appreciate his beautiful successes. After all, children are the future.

Dragos is quick to laugh, and loves a good joke. Many would consider his humor dark, but he enjoys bawdy tavern songs as much as the next weary traveler. He always has a spare coin for a tavern bard. The dirtier and more comical the song, the better. Despite his humor, he prefers to cultivate a reserved and stoic manner. He needs to be dignified and respected so that he can better spread the word and love of Zon Kuthon.

He is loyal to his friends, and will defend them to the death. But, he has no qualms with killing people who get in his way, or to make an example of his strength. After all, allies and underlings are essential to his goals. Without those, he cannot succeed.

Yridhrennor laughs at the antics of the motley-clad fools. Armasse was his favorite time of year! The revelry and excitement, the feats of strength, the daring! It was like those stories he had read as a child.

"It's just like those fairy tales you read before going to sleep." A raven guffaws as it swirls in the air and lands on his shoulder.

"They're not fairy stories, Falfaeren, they're histories." Yridhrennor mutters.

"The Blessed Island of Sahu... There is no such place! It's fiction, thus fairy stories!" The bird stamps a foot on the elf's shoulder and puffs his feathers.

"Sahu was an island nation, a veritable paradise, by all accounts. The people were happy and educated, blessed by a verdant tropical climate teeming with life, and powerful necromancer kings."

"And, where is this Sahu now? Hunh? Has anyone ever seen it? The bird pecks Yridhrennor on the nose when the elf begins to speak. "Outside of your precious books."

"Well, uh.. that is.. um... no. I mean.. not within living memory--an elf's memory, that is." Yridhrennor gives the raven a sheepish look. Then, he brightens. "But, no one's ever actually seen Azlant, either. Not anyone currently alive. And, it's real. Or was. Either way just because it's only been recorded in histories doesn't mean it's only a myth."

The raven ruffles his feathers, clearly upset at having lost the debate, and begins to preen himself. Yridhrennor shakes his head and keeps walking. Armasse! Every time he saw it, it was with fresh eyes. Humans were so astounding that they could make old traditions new with each passing year! Why, this year alone, the dancers were completely different--with new routines and motley! The singers as well... He blushes and slows his steps near a troupe of bards performing a most indecent song about a paladin and the special love he felt for his lady love, his sword, and his valiant steed--all of which seemed to be named some form of Mirabelle. It's quite bawdy, and he isn't sure about some of the mechanics of the details, but the singers do paint an entertaining picture. Yridhrennor doesn't approve of such things himself, Uncle would never tolerate such 'low art' as these camp songs. And, there's something quite irreverent about the song. Especially on a day celebrating the efforts of people like poor, confused (very confused) Sir Thawndryn. But, even the other crusaders are laughing and slapping each other on the back at the paladin's antics. So, it can't be quite so bad. Can it?

Humans are very strange. Levity is showing respect. But, so is solemnity. He'll never understand humans. Uncle says there's no point because humans are too-short lived. Does a mountain try to understand the grass? But, Yridhrennor can't help but be fascinated by them.

His footsteps guide him through the throng, until he stands at the Cathedral steps waiting the beginnings of the ceremony.

Abelard shakes his head, and smiles warmly. The effect is transformative: the scarring around his eyes disappears in laughter lines; it's the smile of someone who enjoys life and sees the joke. "Nuthin to apologise for. Be surprised if you didn't stare some. So - you're a student? Here for research?"

Yridhrennor's blush deepened, until he looked like he'd been burned by the sun. "Th-thank you, um.. no, I'm a student. Um... you said that.. Yes... i... books...study. Learning." He can't help himself, Yridhrennor keeps staring at Abelard. He has the most fascinating eyes. And that smile! No! Stop! You really are acting like a moon-eyed child! Get a grip on yourself. You're 120 years old! You're old enough to be away from Uncle's care, and you're certainly old enough to know better than to moon over the first pair of pretty eyes, and shoulders... and arms... and smiles... and... Stop it!

"You need to forgive my elf, here, good Ablelard. He's far too shy. That is, until you put a few pints of Dwarven ale in him. Then he's... tell me again, what was that dance they do in Qadira? Better yet, could you show us? I know it worked wonders for the men of the Order of the Diamond Sun." Falfaeren titters and pulls on Yridhrennor's hair.

Yridhrennor gasps and seems ready to die, but bursts into a smile as soon Saito speaks.

Saito brightens. "Yes actually, if you could find out who my ancestor is I would greatly be in your debt."

"I can't promise anything, but I will definitely look for you. I may be able to find something in my books, now. I'll just go get them and...' He stops short when he finds that Falfaeren has managed to hook his belt loop around then handle of a food cart. "Then again.. there's the ceremony. I haven't missed on in 120 years. I shouldn't miss one now."

Yridhrennor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavily scarred book. "Let me see.. Ah! Yes! Here!" He points to a passage in the tome that only he can see. "Khisaiyah bint Shazarhrahar, claims in her Monograph of the Malign that these are the weakest and lowest of demonkind... Manes, she terms them. Fascinating! They burst into acid when they're killed! That explains what happened to Saito and Abelard! Isn't that..." He blanches and looks over at the blisters scarring the two warriors. "Oh.. um.. that's unfortunate. We'll definitely need to be more careful when dealing with them. She claims that they're immune to lightning and poison, but strong acids, fire, and even cold can harm them. I have... very little of that."

He stands up and walks towards the others, his nose still firmly planted in his book. Falfaeren sighs and flies in front of him, shooting occasional directions so he doesn't fall.

"Oh, dear.. they.. they apparently are very low in the hierarchy. They're mostly used for sport, slaves, and fodder in the armies." He looks to throw up, but he swallows his gorge and continues. "Fortunately, they're not very intelligent. Khisaiyah says they're nearly mindless. Well, that's something." He smiles and puts his book away, blushing as he realizes how insane he sounded.

"You'll have to forgive Yridhrennor, he sometimes forgets that normal people don't have intimate relations with books." Falfaeren caws and settles on Abelard's shoulder. "Not like you.. you clearly know how to do more than lift a book."

Yridhrennor lets the spell fade from his hold. Greenish-yellow light dribbles from his fingers and evaporates in the air. Instead, before Steave moves towards the bloated halflings in the shadows, Yridhrennor places a hand on the Crusader's back. [

"Réaltaí thuas, a bhfuil solas treoir a thabhairt don díreach trasna na farraigí, foscadh agus garda an laoch uasal ina chúis!" For a brief moment, the cavern ceiling bursts to life as though it were the night sky, a million stars twinkling far above. The stars slowly fall into a shower of soft-glowing white light that fall upon Steave's shoulders. Soon, the crusader is covered in a soft nimbus of glowing white light.

"There, that should help you, a bit. He gives a small grin and firmly grips his staff.

So, that's a heavily flavor-texted protection from evil.

Choot mutters a small prayer to the Destroyer and Fleshripper roars in pain as ghostly claws erupt from his wounds and pull the tattered ends close, stitching together ruined sinew and scaly hide. Whole once more, the beast bends down and begins feeding on the dead orc beside him.

As Choot prays to Zagresh to turn his gaze from Fleshripper, Thoku shackles the healthiest of the dying orcs: a male with a cracked skull and torn ear. Somehow, Nulgreth's strength still fills his ruined body, and the orc clings tenaciously to life. Bound, hand to foot, the cannibal is ready for Choot's stitchwork.

At his command, his ruined slave shambles about the corpses, ripping out tusks and teeth--many of the Twisted Nail file their teeth to pointy fangs, the better to tear through the raw flesh of their favored prey. They should meet his needs, now. The spirit talker takes the tusks and fangs and begins his work: He pulls the ruined flesh on the side of the orc's head tight together, then forces the teeth through, pinching the tear closed. For lesser wounds, he thrusts a dagger into the fire, heating the blade until it glows white hot. Then, he places the blade to the various cuts and punctures about the warrior's form, cauterizing them and sending the mouth-watering scent of burning flesh into the air. The lesser wounds tended to, the Mouth of Zagresh turns to the cloven skull. He pulls it this way and that, testing to see if the brain inside is intact. Else, his efforts are for nought. The eye is ruined, that is clear, it seems his foe's mind is whole. Pity.

Thrull bends down and forces the two sides of the orc's head together. and then tears and rips at the meat about the ruined skull, exposing much of the bone underneath. He stalks away back to the campfire and tosses bits of soft bronze from the bodies into an iron pot he sets in the center. Minutes later, the metal bubbles and flows within the flame. Gingerly, he lifts the pot from the flame and pours the liquid bronze onto the exposed bone. Once more, the scent of charred bone and flesh fill the air. The liquid flows over the bone, working into the fracture and sealing it together; it dribbles into the orc's ruined eye, and the orb bursts as the fluid within boiled to steam. Still, the liquid flows and fills in the socket.

Choot nods to himself as the warrior moans in agony. The Destroyer's slave has little skill with Dretha's craft, but it is enough, today. The warrior is strong. He has been tested, and fought his way free from the hoard of Zagresh. The cannibal will live.

Next, the bone-speaker then extends a hand out towards Thrull and the priest's shadow spreads out from him like water. When it touches the ripped and tattered flesh of a corpse, it draws in to the body like water to a sponge. The corpse's ruined flesh begins to writhe and wriggle like maggots. They tear themselves free from the corpses and slither through the soil to Thrull, crawling over the dead elf's wounds and filling in the great gashes. They fuse with the undead flesh, becoming new muscle and bone, until the undead slave stands whole once more!

A new scent fills the air: orc urine. Good, the cannibal is awake, and he saw the mighty works of Zagresh's power. He will give answer more freely.