About MavroCrunchy Bits:
Mavro "The Snake Charmer"
Male Half-Orc Summoner(Blood God Disciple) 1 NE Medium Humanoid (Human/Orc) Init +1; Perception --------------------
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Special Attacks Summoner Spells Known (CL 1, +1 melee touch, +1 ranged touch):
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Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 12 Feats
O Endurance
Traits
O Ear for Music
Skills
Languages Common, Orc, Goblin, Abyssal, Draconic Combat Gear
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O Sacred Tattoo
O Shaman's Apprentice
O Weapon Familiarity
O Life Link
In addition, the eidolon and the summoner must remain within 100 feet of one another for the eidolon to remain at full strength. If the eidolon is beyond 100 feet but closer than 1,000 feet, its current and maximum hit point totals are reduced by 50%. If the eidolon is more than 1,000 feet away but closer than 10,000 feet, its current and maximum hit point totals are reduced by 75%. If the eidolon is more than 10,000 feet away, it is immediately returned to its home plane. Current hit points lost in this way are not restored when the eidolon gets closer to its summoner, but its maximum hit point total does return to normal. O Blood Feast
At 5th level, when the blood god disciple uses blood feast, he may manifest one 2-point evolution instead of a 1-point evolution. At 9th level, he may manifest up to two evolutions worth a total of 3 evolution points or fewer. At 13th level, he may manifest up to two evolutions worth a total of 4 evolution points or fewer. At 17th level, he may manifest up to three evolutions worth a total of 5 evolution points or fewer. O Eidolon - Aspros
Serpentine --------------------
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Special Attacks --------------------
Base Atk +1; CMB +2; CMD 15 Evolutions bite, climb, reach (bite), tail, tail slap, grab (bite), improved damage (bite) Feats Combat Reflexes Skills (C)Bluff,
Biography - Short Version:
Mavro was born to the "Iron" tribe of orcs in the Savage wastes from a human mother raped and killed at the hands of the savage raiders. Mavro was raised to be the man who would summon an aspect of the tribe's blood god and work to overthrow the the Talingarde regime. Never happy in his position, Mavro would take long walks in the forest, where he happened upon a group of merchants, one of whom played an instrument that inspired Mavro. The merchants were all killed by a giant snake and Mavro used their reading materials to educate himself on philosophy. He took up the string instrument and taught himself how to play it, growing forever attached to it.
Years later, Marvo was finally able to summon the aspect of the blood god in a form similar to that of the giant serpent that devoured the merchants so many years ago. Marvo was convinced that he needed to escape the barbarity of his tribe and so when the tribal leadership decided they wanted to launch the attack on an important Talingarde ciy, Mavro made sure they went even though he obviously wasn't ready for the task at hand. Right before the ritual to summon his god's aspect could be completed, Mavro's favorite item, his instrument was found by Hoi, his shaman master. He told Marvo that it was his seed that impregnated his mother and that he was going to kill Mavro and start over again. In his rage, Mavro summoned his mind's creature which began to feed on Hoi. The experience made Mavro begin to grow bestial fangs not unlike a snake's, but the famed witch hunter Sir Balin of Karfeld discovered the plot at the last moment and killed the rest of the orks, taking Mavro in for custody. Mavro had all his preconceived notions of fairness and enlightenment shattered during his trial when the jury's fear of him made them sentence him to death by burning without listening to his arguments. He was sent to Branderscar prison awaiting execution and as the months toiled on he swore revenge against the society of Talingarde which spurned him. Biography - Long Version:
Gods of Blood and Iron
“You wanna find the head of ya momma ova there little charmer,” those of his tribe asked Mavro when he was very young. Those were the days where he still cried for her, asking where she was and what happened to her, why she wasn’t there with him. “Looksie over there,” they said. “See the spikes? See there, one of those heads is ya mommie’s. None of us can figya it out. All humies look the same to us, but c’mon, you see if ya can find ‘er.” He had looked for hours and he had looked for days, but all he saw were the emaciated stinking fly-ridden and crow scoured craniums, and none looked like the scrawny, ill-fed runt of a half-breed that Mavro saw when he peered into the stagnant pools and ponds of the fetid stinking Savage North where the Orcs of the Iron clan had made their home. Later he would learn she was a Daverynian merchant whose party the tribe had ambushed and massacred, taking away the choicest of the men and woman, raping them and later killing them. When it was discovered his mother was with child, she was almost put to the sword then and there. “Betta ta kill the b+%*$ than ta spawn a filthy half-breed,” they said as they dragged her out of the wooden cage and to her knees, a sword pressed firmly at her neck. It was only the word of the tribe’s Shaman, whose name was Hoi, that could have stopped them. Hoi’s words boomed across the cramped space of the villiage as he strode forward, raising his staff to the air and screaming for them to stop, that the child born in the woman’s belly would grow one day to replace Hoi and that it was he who would help bring an end to the Talingarde oppressors whose raiding parties and sorties had long since brought the once great tribe low. The other orcs let her go without a single word of protest. The tribe held anything said by the shaman in high esteem. His voice was the will of the gods, was law, was iron. Mavro’s birth, he was told, was long, drawn out and arduous. Orc woman were hardier they said, and more resistant to the pains of childbirth. Only when the process was over and the chord was cut was the woman (he would never figure out her name) able to open her eyes and finally look upon the son who she had labored over for so long. Then they killed her.
For all the pomp, Mavro or, “Charmer,” as he was almost always called, did not lead a life of reverence or even respect. His mother being human denied him that, and even still, Hoi would often pronounce to the tribe that the life of the Shaman is meant to be filled with hardship and charity should be forgotten. “The boy is crude earthen ore,” Mavro once heard him pronounce to the village leadership, “and he must be beaten again and again and again if he is ever to be forged into the iron we require.” At times, Mavro’s misery became absolute. By age ten he had accumulated dozens of scars across his body, some ritually induced, others produced through the cruelty of those in his tribe. He began learning the strange magics of the tribe under tutelage from the malicious Hoi. Mavro learned to read and write the common language of their human enemies and from there he began to learn and memorize complex scrolls stolen from traders and magic users who ventured too close to their mire-bound village. He found no solace in these learnings, and while he had a mind sharper than any in the village, it was applied only to his studies. All other joys he would come to possess were immediately stamped out. By age sixteen, Mavro had come to hate his very existence. At nights, restless in his almost innumerable agonies, he came to wandering the woods at night, venturing farther than the reaches of his village, sometimes beyond the known parts of the forest, where superstition bespoke of monsters and other foul, murderous creatures. It was at these outskirts of known existence that one night Mavro happened upon something would change not just his life, but everything he had ever believed. Unfortunately, that night was the night Mavro became a philosopher, a poet and an artist. Mavro had happened upon the campsite of a group of book merchants too ignorant or stupid or poor to have purchased a guide, Most of them Halflings. Sounds he had never heard were being produced. Upon a wooden box one of the Halflings placed a piece of wood tied with string, moving back and forth across pieces of animal innards. Nobody spoke but everybody listened, especially Mavro. Sweetly caressing his damaged psyche and flying away into silly whimsy, Mavro was for once able to forget his troubled life. In the player’s sounds, he found a bliss more wholesome than any he had ever known. It all ended abruptly. Seeming to come out almost from nowhere, a gargantuan snake creature pounced, seeming almost to swallow one of the Halflings whole. The party grabbed for their makeshift weapons, but it was a fool’s errand and each and every man and Halfling alike were consumed by the great beast. Paralyzed with fear, it took every ounce of energy Mavro possessed to remain hiding in his tree. Satisfied, the great snake slivered away back into the darkness. For hours, Mavro waited in his tree, his muscles long since becoming as stiff as the branches that bore him. Only when he was sure he was absolutely safe did he clamber down and stride into the site of the massacre. Strewn everywhere and covered in blood were the parcels that the troupe had been carrying, books of every kind, filled brimming with concepts and ideas Mavro had never heard of. The thing that caught his eye however, was the strange device the little man had been playing before, thrown to the forest floor but miraculously unharmed. Cradling the thing like a like a newborn babe, Mavro knew he must keep this a secret, all of it. He walked the long trek back to the tribe in silence, but before reaching there he placed the instrument in a rock crevice he had found during his walks. Later he would go back for the rest of the literature and there at the crevice he began his secondary education. In the pages and language of the myriad romances, books of science and, most importantly, books of philosophy, Mavro found concepts so totally alien to his tribal teachings that he soon learned were utterly irreconcilable, ideals like freedoms of the people, a central government, the outlawing of murder and barbaric inhumane practices that, according to the books of philosophy, brought all races low. Little by little, “the charmer” began to take up and practice the quaint little device that brought him such great joy when he first heard it. Scratchy and horrible at first, he kept at it, replacing the hard pressure of brute force with light calmed and measured strokes, playing his fingers across the neck until he found the notes that did not ring dissonant. There were no sheets of musical language printed in the bookseller’s collection. He played by feel, and in this way he was able to hold onto things, even amongst the constant strife of his upbringing. A word took hold in his mind like a cancerous parasite, infesting and spreading to every corner and crevice of his mind. He fed on it and it on him and soon it consumed his every thought and belief. The word was, “enlightenment.” At the age of twenty, Mavro was called into Hoi’s tent so in order to accomplish the final step of his training. “The Charmer” was going to have to summon the aspect of the blood god.
Ideas flashed in his mind, creatures great and small. He did not want to summon the horror he had been told all his life it was his destiny to do. The science was never designed for such barbarism, or so he had read in one of his favorite books. Still, as the images blew past in his mind, one idea stuck immobile, an image of a memory, of four years ago, the night of the great snake that had consumed the party of merchants, but now it was bathed in white, it’s scales so immediately contrasting the backdrop of his mind that it shook the very fabric of his existence. That existence shattered, and in its place appeared the same snake, its scales a glossy white, a near replica of the giant snake he had seen that night. This snake, however, was smaller by a degree of five. It’s eyes glowed a brilliant red and it looked around hungrily at the surrounding orcs, all of whom stood staring transfixed at the magnificent snake. Mavro felt a connection so deep to the thing, feeling almost like it was a part of him, and yet its very presence chilled him to the bone. Looking at him, the snake thing spoke, words appearing instantly in Mavro’s mind, “Before we go through the whole naming process, could we just stop for a spell, I’m… hungry.” Hoi stepped forward and raised his staff at the gathered crowd. “Rejoice,” he said, “for we have begun our journey back to greathood. We welcome in our midst an aspect of the blood god, itself, Aspros the eternal, wielder of iron and swallower of blood.” He turned to the snake now. “We thank you for your journey and we grace your presence with a feast.” He swung his staff and slammed it into the ground. “Release the ‘feast!’” he screamed as the doors of numerous cages were opened by their attendants, sprawling out half a dozen emaciated prisoners of all types, men, elves and even one fainted dwarf. As the snake creature spied the helpless people its eyes lit up and immediately it rushed forward, feasting first upon the dwarf, whose unconsciousness, unfortunately, did not continue for the entire ordeal of his demise. The screaming filled the air as the misted scent of blood filled everybody’s nostrils. Dead eyed, Mavro could hardly think, let alone accept what was happening. Deep down inside, he knew he could have willed the Aspros creature to stop; a part of him knew that this beast was a part of him and that this unquenchable hunger was a mottled, black part of him locked deep away in his soul. He knew he would have to get out of here. He would have to run away to a place of establishment, of tranquility and civility and most of all “enlightenment.” In his dreams there was music there, and he would no longer be beholden to the barbarism of his upbringing. One year later, he finally had his chance.
“I am the chosen of the Gods of Blood and Iron,” he said, his regularly meek voice seeming almost to echo in the crowded meeting tent. “I have successfully summoned their aspect, yet shall we dally when our enemies stay put behind their stone walls and gather strength? No, I say! We must take the time now to strike while the iron is hot. We will purge the land of the human filth, rape the woman, and pillage the land. Soon our clan will be great again and the humans of Talingarde will bow before the banners of Blood and Iron!” His speech moved the clansmen in a way he never knew possible, and to the shock of the once great Hoi, the clans leadership began in rhythmical chant, calling out his newfound name, “Snake Charmer! Snake Charmer! Snake Charmer…”
Hoi was not a man to be overshadowed. He liked to keep his influence long and his enemies close to his chest. Seldom was there a time he let Mavro out of his sight. Even with the position he held in the tribe he could not overturn the word of the tribal leaders. If his words were iron, theirs were hardened steel, even if that steel would only end up cutting them in the end. Still, Hoi tried his best to make clear the folly they were pursuing, but, for perhaps the first time in his life, his voice fell on deaf ears. Infiltrating the city was difficult but not impossible. Barbarians they were, but they were skilled hunters and patient when the need presented itself. They camped for days watching the processions of the wall guards, analyzing the routines and waiting for when there would be a hole in them to exploit. At that point, the only difficulty was in getting the select warrior elite of the tribe over the wall. The men were used to climbing trees and rock outcroppings, having never tried the smooth carved stone of the wall’s outcropping. Once inside, matters became much more complicated. If seen, the guards would have been called immediately and that would have been the end of their ill-thought plans. Instead of waiting around to be caught, Hoi decided it would be better if they could hunker down in a safe place. Once dispatched, the other squatters didn’t seem to mind. Mavro had remained silent for most of this time. The others believed he was simply communing silently with their gods and looking for guidance. The plan had been to sow discord near the outer walls of the city, drawing away the guards and allowing for the rest of the tribe to come assault the walls and attack from the outside. Mavro could hardly concern himself with any of that. His only concerns were the instrument nestled safely behind mounds of supplies and the music outside the drafty complex in which they plotted. Oh the music, it seemed as if there were nothing else. The songs drifted in from all over, hardly even audible, but Mavro felt like he could taste them, so close to society and enlightenment he felt as if his mouth watered. He needed it, now that it was in his grasp, more so than ever. Hoi, however, had very different plans. Mavro practiced his ritual day after day, honing his creature’s aspects and functions until he had his limited design perfected. Hoi knew the exercise was pointless, and yet he desired nothing more but to enact revenge on the disciple which had outshined him and sentenced himself to a certain doom. All he needed was an excuse.
“Today is not our day, but we will grow great even without the ‘charmer.’ He was almost right on top of him now. Mavro could feel the hot stickiness of his breath as Hoi reached forward and grasped Mavro by the shoulder. “Whose seed do you think filled your b$%%# mother’s womb, hrm? It was mine Mavro, I know. I f!!$ed your mother, I gave birth ta her, I raised ya, now I’m gonna kill ya.” It all happened before Mavro even realized it was happening. Aspros lept out of the circle at whiplash speed and it wrapped its massive jaws around Hoi’s outstretched arm. Staggering back, Hoi, even in his shock, reached for his belt dagger, but his hand dropped away as the pain increased. Aspros the forever hungry slowly inched its way up Hoi’s arm until the entire appendage was engulfed. His screams of pure agony echoed throughout the place. The other Orcs, whether in shock and awe, lifted not a finger for their helpless brother. They stood there, dumbfounded, as only a barbaric neanderthal could. In the midst of it all, Mavro was smiling. His eyes were glowing and his mouth watered in sympathetic hunger and bloodlust. He stepped towards the other orcs there and the greatest warriors of his tribe shied away in fear absolute at the growing monstrosity striding towards them. His pronounced canines, significant of any orcish race, had grown to twice their length. From the top of his jaw to similar sharpened teeth began to sprout and take form. He was grinning as he did this, a wretched, curdling grin. “Your gods of blood and iron have heard you,” he said, hardly audible against the still pitching screams of his former master. “But they are deaf to your pleas. The gods only hunger, never more.” It was probable that, had a brigade of armed knights not stormed the place at that very moment, that Mavro would have been killed by the advanced warriors of his tribe. Mavro was not to be so lucky. The expert warriors ran inside and systematically cut down the orcish warriors with hardly a battle between them. As the door was slammed open, a white-maned man dressed in gleaming polished armor ran forward and, recognizing the threat of the abominable orcish summoner, ran forward and, with one swing of a cudgel, knocked Mavro out cold. His aspect was banished back to the depths from whence it came and the still screeching Hoi was sent on his way to meet his gods. Before passing out, Mavro could hear just the barest glimpse of a phrase, but it is a phrase that haunts him still. “May Mitra have mercy upon your wretched, damned soul.” Out of the corners of his vision, Mavro could see a shattered wooden instrument. They put him on trial, but it all proved to be a farce, a laughable one. It was the time where all concepts of civility, fairness and above all “enlightenment” were shattered before Mavro’s eyes. During the trial at Daveryn, Mavro learned that the assault on the walls was immediately foiled by swift action from the town’s guardsmen. The famous witchhunter, Sir Balin of Karfeld, alerted to action by the assault and began investigating around. Hearing screams coming from a nearby flophouse. Gathering some of his best men, Sir Balin busted down the door and, surprisingly, considering the breadth of investigations he had handled, was surprised by what he saw. It was chaos. A snake creature was in the room devouring an older looking orc whilst a younger, more human looking orc with fangs growing out of the top of his mouth approached a group of warriors. There was nothing to do but kill them all and take their leader alive for questioning. Mavro tried his best to argue his case, but while they shared a common language, they shared nothing in common culture. No matter how he argued his case, Mavro’s mannerisms appeared off and unusual. The jury was frightened by the horrors presented in the story, but even more frightened by the appearance of the half-orc, whose orcish resemblance struck only looks of terror in the crowd. These were not the enlightened free peoples of his dreams, these were a people governed by fear and superstition, the same as the orc tribe. The difference was in name only. They called their false god a god of love and truth, but he was just as murderous as the gods of his tribes. False, both of them, equally and interchangeably. In the end they pronounced him, “a witch and a barbarian, not a man but an abomination, fit only to be purged by Mitra’s guiding light.” Sentenced to imprisonment in Branderscar awaiting execution by burning, without music, without philosophy and without hope, Mavro’s heart twisted, molding from apathy to hatred to bloodlust, the same bloodlust he had felt back with Hoi that fateful night. It was here that he swore an oath, to demonstrate to the hypocritical nation of Talingarde their own barbarism, to prove to them that for all the pomp they were but deranged animals. The people of Talingarde, especially that bastard Balin, would soon learn the true meaning of enlightenment. He would feed on them, and soon, they would all begin to feed on themselves. Hollowed and dismayed, few vestiges remained of the man Mavro used to be. In their place stood an Iron apathy, hardened and sharpened, forged out of the hypocrisy and derangement from a society that scorned him and the deafening sound in his ears, unending waves of Blood that crashed against the walls of his head. The only gods that were left, and like the people of Talingarde, they were deaf to him.
Motivation:
Whilst Mavro considers himself a musician and an enlightened sort, underneath his intelligent exterior lies the hungry heart of a man seeking absolute revenge against society. Mavro sees nothing wrong now with the way his blood god's aspect consumes people, believing that he must show the world barbarity and soon it in turn will show the same. He derives a sick pleasure from his aspects's consumption and derives great pleasure now in keeping it around if he could just escape the infernal delaying device of the prison. Previously despising his nickname, Mavro now sees the title of "Snake Charmer" as a good illustration of the sterotype by which people see him. He never truly believed in his gods, but utilizes them only as a means to compare the malevolent natures of both his worship and others. He would have no problem entering into an infernal contract if it would help in the destruction of Talingarde. To him, anything is worth that ultimate prize. |
