About Zache KovachiZache Kovachi
Prerequisites: Combat Expertise, worshiper of Desna. Benefit: When you confirm a critical hit against a creature, you can choose to forgo the effect of the cr
Backstory: “Those who die in their sleep die with one foot already on the path to Desna. You’ll always see him when you stare at the night sky.” -------------------- Zache was born on the open road, under the brilliant tapestry of the night sky, and was quickly welcomed as the newest member of his large Varisian family. Youngest of five, he was a handsome boy, with thick black hair and glittering chestnut-brown eyes. He had straight teeth and clear skin, with one exception – a dark birthmark, in the uncanny shape of a butterfly, marked his cheekbone, one wingtip stretching to the outer corner of his right eye. ”It’s a sign!” his grandfather would proclaim, but his father laughed it off. ”It’s just a birthmark, dad. It means about as much as your liver spots!” ”Watch your tongue, boy!” his grandfather snapped, before winking at Zache. ”Don’t listen to him, alright? It’s a sign from the Song of the Spheres!” Intrigued, young Zache took every opportunity he could to stay near his grandfather. He was the caravan’s storyteller, spinning tales accumulated over a lifetime of travels. He told the stories of the Celestial Caravan, pointing out the stars as he did so. He told tales of legendary heroes, of great battles, of Desna and her battle against Lamashtu. ”Is Desna lonely up there?” Zache asked him one night, laying in the grass and staring at the stars. ”Of course not, boy! Look at all those stars! Each one is another faithful soul, travelling the skies with her,” his grandfather smiled. ”One day, I’ll join her. And so will you – but not for a long while yet,” he added with a chuckle. Zache grinned, staring up at Cynosure. ”She guides us, doesn’t she?” he asked. ”That’s why we travel, isn’t it – because there’s someplace she wants us to be?” ”That’s right, boy,” his grandfather smiled. ”And when you dream, it’s a sign of what she wants of you. Speaking of dreams, you should get some sleep.” -------------------- His grandfather died when he was fourteen, leaving a hole in his heart that no amount of daydreaming could fill. He was buried under the open sky he’d so loved, and in a surprising show of tenderness, Zache’s father was there to comfort him. “Those who die in their sleep die with one foot already on the path to Desna,” he said quietly. “You’ll always see him when you stare at the night sky.” Zache stared at the stars, certain he could see a new one twinkling among them. -------------------- The dreams began when he was fifteen, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s death. He was flying, his scarves and silks streaming out behind him, dancing in the wind. The moon was full, the stars were out in full force, and the night air was cool on his face. He passed over a beach of white sand, and an ocean as smooth as glass, swooping so low he could see his face in it. With a flutter, the dark birthmark detached from his cheek, becoming a royal blue butterfly that flitted around his head, before its wings covered his eyes and the dream ended. It came back, every week, without fail. -------------------- Time passed, and Zache grew from a smiling child to a handsome young man. His hair grew long, his voice became resonant and commanding, and the twinkle in his eyes ensured he had no lack of young women throwing themselves at him in towns they passed through. He began telling stories on around the campfire at night, continuing the same tales he’d grown up with. He spun poetry as easily as his mother spun silk, and he learned to fight, spinning his starknife in a dizzying display. He gained his first tattoos, which soon became an obsession for him. But something was missing. The dream still came back, every Starday, as regular as the cycles of the moon. Desna wanted him to be somewhere. When the caravan came to Sandpoint, Zache froze at the gates. “Welcome to Sandpoint!” the sign proclaimed merrily. “Please take a moment to see yourself as we see you.” Hanging beneath it was a mirror. He stared for a long time at the dusty mirror, before polishing it with his scarf and following the caravan. For a moment, the mirror had been a smooth, glassy ocean. -------------------- ”I’m staying.” His voice was firm, his chin held high. His mother and father exchanged worried glances. ”Here?” his mother asked. ”But why?” ”It feels right,” Zache shrugged, shifting the weight of his pack. ”Someone at the Cathedral might be able to teach me more. That dream I’ve had, the sense of drifting… it’s all led me here, and I’m staying until I figure out what it is.” His mother opened her mouth to protest, but his father’s hand on her shoulder silenced her. ”Alright, son,” he said firmly. ”But promise you’ll look after yourself, alright?” Zache smiled in relief. ”Of course.” -------------------- It took some convincing, but Father Zantus allowed the boy to stay at the Cathedral, and Zache was content there. He honed his religious knowledge and his martial abilities, and pored over star charts, learning the names and positions of each. And at night, he’d climb out the window and carefully pick his way up the side of the cathedral itself, sometimes all the way to the top of the spire, to stare up at Cynosure and breathe in the fresh night air. The recurring dream ended. He no longer felt his birthmark itching as he stared at the stars. He was in the right place, he knew it. But plans always change. Appearance: Zache is small and trim, standing at five and a half feet tall and weighing roughly 160 pounds. He has thick black hair that falls in heavy waves, chestnut brown eyes framed with dark lashes, and smooth dusky skin that glows with warm tones in the firelight he so loves to tell his stories by. His jawline is tapered, his eyebrows on the heavy side, and his lips wide and smooth, usually cocked in an easy smile. Across his right cheekbone spans a chocolate-brown birthmark in the remarkable shape of a butterfly, its wing-tips caressing the corners of his nose and his right eye. He has toned legs from dancing, firm arms from practicing with his starknife, and a strong core from his usual proud, open stance, not unlike that of a player on the stage. He bears several tattoos, some visible at all times, others not always so, combining the intricate symbology of his people with lines of poetry. He dresses in vibrant colours, often blues and yellows, and while he loves the feel of silk, the only garment he owns in that cloth is his kapenia, usually worn tied across his body like a sash. A starknife hangs on one hip, within easy reach, and his boots are well-worn and falling apart in places - the signs of heavy travel, though not for some time. |
