Age: 213 (Physical), 748 (Chronological)
Species: Partholonian Elf (Undead)
Personality: Searlan was born in an age generations past, a faded memory in the eyes of the mayflies that lay claim to most of the land's surface and raise their petty kingdoms. Being older than most bloodlines and having seen the rise and fall of dozens of would-be empires, the wight is understandably arrogant and dismissive of those that surround him. He enjoys putting the 'lesser' beings in their place through whatever means he sees fit, ensuring that the age-old legends of his people's dominance never fades. Above all, however, he serves his Undying Queen, remaining true and loyal to the eternal sorceress that returned his people to some semblance of life.
Appearance: In his true form, Searlan is a ghastly sight. Longdead bones inscribed with a saga of his deeds, set to a necromantic cadence make up his tall and slight figure, burning with cold fire as he calls upon the dread powers of his mistress to battle her foes. Pin-pricks of green flame fill hollowed eye sockets, hungering for the souls of those he gazes upon. He arms and armours himself in fine bronze, relics of a past age that shield his corporeal form from the slings and arrows of misfortune and mayflies alike, cuirass, bracers, greaves, and a shining helmet accompanied by a perfectly tailored purple tunic.
Given his nature, Searlan often makes use of his people's natural talent with illusions to wrap himself in a lie of life, granting him a variety of appearances- a simple farmhand, an elderly lady, a proud warrior-poet with flesh like ivory and eyes akin to emeralds, like he once was.
Agility: Agile (100)
True Sight (300)
Inverted Armor (50)
Adaptations: Cold, heat, toxic, altitude, depths, space (350)
Adaptations cont: Wounds, sleep, breathe, eat, drink, pain (400)
Total: 1200/2000 Points
Glamour (Innate, Illusion 3, Concentration, Weakness, 300 Points)
Searlan is not a mere beast given slow-witted thought. He is an Elf, above and beyond those flawed and wretched beings. His legacy of perfection grants him numerous capabilities- strength, speed, beauty, but foremost among them is the gift of Glamour. Allegedly a gift from Kruheia when the God of the winds sought to woo an ancient princess of his people, the Partholonian people gained the capacity for illusion. With this gift, Searlan freely lies to the light within a 10-foot radius of his position, while the wind carries whatever sweet falsehoods he desires. While incapable of doing something so crass as erasing himself from sight, the ancient warlord is capable of adopting any number of appearances, and to create a variety of doppelgangers that set about the foe in his immediate vicinity. Unfortunately, Kruheia's dowry has a flaw- the spurned Burther declared Iron anathamea to those of his forsaken love's blood. Any contact with iron or focusing his magics elsewhere immediately ends any ongoing glamour, exposing his true nature and ending any ongoing deceptions.
Total: 300/1000 points
Stamina 3 (300)
Agility 3 (300)
Melee 3 (300)
Archery 3 (300)
Stealth 2 (200)
Strength 1 (100)
Total: 1500 Points (800 remaining from racial, 700 remaining from magic)
Equipment: Bronze shortsword, knife, three javelins, shield, armour. Ivory warbow, arrows. Fashionable tunic, half a dozen pomegrantes.
Backstory: Searlan was born to the glorious Partholonian Empire, an Elvish nation that spread across much of the known world, until its sudden collapse and extinction half a millennia ago. A distant relation of the ruling King, a rather mundane feat given his predilections for growing his bloodline, Searlan was groomed as a warrior-poet and noble prince, armed with bronze and magic, and directed towards the ever-expanding borders of his people's empire. One would think them arrogant, were it not for the superiority they were all too willing to display as they took chieftains and petty kings home in shackles, leaving their flags and lords in their place to remind all of who truly ruled this world. The noble-born warrior was no exception to this bloody empire-building, taking a sizable warhost to the coast and leaving countless tribes of lesser beings broken beneath the wheels of his chariot.
That damned coast.
The local villagers were all too eager to speak of what lay across the waves- the secrets of the drowned dead, the one-eyed Kings with eyes of death and spears of gold, jealously guarding their sunken birthright against invaders. It was a conquest that would guarantee Searlan's name would live on in legend for as long as his people sung their songs. And so, he sent ravens and whispers on the wind to summon his Brothers in Conquest, and set to work on invading the isles of the Fomor.
As Searlan might tell you should you pry, they almost succeeded, were it not for the plague. Cyclopean giants fell to magic and blade, heroes upon fey steeds battling grim kings within the waterlogged ruins of Crim Balor. Driven to their last stronghold, dark sorceries were unleashed, and the Partholonian host was driven mad with fear and touched by darker things. It was only when they found themselves washed up upon the coasts, flesh grey and flaking, that they realized the depths of their arrogance. Searlan himself made it furthest- nearly a full league before he fell, left to writhe in wordless agony and eventually perish, the Fomorian plague quickly spreading from their ill-fated landing site and touching all those of Partholonian blood.
In the end, only Delgnat, youngest Daughter of the Old King, remained. Turning to black magics, she ensured her immortality and reanimated a court of living dead to stave off madness. Now, from the remote swamps that swallowed up the last refuge of the Partholonians, she rules a court of ancient champions bound to her will, and treats with the savage cannibal tribes that dwell within her surroundings to slowly replenish her ancient Empire. Searlan, after several hundred years, was recovered by wretched mongrel men, and returned to the semblance of life he now possesses by his Deathless Queen.
His loyalty is carved into his very bones. His purpose is one beyond reciting ancient sagas and feasting on pomegranate with his Queen and her shieldbearers. He is a Hand of Delgnat, and she seeks to grip this growing crisis with desiccated fingers.
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