Darius Darkblade

Male Revenant, Assassin level 3, age: unknown, height: 6ft, weight:185, hair: white, eyes: black


Darius stands about 6 feet tall and is very thin for his size. His skin is an ashen grey. He has long, white hair. It is wavy and goes down a couple inches below his neckline. While not obvious from a distance, his facial structure is unique in that it is defined by a ridge that traces around his entire face, especially around his cheekbones and forehead. Darius is very self conscious of this and is somehow able to maintain a hazy shadow around his face to help obscure it. His eyes are usually normal looking, but with black iris’. However, when agitated or while using his shadow abilities his entire eye turns black while the pupils emit a fiery red glow. Darius is almost always seen wearing a black cloak with a hood pulled up over head and face. He also always wears black gloves to hide the scales along the top of his hands and wrists that marks him as one of the Raven Queen’s revenants.


The Story of Darius Darkblade

He wakes with a start, gasping for air as if he had nearly suffocated. The light from the full moon seems blinding. His whole body fills with an intense tingling sensation as his heart rate slows to normal. Everything looks and feels strange to him. He cannot remember where he is, how he got there, or even who he is. His head fills with dozens of hazy images. Faces, underground cities, and many battles, but all are unclear and elusive, like trying to remember the details of a dream. Only one image is clear: A jewel, cut like an emerald, but dark, almost black. It seemed to emit what could only be described as a shadowy illumination. It was inset in a silver amulet depicting a raven’s head, with the jewel as the raven’s eye. There is no question this amulet is of great importance, but he doesn’t know why.

As he sits there shivering in the cold trying to make sense of everything, he hears the sound of footsteps and voices behind him. Instinctively, he jumps up and turns to face the approaching men. The two men are obviously drunk and passing a large bottle of mead back and forth between them. They stop when they see the naked man standing before them.

“What the…? What the hell sort of man is this?” The skinny one asks, surprised.

“Look a that white hair an’ pointy ears. Ya reckon he’s one of them Drow folk yer cousin’s always talkin’ about?” the larger one asks his companion.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. He’s always saying those worthless Drow are what’s killing his cattle in the night. I always thought it was just coyotes till now.”

“I bet he’s heading there now. Jus’ look at ‘im! Filthy savage aint even decent ‘nough to cover up!” He yells out as he pauses to take another drink. “I say we teach him a lesson for messin’ with your family!” he proclaims as he tosses the bottle to the ground and reaches for the scimitar at his side.

“Nobody messes with my family!” calls out the skinny man as he pulls a dagger from its sheath. “Come here you white-haired freak! I’m going to slit your throat for what you did!”

He has no idea what they are talking about, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask any questions as the skinny man quickly charges at him with a dagger. He sidesteps the attack and easily takes the dagger out of the man’s hand, turning it against his foe with a frightening precision. He then turns his attention to the man wielding the scimitar. He points the dagger at the approaching enemy, and the blade turns dark. Shadows begin swirling around his opponent, as another shadow extends out from the darkened blade. He finds he can manipulate this shadow as naturally as if it was a part of his own body. He wraps the shadow around his opponent’s neck and squeezes tightly as the shadowy shrouds tear at the drunk man’s flesh. The shadow noose yanks upward, snapping its victim’s neck, and then drops him to the ground with a dull thud. The forest is silent once again.

He moves the bodies away from the road in case there are others that may come by this way. He also finds that the skinny one’s clothes fit relatively well, though a bit short. Still, its much better than freezing in the cold night air. Better yet, he was wearing leather armor, which fits almost perfectly. Once dressed, he walks over to a nearby stream to wash the blood from his hands. There in the moonlit reflection he beholds his own face for the first time. Even with his jumbled memories, he can tell the person looking back is not quite Drow. He has the white hair, but instead of ebony skin it is more of an ashen grey. His facial features are more sharply defined than any normal person, looking almost like a carving in wood or stone. As he gazes into his own eyes, they darken until they become completely black, and the pupils begin glowing a fiery red. He kneels there on the riverbank staring in disbelief. What kind of creature is he? Has he always been this way? It is not possible to walk into a town looking like this. He would be attacked on sight as if he were a demon. Perhaps he is a demon? What is he supposed to do?

As all these fears and questions fills his mind, out the corner of his eye he notices a large raven feather drop into the stream. Almost involuntarily, he reaches out and takes the feather into his hand and allows his thoughts to focus on it. A feeling of calm fills him. He looks into the water once more, and his eyes have returned to a more human white with black iris and normal pupils. Wisps of shadow gather around his face, softening and obscuring the prominent features. While still not looking completely human if someone looks closely in bright light, he should now be able to walk through town without attracting attention. While in this peaceful, meditative state he also comes to some realizations. While he does not know who he is or what he was, he knows what he is now: a servant of the Raven Queen. Not just a servant, but one with a very specific task. He must find the Raven’s Eye amulet, and send the one who possesses it to the underworld.

With his new found purpose he returns to the bodies of the earlier attackers to see if they have anything else that he could use on his quest. The scimitar would undoubtedly come in handy, as would the backpack with miscellaneous gear for travel and the little money they were carrying. One welcome find was a black hooded cloak stuffed into one of the backpacks. This fit nicely, and would serve to further help walk around in daylight without attracting unwanted attention.

As day begins to break, he heads along the road in the direction the two drunks had come from. Eventually, he arrives to a relatively large town. He is relieved that nobody seems to give more than a second look at him. Most go about their business as if he doesn’t exist, which suits him just fine. He soon finds a tavern that isn’t very crowded and decides to stop in for his first real meal. He sits down at the bar and orders breakfast.

“So, stranger, what’s your name?” the bartender asks, trying to be polite.

He doesn’t want to get into a conversation of how he’s been wondering that same question for hours now. Dozens of names bounce around his mind, none any more familiar than the others. “Dammit, just choose one” he thinks to himself.

“Well? You have a name, don’t you?” the bartender half-jokingly asks.

“Darius. You can call me Darius.”

Darius Darkblade

Nentir Vale HuDog