Lokis Tir

Returned to life to fulfill a prophecy that he is no longer needed for; lost all sanity for his troubles.

Lokis Tir, level 4

Revenant, Assassin Build: Bleak Disciple Assassin Guild Training: Bleak Disciple

Race in Life: Elf

Background: Birth – Prophecy, Geography – Urban, Elf – Urban Elf, Occupation – Military, Veteran of a Religious War (Intimidate class skill)

FINAL ABILITY SCORES Str 10, Con 16, Dex 19, Int 8, Wis 14, Cha 14.

STARTING ABILITY SCORES Str 10, Con 14, Dex 16, Int 8, Wis 13, Cha 14.

AC: 18 Fort: 16 Reflex: 16 Will: 15 HP: 38 Surges: 9 Surge Value: 9


Stealth +11, Acrobatics +11, Endurance +12, Thievery +11, Intimidate +11


Arcana +1, Bluff +4, Diplomacy +4, Dungeoneering +4, Heal +4, History +1, Insight +4, Nature +4, Perception +4, Religion +1, Streetwise +4, Athletics +2


Level 1: Death’s Blessing

Level 2: Dark Feasting

Level 4: Assassin’s Escape


Assassin at-will 1: Leaping Shade

Assassin at-will 1: Executioner’s Noose

Assassin encounter 1: Gloom Thief

Assassin daily 1: Terrifying Visage

Assassin utility 2: Cloak of Shades

Assassin encounter 3: Nightshade’s Kiss


Leather Armor, Flesh Grinder Longsword +1


The story of Lokis remains much an enigma as there are few than can or are willing to tell it. Those who knew him life speak of him only in reverence; a natural born leader, devout in his faith, and skilled beyond measure with a sword. Numerous campaigns were won resulting from Lokis’ tactical decisions and the speed and force in which his elite squad, the Storm Wolves, carried them out. Even many of the politicians and bureaucrats from the capitol, Tirson, seat of power of the Holy Empire of Rhoth, saw Lokis as a boon in their war against the horde of undead originating from across the Great Sea to the West.

Some say Lokis knew he was walking into a trap the day he died. They were ambushed by an entire company of wights and ghouls whilst crossing Ugnaret’s Pass, a hundred leagues from their assassination target, the Demon Prince and supreme commander of the invading undead army, Askrymir. The battle was fought hard and long that day, but eventually the undead were able to overwhelm and defeat them. Of the fifteen, only three survived Pillok, Japh, and Endis Tir, Lokis’ younger brother and newest recruit to the Wolves. Japh managed to carry Lokis’ body to safety where they were able to give him a proper burial, praying to the Raven Queen that he might find respite from the undead curse.

Night’s later, an excavation party of skeletons unearth a body, cold from the earth. The commanding skull lord is summoned to greet their new recruit. Of the twelve felled warriors, eleven have been raised once more to serve their new master, Askrymir… and now the Demon Prince’s prize has been found: Lokis the Thorn, Lokis the Corpse Grinder, and soon to be Lokis the Servitor. The skull lord Tormenius arrives at the burial site, gleaming with self satisfaction, for great reward comes to those who please the master. Leaning over the dead body of Lokis, he whispers the words of Death’s Command, releasing the bindings holding the soul-cavity shut, pouring malice in with every wilted syllable. Lokis’ eyes open, glowing red and he smiles…

Leaping from his grave, Lokis gathers his also buried sword, slashing it across his path easily slicing through the bone and sinew keeping one of Tormenius’ three heads attached to his shoulders. Startled and panicked, Tormenius falls back unable to react as he watches his favored head roll forward onto his lap. For moments of glorious carnage, Lokis is able to fell a number of surprised diggers erstwhile also fighting the painful stiffness in his joints. The surrounding legion is quick to react once they discover what has happened, tactically blocking Lokis’ escape, if that even is his plan, pressing the attack slowly and cautiously. Tormenius stands bolstering his minions, and with another word watches Lokis’ body envelope with shadowy flame, withering his body. As the tongues of shade lick up into the night sky, Lokis feels his strength leave his body and falls to the dusty ground, unconscious.

“Gather the fiend!” Tormenius orders, “We will take him to Chateau Ombre and let the necromancers there deal with his insolence there.” The legion travels West to the coastal mountain range where the Chateau Ombre sits on a cliff over looking Askrymir’ fleet of newly arriving settlers. There Lokis is taken through a series of underground corridors and rooms of bizarre antiquity until he is finally strapped down to an archaic stone slab beneath a mobile of trinkets and crystals. There Lokis is tortured, breaking his mind to Askrymir’s will.

For weeks the resident necromancers probed and prodded Lokis’ body and mind looking for weakness, or attempting to cause one where none was found; although to Lokis time ceased to pass normally. Days were marked by the momentary lapse between maddening pain. Weeks were marked by the occasional yet fleeting surges of strength that saw Lokis free long enough to claw at a face or bite at a hand. Months were marked by the sick, deflated feeling that parts of who he might have been have been irreparably lost to the darkness of the Void. The years… the many blood and shadow soaked years… they are marked by the cold respite of loneliness and whispers of lunacy curdling at the base of his skull.

While his treatments are well studied and meticulously chronicled, Lokis’ soul remains completely locked within his body, disallowing the necessary room for Askrymir’s will to take hold. No closer to taming Lokis into the fold, the necromancers throw Lokis into a holding cell. Lokis, whose mind shattered days ago leaving behind a starved husk of chortling mumbles, rocks back an forth in a squatting position, debating aloud the benefit of fingernails. Behind him he hears the sound of the door unlatch and creak open. Cold fills the room, forcing even Lokis’ dead skin to shudder. Chilled steam creeps along the floor until it carpets the cell completely. An icy voice utters, “Leave here, Lokis Tir.”

Lokis turns and sees at a ghostly pale women wearing her dark cloak like the sky wears the night, translucent and inevitable. “Ahhhhhh…. mmyyy Queeeenn….” Lokis sighs, his voice raspy, “come to your toy box to see your bauble broken by the slum children?” Lokis lets loose a series of choked giggles, “Watch the quick in their game, and the dead want to play?” He stands completely upright, dulled to the cuts, bruises and soreness permeating his body, and turns to face the newly arrived figure directly, “Bond to thee, yes? How biddth so simply?”

Her mouth seems to tremble, yet only for a moment, though her eyes betray no hint of pity. “The plan… it has been altered. Another has been found. You are free to go,” she says.

“To sleep? Mask of the sand and manhood wear you?” Lokis chides gleefully.

“If it is your desire.”

Lokis guffaws loudly, sending echoes down the hall. “I wants to play!”

“You may- and while you may find no leash about your neck, I cannot allow certain…” she pauses, looking intently at Lokis who has returned to his former crouching position and whose stare appears as wild and empty as a starved spriggan. How far the revered hath fallen for the whims of the gods, her eyes seem to say as the Raven Queen allows herself a temporary moment of concern for the broken un-mortal. “I cannot allow certain other deities, namely the Sun Father, Oburst, to know of your existence. His zeal may prove undoing toward plans already set in motion.” Her voice grows bolder as she sets forth Lokis’ geas, “You are hereby confined to night, beyond his gaze. During the Sun Father’s waking hours, you will be unto others nothing more than shadow, and in return shadow shall obey you.”

When she is finished, the Winter goddess rests her hand upon Lokis’ head. Lokis peers at her arm, sniffs cautiously, then redirects his attention to his own hands. Grinning as if coming to an epiphany, he bites and tears one of his fingernails out from its sockets, spitting the remains to the floor. “To the quick, yes?”

The visage of the Raven Queen does not respond, but simply and slowing fades to mist that in turn falls to the floor. Lokis cocks his head his head to side. “Yes, to the quick…” he utters, answering himself cackling. He hurries out the door left open, through the quiet halls into the night. Before bounding off into the darkness however, something catches his eye. A small balcony built into the side of the cliff with a two-headed figure standing completely still. Lokis crawls closer as the image of Tormenius comes sharper into view. His captor appears deep in some sort of meditation or concentration, unaware of the slinking shadow oozing behind him.

With a thought, Lokis bends the darkness to his will, forming a crude noose slipping silently around the second of Tormenius’ necks. Once the props are set, Lokis leaps maniacally from his perch, flinging his legs out toward the small of Tormenius’ back. The force of impact sends the skull lord reeling forward over the edge of the balcony until he is snagged with a choking sound by the shadow taken form. Lokis stands chortling at the edge looking down at his prey with malice and madness. Tormenius looks up with his free head, astonished by what he sees.

“Askrymir will have your head on a plate by the month’s end, Queen’s bastard!” Tormenius spat, “He’ll reserve a special place in the Abyss for your putrid soul!”

Lokis simply stood there, laughter rolling out of him like thunder until a glint of obsidian steel from under a resting cloak on the balcony sparks his interest. Lokis goes silent and walks toward the cloth, tugging with violent jerks on his makeshift rope. Peeling back the robe, there lies a large serrated blade, dark as pitch and razor sharp. “Love at first sight.” Lokis whispers as he grips its handle.

Behind him, Tormenius manages to grasp the balcony’s ledge and using his noose as leverage has begun to climb his way back to sure footing. His plan however is cut short with a flash and the all too familiar sound of detaching ligament as his second head is wrested from its noose by Lokis’ arcing blade. The shadow appears to dissipate and like a whip snaps back taking hold of Tormenius’ wrist. “One little piggy left,” Lokis gleams down at Tormenius’ remaining head. Fear grips Tormenius’ eyes as much as his undead visage would allow and in desperation ignites Lokis’ shadow-line with eldritch fire. The line snaps, sending Tormenius sprawling toward the watery blackness below.

“Un-quickened found to quickness after all…” Lokis observes aloud, amused with how things turned out, “I may miss him”. Gathering the cloak the sword, he makes his way back up the cliff to begin his journey. “Where in sandbox to play?” Lokis sniffs the air. After a deep inhale a red glow of familiarity is betrayed by his eyes. “Blood kin? He still quick?” Sniffs again, “And wild! How fun!” Lokis bounds off in the direction of Endis’ scent. “Wonders if reunion will be as blood mother always pictured it…”

Lokis Tir

Dinner For a Hungry God CJfhtagn