Birth of a Templar

[Vitus Rustovich]

A deep, almost mesmerizing voice boomed within Vitus' skull. "You have proven your loyalty, even when others who called themselves my followers perverted my teachings, you have repented and sacrificed much in penance for leaving the Army of Midnight, to the point of enslaving your father and giving your soul completely to Death. You have proven yourself worthy to rejoin your brethren. Rise, Templar Vitus, and may our foes dread your name."

Vitus wandered the nearly empty halls of the new Temple for hours before choosing a suitable chamber that fulfilled his needs. Deep down on one of the lowest levels, far enough from most of the active parts of the Temple that screams coming from his laboratory wouldn't disturb anyone else. The entry room was spacious, and he set about the time consuming process of transferring what things he kept from his time in Clandestine to his new home. Both his new blade, and Hatebringer had stands where they sat when he didn't have them at his side. Various other weapons and implements of torture lined one of the walls, which also had a door leading to a smaller chamber, one with shackles and larger devices within.

His lab was sparsly stocked, most of his experiments required little more than a living victim, and potent magical energies. However, there was a burner, and various containers for mixing fluids. A large pile of gravedirt was heaped in one corner, and various bones of differing species were scattered around it.

The on the other side of the lab was a makeshift morgue, a place to store the cadavers he used in his projects. The room only contained two corpses at the moment, but the smell of decay was already a bit stifling. Finally, came a bedroom, with a small, functional bed, and several shelves for the various books he had collected over the years. Taking one last walk through the rooms he had chosen as his own, he was satisfied, and decided a rest was in order, work could begin in earnest tomorrow.

[Vitus Rustovich]

Vitus spent hours and hours pouring over texts, occasionally scribbling notes on scraps of parchment he had next to him. At last he felt he had completed the spell, at least in theory, the would prepare him for his eventual defense of this Temple.

Wandering out into the streets of RhyDin, he stalked the back alleyways, searching for victims. Rounding a corner, he found one, passed out, obviously from too much drink. Uttering a short phrase, Vitus reached out, his hand cloaked in a violet 'unlight', and literally pulled the drunken man's soul from his sleeping body. The body jerked once, then fell silent, lifeless, and Vitus dragged the man's soul through the air before pushing it into a silver flask he had at his waist. Stoppering it with a skull shaped cap, he continued along the back alleys, searching for more souls.

Hours later he returned to the Temple, four souls secured in his flask, and returned to his rooms. He set the flask upon his table, rolled up his sleeves, and withdrew a small blade from a nearby shelf, setting it next to the vial. He also produced a vial of ink from a small drawer, and opened it. He sat at the table and began to chant as he opened the silver flask, withdrew one of his trapped souls, and restoppered it. The soul twisted in the air, seeking to free itself from the lich's grasp, to no avail. Soon, it was forced into the vial of ink. Continuing his chant, Vitus stirred the soul into the ink with the blade, and began to carve sigils into his forearm, filling the incisions with the ink. The dead flesh repaired itself almost instantaneously, trapping the ink, and the soul, just beneath the surface.

Once this was done, Vitus lit a torch that protruded from the wall, and stuck his forearm into it. The flames curled around his arm, yet his flesh did not burn. The runic tattoos in his arm glowed dimly as they protected him from the flame. Several minutes he held his arm in the flame, and no damage was evident. Grinning to himself, he began to wonder what the extent of such protection might be, but was satisfied with what results he had acheived for now, and left his chambers, in search of the Temple's forge.

[Vitus Rustovich]

The Grim Lord's forge was more magnificent in this temple than the one that Vitus' had used in Clandestine. Several anvils were placed about the room, evenly spaced apart, so that several blacksmiths could work at once. Huge bins lined one wall, each containing a different material with which to fabricate arms and armor. Vitus peered into each of these, most of which were empty, or nearly so. With the temple so new, little time had been available to send mining drones out to gather materials. The few that were collected were gathered during the construction process.

Vitus gathered up some mithril, and set to the task of smelting it. Pulling out the flask of souls, he forced one into the molten metal. The bubbling of the melted mithril served to mix the soul into it, and soon it was ready for shaping. Many hours went into the job, hammering, beating, bending, until the piece began to take shape. A mask, the face of terror, torment and suffering, runes etched into it's surface. The mask, once completed, was almost fluid, it changed, reflecting the mood of it's wearer, but always horrific.

Exhausted, Vitus looked at his work, watched the expressions change on the face, always tortuous, and was satisfied. A full suit of armor would have to wait for more time, and more mithril, but the mask was a decent start. After the metal had cooled, Vitus scooped up his prize and returned to his chamber, gears in his head already working on other uses for souls.

[Vitus Rustovich]

Vitus and Rhaine had recently discussed potential allies to their new Temple, several names were mentioned, and Rhaine had made arrangements to speak with the so-called death knight Lord Ayreg. Vitus had decided to steer clear of this meeting, to leave these diplomatic missions to his more capable sister. However, as he paced the halls of the Asmodean Temple, he grew bored.

Finally deciding to finish a project he had started on months ago, he pulled on his robes, put his hood up, and left the temple, mere minutes before Rhaine's meeting was scheduled to begin. The harsh winds of the mountainous region whipped at his robes, and he pulled them tighter more out of habit than anything else. His dead flesh no longer felt discomfort due to temperature variances.

Winding his way down out of the mountains, he finally passed into RhyDin. As he stalked the streets, surrounded by the sights, smells, and sounds of mortal life, he began to appreciate even more his current condition, the inconveniences left behind. Occasionally a passerby would give him a curious look, but these were usually dissuaded by a dark glance from beneath the hood of his robes.

Finally, he arrived at his destination, Palazzo Drachen Walde. Something about this place tugged at his subconscious, something Vitus couldn't quite place his finger on. After knocking on the door, he began to extend his consciousness, searching for anything out of place. He was roused from his semi-meditation by the door opening.

"Can I help you?" the man that answered the door was very stately, very formal, dressed in dark blue and gold. Vitus was unnerved by the fact that the man had no reaction whatsoever to a lichknight at the front door.

"I have business to discuss with your mistress," Vitus hissed, his voice little more than a rattling whisper.

"Of course, right this way," the man responded, leading Vitus into a receiving room. "Make yourself comfortable, I will inform her that you are here, Mr...?" he trailed off, waiting for a name.

"Rustovich, Vitus Rustovich." Vitus replied, choosing a chair and seating himself. As the man left, Vitus again had the feeling of something out of place. It was stronger now, closer. As he waited, he put up a mental guard, a mixture of magic and death, and waited for Azjah to arrive.