Grimmort Bonespear

Evil fighter cleric of Yurtrus


grim.jpgGrimmort is a grey orc of the Dragonspine mountains. His hair is at white as the snow before the battle. His eyes as yellow as the bellies of those who run from him after. His body is covered in scars, as many earned in battle as those self inflicted as a blood offering to his God.

As grimmort approached the graveyard he could sense the weight of it. Kalembor held dominion here. he guarded the souls of those laid to rest within these walls. Honored warriors, and respected thieves. Those who had proven themselves for good or ill. Thier gods would decide. As he neared the archway a raven called out, as if to announce the dark priest’s arrival. Grimm’s senses tingled. Not the five that humanoids have come to rely on, but his Gam’tra. His spirit. His … being. Without thought or concious effort his hands formed a bird in front of him. Thumbs crossed, fingers spread, knuckles out. The way Mah’la taught him. Sign of Yurtrus. Sign of The Rotting One. As if in answer, a wolf howled in the distance. Taking this as an invitation, Grim passed through the gate, invisible and full of weight. His soul nearly pulled down by the binding spells before they realised he was not yet dead. Merely a servant of death… And life. A firm breeze arose from the east, seeming to stir the spirits who held residence in this hallowed ground. This graveyard provided rest and succor for some of Melvaunt’s Finest warriors. Thier most respected criminals. Their most feared daemons. Gladiators, pirates, minuitemen, slaves. No separation in the eyes of Yurtrus.

Grimmort came to this place not because he chose to. Not because he was compelled, but simply because he belonged. It was where he was supposed to be. Where he would meet god.
As he gazed around the true weight of the moment crashed down on him. Here. In these walls. A collection of some of the finest souls their Gods had created. Instruments of death, making way for new life. He had no judgements for them. Nor expectations. Only a comradery he was eager to share. However death would not take him… he felt emboldened.
“Have I not tasted death o Mortagha’s! Twice denied! Twice reborn! WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE OF ME!!!”
His voice echoed throughout the plots, hearolding his rage. His clan slaughtered. His tribe decimated. His Priestess…?
At that moment, cool as cavestone, the raven came to rest upon a mausoleum. As if by the birds command the breeze dropped, and an eerie stillness took hold of the courtyard. The ebony fowl gazed for a moment at Grimmort with what could only be described as intense indifference, then pecked at some unseen treat on the mausoleums ornate peakstone.
Grimmort was mesmorized. Unable to move for several moments, he reguarded the raven with a sence of reverence whose source he could not identify. As the moment passed, Grim straightened himself and under his breath addressed not the raven but the mausoleum, “Is this a sign. Is it you I came to see tonight.”
Etched upon the door of the tomb was etched the name ___________. As the evil cleric read the name, the raven reguarded him once more with the same look, and flew off towards Melvaunt. Grimmort was stricken with a sudden vision. Swords flashed. A spear found purchase in Noble flesh. A woman cried out and pointed toward the Dragonspines, which grew into focus from the distance. The scene resting upon a cave, a voice crept into his being.
“Find the decendants of ___________. Only they can provide you with the strength to save your Mah’la, my lieutenant. Bring death to our enemies, and thus life to those they would seek to defile. Death needs life.” That was the first thing Mah’la tought him.

As the vision released Grimmort, he once again crossed his hands in The Rotting One’s ancient symbol. This time with a deliborate pourpose. “Death needs life.” he whispered, and then boldly, “Your will, my hands. I shall be your harbringer of sorrow… God of the dark harvest. Give me the strength!” With that last request the grey orc grabbed his bone spear from the tombstone it leaned against, thrusting it at the sky. The calm was once again broken, this time not by a breeze but a gale. Dark clouds decended from the east, rolling with thunder and red lightning. Grimmort felt a new power enter him. A sence of pourpose that filled his marrow. He could sense(see) his Gam’tra swirling around him in the tempest. It glowed with a deep purple light. An unseen force dropped him to his knees. The same voice of his vision returned, this time roaring from the storm. “Grow with the darkness until the harvest comes for you. Until then you are the reaper. Your path is laid before you, you need only the wit to see it!” With those last words thunder clapped with a fury only a god can summon. Grimmort was driven to the ground with a force that spilled his conciousness on the ground like blood… When he awoke, it was daylight. The grey orcs eyes burned with the intensity. To be continued.

Grimmort Bonespear

Diamond's Realm JackofDiamonds Grimmort