Evil fighter cleric of Yurtrus
Grimmort 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.
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.