Gothos

Half-Orc Warlock (Undying)

Criminal

Gothos was a thug.

Not many other ways in life for an half-orc, son of a camp follower and whatever orc warlord had taken her as slave. And half-breed were not treated much better. Weaker than a pureblood orc, target of abuse and mockery. Until they were given the chance to prove themselves in battle.

Gothos still remembered that day. Bare-chested, a battleaxe in his hands, screaming at the opposing horde. A thug, but still a boy of no more than thirteen. And in the deepest part of his soul, a coward. As his tribe charged in, he slowed his pace, then lost himself among the crowds. Then he left.

He washed the tribal paints off, made his way south, starving, but eventually finding a farm. He stole clothes, avoiding the farmers. Fighting was just not his way. He was a different kind of thug. A sly one.

He had heard from his mother about the city were she was born, Luskan. Somehow he made his way there, tried to fit in. He used what he learned from his tribe, not the fighting skill, but the ability to project a threat. He would collect old debts, threaten the weak and the meek, prey on those that could not defend themselves.

Still, there was a danger to it, so when one of the wizards of the Host Tower proposed to hire him, he didn't think twice about it. And the job was just so much better: sneak into a graveyard, dig out a few corpses, bring them back to the necromancer. Dead bodies didn't struggle, didn't beg, didn't do anything at all.

Then the wizard died. Wizards were fools, Gothos knew. Life was already full of traps and dangers, no need to mess with fiends and spells. He found the wizard in his laboratory, an empty husk devoid of all life and blood. The room smelled of rotten corpses and graveyard, but so did everything around the old mage.

Gothos looked around, for something to steal that he understood, something he could sell without losing his mind, or his soul. He smirked. Don't figure my soul is worth that much, he thought.

ALLOW ME TO DISAGREE

The voice had come from the dead wizard, he was sure. He stepped back, damn wizard, causing trouble even as a corpse. A black, oily smoke came out from the mouth and the eyes of the corpse, rapidly engulfing Gothos. And then he knew.

He was fucked.

Retired (session 15): He enjoys his ill-gained riches in the great city of Waterdeep.