Dragan Vasska

He was born to a middle-class family in Lyrabar. He was named Dragan Vasska, his mother's father's name and his father's surname. His father was a tailor and his mother a devoted wife. A gifted youth, he was well-schooled by tutors, and showed some potential for the Art. At age 9, he was apprenticed to one Zarina Kclur, a brilliant Damaran sorceress recently relocated to warmer climes.

Zarina was a young prodigy, barely 10 years older than he, but already a master of many disciplines. She had sped through the tutelage of several trainers, and had set forth to the rich Sea of Fallen Stars to seek her fortune. Unable to find many employers who took her seriously, she instead sought to build easy coin through education.

For 3 years, she taught him as well as she could, which is not to say well. Her Art was a very personal thing, difficult to described, and even when adequately explained, her methods didn't work in his hands. He learned some small skill from the wizardly lore she'd managed to memorize, but lacked discipline in his studies, as she was not a hard teacher and rarely forced him to do anything he didn't want to do.

Later in his training, she took on additional apprentices to help fund her lavish lifestyle. They, too, had little luck under her tutelage, until she tried a new approach. She bade them to compete, forcing them to apply what little they knew in spell contests, riddles, and even mock battles.

Some thrived under this approach, discovering their magic intuitively as she had. Some, like Rhodes, resorted to mundane but clever tricks to undermine their opponents. She disapproved, but was lax in disciplining him. Unable to motivate through threat of punishment, she instead offered rewards, lavishing her not inconsiderable attentions on the boys who performed most admirably.

Smitten by her nubile charms as much as the rest, Rhodes put himself to the task of discovering magical power at any cost. He learned of forbidden arts, which she would not even speak of; so he skulked about to find anyone who could provide the knowledge, buying, trading, and stealing his way into possession of some considerable lore.

He won many contests through use of the Dark Arts, gaining much attention from his mistress, until she learned of his dark deeds. When confronted, he panicked; his sources had demanded secrecy, on pain of death, but he doubted he could resist her attempts to ferret out their identity. He attempted to use his magic on her, to make her forget the whole thing. Unsurprisingly, she repelled his feeble attempts, and summoned magicks to put him out of his misery.

In his panic, he could think only of self-defense. With a concealed dagger, he cut her throat, stifling her spells. Shocked, he fled the scene, never to return.

Rhodes returned home, explaining only that his mistress had expelled him for his failure. Hoping to appease his parents and make them soon forget about the whole affair, he dove eagerly into his father's trade, despite having no knack for it.

His deeds soon caught up with him. Perhaps motivated by the financial aggravation of the other apprentices' families, a local magistrate pursued the affair with some diligence. When the city guard came to question him, and laid bare the matter to his parents' shock, he fled again, unwilling to face justice.

He took refuge in the one place he thought his deeds would go unpunished, amidst the dark magicians from whom he'd gained such vile magicks.

In the cellars beneath the Boatswain's Delight, a humble dive in the dock ward, a small cult of exiled magicians met occasionally to exchange forbidden lore. Banished for their affinity, these warlocks found kindred spirits only among others of their ilk, swearing their deeds to secrecy on pain of death. To gain entry amongst their number, Rhodes allowed himself to be bound by a geas, which would rend his tongue useless should he betray their identities.

A motley crew, the warlocks fashioned themselves The Night Watch. Less than a dozen in number, with no strong unity of race, age, or background, the Watchmen were arguably penitent warlocks, seeking an outlet for their dark power. Some were true psychopaths, whose thirst for more dark power could be quenched only with the sobering reality of the danger they were in; any mage or knight worth his salt in Impiltur would flatten them in a second for so much as knowing the names of their spells.

At the core of the group was the notion that their power should be used to good end; that, like all Arts, it was a gift, to be used for the betterment of humanity, not squandered due to prejudice. Moreover, the inherent darkness of their magic threatened to claim their souls, and the only cure was to use their power to good end, to purify it through noble purpose. Of course, their power was useful only for death and destruction, so said purpose was necessarily bloody.

Thus, they took to vigilantism, lurking about the seedy wards of Lyrabar by night, and executing street justice on those who evaded its notice. Mostly, they operated amongst the lower classes, slaying thugs, frightening thieves from their marks, and hunting down those who committed crimes without witnesses. They didn't always kill; in many cases, they used curses to force wrongdoers into contrition, or intimidation to enlighten evildoers as to the fate that awaited them. Occasionally, they even dallianced with the upper crust, striking fear into the hearts of corrupt merchants who worked their sailors and stevedores to the bone for unfair wages. Truly, they were the saints of the docks.

Amongst the Watchmen, Rhodes was known as Leyne, the Infernal for "Black", as each was assigned a color for their alias. He was so named by Surya ("Red"), the group's leader, for his "black heart" as the youngest murderer among them. It was a tease, but one that cut him deep. Regardless, the name stuck, and he learned to enjoy the Watchmens' black humor over the years he lived among them.

Not all saw them as defenders of the downtrodden. The city guard considered them dangerous vigilantes, psychopaths disguising murder with a thin veil of justification, and began to piece together their isolated acts into a coherent picture. But the law wasn't the least of their worries.

When the assassins of Bhaal learned of their freelance, unpaid murders, their days became numbered.

The Cult of the Mask of Death has long been the predominant order of assassins in Impiltur. Many political shifts in the kingdom owe were caused by assassins of the Mask, working both as a contracted killer and as the arm of Bhaal. The Bhaalyn believe that all murders strengthen Bhaal, and fear of death is crucial to Bhaal's glory. Though they kill in secret, as any assassins seek to, the actual deaths are quite public; they do not accept contracts to "make it look like an accident" or to simply make targets disappear.

While the Bhaalyn favor murder in all its forms, the Mask is also a business, a guild of assassins that has lasted for centuries. Part of their success comes from their monopoly; most would not deal with the Mask if they had other, less terrifying choices. And thus, all competition must be destroyed.

And so the Mask came to the Night Watch, executing all those who did not have the good fortune not to attend that evening, save one. For some reason they would not divulge, they stayed their hand against Rhodes, and instead disabled him and brought him to their secret headquarters.

There, Rhodes met with the High Primate of the Lyrabar cult, who said that Bhaal had chosen him. That he must train with them, learn their ancient arts, and rise to become one of the greatest assassins in the cult's history...or be returned to Bhaal forthwith.

Unwilling to die, Rhodes chose the former, and was subjected to years of painful, difficult, and soul-crushing training. The Bhaalyn made every effort to crush his rebellious spirit, to quash his regard for humanity, and to make him fully embrace the cause of Bhaal.

At the arts themselves, he was a quick study. Nimble, clever, and quick on his feet, he was a natural at their combat styles and the art of stealth; patience, on the other hand, was never his virtue, and his instructors made him suffer greatly to impose upon him the necessary skills to empty his thoughts and be possessed only of his cause: to kill.

At the conclusion of his training, he was called upon to consummate his marriage to Bhaal, to conduct a true, sacred assassination. His target was a woman, a struggling, single mother of two young babes. She had committed no crime, and earned no bounty given to the guild; she was simply an innocent, a lamb for the slaughter, an opportunity for Rhodes to prove his dedicated, or to be slain for his failure.

When he entered her home, he froze. Gazing upon sleeping form, he was paralyzed with indecision. His humanity, his regard for the sanctity of life, long crushed under the weight of the Mask's heel, railed against the injustice he was about to do. And yet, outside waited many seasoned assassins, each more than a match for one rebellious neophyte. They expected him to fail, and had thought of every possible avenue of escape. Should he reject his task, she would die anyway, gruesomely before him, before his own torturous death. His soul, long promised to Bhaal, would continue its eternal torment in Khalas, the Throne of Blood.

The girl awakened to the cries of her babe, and was stricken not with fear, but with resignation. "I dreamed of this night," she explained. "The gods sent you to free me."

Stunned, he could only do as his creed commanded. "Bhaal awaits thee. Bhaal embraces thee. None escape Bhaal."

"What is the name of my slayer?" she asked, rising to her feet and casting off her gown, bare before her death.

"...I have no name. Tonight, I earn it. You must die."

"Surely you were not born nameless. It matters not, for I will never speak to another again."

"...Dragan. Once, I was called Dragan. Now I am only this."

"I am Karenina. I was a whore..." she gestured to the sleeping babes, "until they came to me. Now I do not know what I am."

"I cannot promise they will be spared."

"You spare them a life of misery. They die innocent. This eve I confessed of all my sins. I am ready to die."

He could not understand what he saw. All mortals were meant to fear death, to cling useless to their lifeblood, dying in terror of the cold reality of Bhaal. This woman would never be His; she was unafraid, and pure. She may have lived as a whore, but before he saw the figure of an angel, a sacrifice for which Bhaal was unworthy.

"I...I cannot."

"You would doom me to become an example of your failure? Must I suffer overmuch?"

"No...I..." Outside, he heard the sounds of the approaching assassins. He knew he had taken too long, and they would assume the worst. He must make good his kill, or face a messy death and eternal damnation.

He chose option C. He let loose every restraint, every fear, every last shred of compunction holding back his dark gifts. His body was suffused with dark power, growing and mutating into a horrific monster. As the murderers streamed inside, they were torn apart by the fury of the Ravager. He became a killing machine, impervious to blows, his spiked skin turning the blades and arrows of his would-be slayers upon themselves. With profane alacrity, he made meat of the squadron of elite assassins, splattering their entrails across the humble home.

With the threat subsided, he saw only the blood-spattered, nude form of Karenina, placid and pristine amidst the carnage. Her eyes betrayed no fear, only a strangely profound expression. "It was all true. The gods truly await."

"Run," he growled. "Run from here before I destroy you. More will come."

"Where will I go?"

He pondered, fighting the blood boiling within him, blood that screamed for her death. "Seek you the tailor Ivan Vasska. He is honorable and kind." The though of his long-estranged parents came as a stabbing rebuke for his many failures.

Now beyond the limits of her divine vision, Karenina succumbed to the terror of her situation and fled. Fighting with all his strength against the instinct to follow her, to hunt her down and tear her limb from limb, he turned his attention toward the Mask. He knew he would find no solace, no freedom, while they yet lived.

The Ravager tore into the Mask's headquarters. As the bodies of the assassins and priests were rent and scattered across wall and ceiling, the High Primate looked in awe. This magnificent manifestation brought on religious ecstasy. The carnage He wrought was truly divine. In death, his face was frozen in pure joy.

And the dark power left Rhodes in a pool of blood, surrounded by grisliest death.

In the coming days, Rhodes would search unsuccessfully for the survivor's of the Mask's brutal attack on the Watchmen. He was saddened to hear that none had heard of such vigilantes in some years. Briefly, he took upon that old mantle himself, but found no solace in it; with every kill, his curses bade him to dedicate the murder to Bhaal. His noble crusade was dulled by its purpose; he knew he killed to sate the hell-god who owned his life, not to make the streets safe for the downtrodden.

One night, he summoned the strength to return home. By night, he peered into the windows of the house where he was born. He chided himself on his surprise to see a teenage boy, of an age to have followed his unruly departure. He appeared to be dressed in the armor of the town guard--obviously destined to be a man of worth, unlike himself.

Within the home, he also saw Karenina, in the midst of sewing a beautiful dress, under the watchful tutelage of his father. The man seemed ancient, so aged by the waste that was his son--not to mention twenty-five years since his prime. In his eyes, he saw something he'd never seen himself: approval. He had opened his home to Karenina, and would be rewarded with a fine successor, someone who would do him proud. Perhaps he might marry her to his boy, obviously an upstanding gentleman.

He couldn't enter that home. He couldn't bring back years of pain. He couldn't even exist anymore--not to his father, whose face had shown with such disappointment on that fated day. Not to his mother, who wept not for the fate her son would know for his murder, but at the betrayal of knowing her Dragan was a monster.

A monster who, not a tenday ago, rent the bodies of three dozen trained warriors, splitting their flesh from bone with clawed hand and fang, reveling in the blood streaming from their ruined forms as a maiden delights in a pure spring rain.

There was no redemption for him here. He did not deserve such things, and never would again. He had no friends, no family.

All that awaited him were roads.

• The Black Cabal
• Cheslav Voltinic
• Imuriel