Name: Thoril "Brother" Pegason
Race: Daelkyr Half-Blood
Nationality: The Demon Wastes (Festering Holt)
Trade: Meldshaper (Totemist)
Personality: Growing up in and around the Holt within the Demon Wastes, where the strong take every advantage over the weak and at the most opportune moments, certainly didn't help Thoril's negative personality any. Whether it was something inherent amongst those of his kind or the general feeling of despair that hung about the city, he didn't know, but he's quite the pessimist as a result of this. This is the only facet of his personality he hasn't managed to better through experience with others. His dour, melancholy attitude has been brightened through the discovery of those who didn't care what he was, but who he was, but the overwhelming number of those he has encountered that were the opposite has cemented in his mind the belief that everyone he meets will shun him because he shares the blood of the daelkyr, even if they don't know that he does. At least, until proven otherwise. In truth, Thoril feels more at home with the beasts of nature than he does among other humanoids, finding their lack of judgment beyond instincts more endearing and enjoyable to be around...when they're not trying to kill him. He's got a bit of a temper problem, too, that he hasn't managed to completely tone down, not for lack of trying. Not exactly a conversationalist—and for good reason—he keeps to himself, trying not to attract any unwanted attention to himself. When it comes to laws and ethics, he follows the established norms whenever it suits him to do so. Other than this, he himself doesn't have any sort of personal code of conduct or system of moral values.
Life in the Holt, and in the Demon Wastes in general, saw to it that Thoril developed far above average skills in virtually every area. When you had to constantly watch your back, as well as know how to react when you failed to do so, you learned to improve. Fast. He had to be strong, he had to be fast, and when he wasn't fast enough, he had to be tough. When he wasn't fast enough, or tough enough, bad things happened. It was one of these bad things that resulted in him having to wear a mask for the rest of his life. Beneath the crudely fashioned bone mask lies a visage marred by the claws of a dolghast, scratched bone exposed where the creature's claws raked across his face, the flesh immediately surrounding the wound partially melted away and scarred permanently in place. Not a pretty sight. Despite this unfortunate facial wound, he has retained the ability to speak without impediment, though his vision has suffered a bit. Battle scars aside, Thoril is a muscularly-built man, much stronger than the average human. His skin is darkly tanned and he wears little beyond a breastplate made from darkwood and alchemically-treated darkleaves, donning only a backpack and a slightly poofy pair of trousers in addition to some bandage wraps on his forearms and shoulders. Lastly, permanently perched upon the back of his left hand is a small, beautiful scarab that looks like an exotic piece of jewelery. Closer inspection would reveal that the scarab is actually fused to his hand and very much alive, not that he ever lets people get close enough to tell.
Recollection: The dolghast lay in a mangled heap before him, bulette claws on his hands dripping with half-dead blood. The daelkyr half-blood, Thoril, bore numerous cuts and scratches from the aberration's corrupt claws, a particularly grievous wound gouged across his face. Had he not been a state of unbridled fury at the moment, he would be thanking the stars that he learned how to shape incarnum. His bulette claws allowed him to fight, his worm belt had hardened his skin, and his winged mantle had allowed him to keep clear of the creature at some crucial moments. Never would he have thought that what he had been learning would come in handy so soon. Of course, he wasn't expecting to encounter an abomination such as this out in the wastes, it was not one of the creatures he was used to.
Anger still making his blood boil, he indulged himself by mauling the corpse further, far beyond the point of recognition. As his fury ebbed away and the adrenaline coursing through his system gradually faded, he suddenly became aware of the overwhelming amount of pain he was suffering from. Collapsing to his knees, his hands pressed against his face in agony, he let out a tormented scream as he could feel the flesh on his face slowly dissolve. Too far from the Holt to seek any aid (not like he'd find much there, anyway), all he could do was fall to the barren wastes beneath his feet and wait for the pain to end. He wasn't lucky enough for it to be so great that he couldn't remain conscious, but nor was it fleeting. His vision was blurred, and it was difficult for him to notice the finer details of the world around him, not that there was many fine details to appreciate in the wastes. "Hey, hey. I know what you're doing. Stop it. You can't die. My brother's not allowed to die." A small voice invaded his mind, the sudden interruption numbing the pain somewhat.
The voice belonged to a little bug that lived on his hand, the symbiont that he had shared his entire life with, a scarab that he had named Ket. "I'm not going to die, that would..." he winced, the pain coming back full force as he spoke. "...be hazardous to my health." Removing the hand housing the scarab from his face, he held it just in front of his chest so it was within his limited, blurry sight. "Oof, brother, you look like you lost a fight with a knife-happy alchemist. I think that's gonna leave a mark." He didn't know why, but the pain faded to a bearable degree when Ket spoke...maybe because it was a distraction, sharing a mind with this creature. "Please keep talking." Thoril thought as he raggedly brought himself to his feet. With the pain lessened, he was able to think clearer, and he decided to do something about the problem Ket mentioned. As he dragged himself the few feet necessary to kneel down at the head of the dolghast's corpse, the scarab's voice again jabbed his mind. "Wait, you want me to keep talking? Wow, that thing must've hit you a lot harder than I thought. Normally, you can't stand—what are you doing?" Ket's voice went from amazement to curiosity. With one soulmelded claw firmly planted on the creature's mangled neck, he used his other hand to easily separate what was left of its head from its body with a sickening crack.
"Oh, gross! Did you forget that I'm ON the hand you're doing that with?" With all he needed from the body, Thoril used the claws he had created to separate the skullcap and clean off the rotten flesh, then he began less than gracefully shaping it into a crude mask, punching out eyeholes to see through. It still lightly dripped with some blood as he held it to his face. "Eww...I'm not even going to comment on how sick that must be." Ket mentally gagged; it was very human-sounding for a symbiont. With nothing to secure the mask in place, he just held it as he began the long trek back to town, praying to nothing that something did try to kill him on the way there. No such luck. "That thing's gonna stick to your face if you keep holding it there." Ket mused jokingly. "That's the idea..." He mentally replied, not an ounce of mirth in his voice this time. He hadn't even thought about whether or not that would work, it was just all he could do, being in the middle of nowhere and more than a day's walk from the Holt. The pain wasn't entirely allowing him to think straight.
Still more than half-a-day's travel by foot from home, Thoril's stamina left his body. His vision clouded, his mind fogged up, muffling Ket's sudden flurry of concerned speech, his soulmelds unraveled, and he unceremoniously fell to the barren ground, kicking up some of the volcanic sand in his landing. This was it. He was going to die out here.