DM Handle: Kura
IC Name: Dhjorn
Race: Fade
Tribe: Dhjin’nen
Appearance: Dhjorn is lithe, even by Myrddraall standards. His body is a whipcord, thin and flexible, yet strong. A pair of crisscrossing scars covers his face, marking the place in between where his eyes would be. They are thin cuts, having dodged most of the attack that caused the wound. He stands full grown at 6’4, a bit above average, even for his shadow-touched kin. Weapon of choice: Twin long daggers.

Character HistoryEdit

Dhjorn was born of the Dhjin’nen tribe, the assassins of the trolloc world. His mother of course died giving birth to the Neverborn, his father watching with fascination at the pasty white child born of his panther-snouted mate. When he went to poke it with his finger, Dhjorn linked and was cast a lifeline.

His father was already fairly solitary, an assassin’s life tending to birth such tendencies. The addition of a fadeling only strengthened this habit, making him rely on his tribe only when necessary, or when the blight was particularly ferocious. Still, word got out of the Lurk, though he had managed to avoid too open of an investigation until he around eight years of age. By then the young fadeling had already begun training his body, working on speed over strength, careful to avoid too much muscle growth, which was easy as his body simply wasn’t ready for bulging muscles.

A cat-snouted trolloc took particular interest in the eyeless child, spying on him when he thought no one was looking, shying away when Dhjorn’s weak gaze was cast on him, but just barely. One night, in his tenth year in the blight, his caretaker was away on one of his missions. The fadeling was nervous; he always was in these situations. His father was his protector, as he knew he couldn’t defend himself from a trolloc yet, having received only minimal training with a rusted sword. The cat snouted trolloc entered his dwelling. Dhjorn picked up the blade and turned his gaze on him, the trolloc laughed.

“No no little neverborn. I smart, I know what you grow to be, Narsath no want a Neverborn taking his mind.” The lithe, as far as trollocs were concerned, trolloc drew a pair of twin long daggers of quality steel; Dhjorn’s terrified brain somehow reasoned he had taken them on a border raid. The Trolloc leapt forward, his daggers coming across his body in an ‘X’ doubleslash. The fadeling let out a hiss, stumbling backwards, thrusting out the shoddy blade instinctively, and feeling bright lines of pain across his face.

In addition to the pain however, he felt warmth spreading over him, as well as a crushing weight on his legs. He stared for a moment at the mass upon him, a death snarl on the beast’s face, the old blade lost under the Trolloc. Taking a bit of time, the fadeling managed to work his legs free, and picked up the twin daggers the cat-snout had used.

When his father returned, he found the beast sliced to pieces, his small dwelling covered in blood and pieces of flesh, Dhjorn sitting in the back, the daggers crossed and bloodied in his lap. He held them out to either side, gore dripping from the long blades, “I want you to teach me how to use these, and use them well. I won’t be so defenseless again… father.” His voice was low for his race, and cold. He was determined to take on his father’s skills, and drastically improve on them, honing his blade work and his stealth every day. Every neverborn was a warrior, this one however, meant to remain true to his roots.

An Assassin who walked the shadows.

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