Name: Marak Lovon

Country of Origin: Murandy

Physical Description

A man of average height(5'6), green eyes. Plain brown hair, slightly curly. Marak appears to be looking down on everyone he sees, however, he can easily become servile should the circumstances demand it. No birthmarks, tattoos, or otherwise identifying marks, apart from a scar in his lower back. He is lithe, and looks slightly fey, like an arrogant, strange not-quite-human creature out of a tale, just different enough to draw eyes.


Marak was a gentle, small boy, who was raised by two loving parents, who raised him to learn to heal the sick, and aid the needy. A charitable child, he learned no forms of fighting, but was quite handy with a sling, often scaring away ravens, whom he did not wish to harm. His mother was a maidservant, his father the Lord of a minor House in Murandy, both of whom loved him dearly. However, his father's estates had few guards, and, one day, out of the swirling chaos that was Murandy, descended over eighty bandits. Marak was out, in Lugard with a nurse that day, and did not come home for another two days. When he arrived home, his manor was abandoned, looted, and stripped, and his fields burnt. He wept for his parents, wept tears of rage, and sorrow, wept for hours.

As a boy of a mere fourteen years old at the time, what he did was understandable when the bandits came back. Three of them, to find anything the others may've missed. At first, he coldly got his sling, and hit the first bandit entering the house on the temple, killing him in an instant. The second bandit grabbed him, and he channeled, not knowing what he was doing, using a tiny stream of Air to rip open the bandit's throat. The third bandit turned to run, and he grabbed up one of the bandit's knives, and threw it at him, hitting the bandit in the small of the back. As the bandit fell, not dead, Marak grabbed the knife out, and, indeed, made the bandit regret, for his last few minutes of life, that he had never been a bandit.

A few days later, it came to him. He had channeled. He could not remember how, exactly, he did, but he could remember what he did. He broke out in a cold sweat. The Creator had no meaning to him. The Creator had allowed his parents to die, and, in doing so, brought upon a fate he would not wish upon any man. Dejectedly, he walked the long journey into Lugard, scarcely resting on the way.

Perhaps his dead eyes attracted the Darkfriend, perhaps his deadly demeanour. A man drew him into an alley, and told him about the glories of the Great Lord. Marak listened disinterestedly. The Darkfriend spoke heatedly to him about the revenge he could take on the world for betraying him. Marak's boredom faded, and turned to interest. He asked the Darkfriend: "What could a man who could channel do for the Great Lord?". The Darkfriend grinned, and told him, that the Great Lord could protect him from the madness, and grant him immortality. Marak's ambition was heated. He quickly cut the Darkfriend's throat, stole fifteen gold crowns, a small fortune, by any accounts, and set off for Shayol Ghul. He once again had a purpose, had a means of carrying out his revenge...

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