Harbinger

Harbinger

• Started fighting approx. 2008-2010 then a LONG break until 2024
  

He/Him:

Mittelmarch: [[1]]

Human: [[2]]

Lore

In the shadowed depths of a forsaken temple, cloaked figures chanted incantations under the moon's eerie glow. Among them was a young woman, her face etched with fear and resignation. She was a mere vessel, a pawn in the cult's dark machinations. The air crackled with arcane energy as the ritual reached its climax.

In that moment, the boundaries between worlds blurred, and the entity sought to manifest itself through mortal flesh. It was a being of immense power, whispered of in ancient tomes and forbidden lore. But something went awry in the ritual, or perhaps fate intervened in its own mysterious way.

As the cult's chanting rose to a crescendo, the woman gave birth amidst the chaos and the surge of eldritch energy. From her womb emerged a child, marked with the taint of the otherworldly. The cult, seeing this as a sign of their success, bestowed upon the child the moniker "Harbinger" – for he was destined to herald the entity's coming.

Raised in the dark embrace of the cult, Harbinger knew nothing of love or compassion. His childhood was a twisted tapestry of rituals and indoctrination, his mind molded by the whispers of ancient forces. He was taught to embrace his role as the harbinger, the chosen vessel through which their dark patron would awaken.

Yet amidst the shadows and the chants, a spark of defiance flickered within him. Deep down, a part of Harbinger rebelled against his predetermined fate. He questioned the cult's teachings, yearning to uncover the truth behind his existence and the entity he was meant to awaken.

As he grew older, Harbinger felt a growing sense of unease. He sensed that his destiny was not as clear-cut as the cult proclaimed, that perhaps he held the key to a different path, one of his own choosing.

Shortly after his 14th birthday, a reckoning came to the cult. Crusaders of some kind, drawn to their heresy, descended into their camp. As the flames of destruction engulfed the cult's sanctuary, Harbinger's world crumbled around him. The echoes of screams and clashes of steel filled the air as the cultists met their grim fate at the hands of their assailants. In the chaos, Harbinger's instincts drove him into the dense thicket of the surrounding forest, his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline.

As he stumbled through the underbrush, a dense fog began to coalesce around him, wrapping him in its opaque embrace. The Mist, whispered of in hushed tones among the cult, had come. It was said to be a realm of shifting realities, a labyrinth of possibilities where time and space held little sway.

Lost and disoriented, Harbinger pressed onward, guided by a primal instinct to survive. With each step, the world around him warped and twisted, morphing into surreal landscapes that defied comprehension. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and whispers echoed in the depths of the Mist, taunting him with promises of revelation and damnation.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months as Harbinger wandered the shifting mazes of the Mist. He encountered strange beings and eldritch entities, each more bizarre and enigmatic than the last. Some offered him guidance, while others sought to ensnare him in their webs of deceit and madness.

Through sheer determination and cunning, Harbinger learned to navigate the treacherous currents of the Mist. But amidst the ever-changing vistas of the Mist, one thing remained constant – the burning question that haunted his every step. What was the true nature of the entity he was meant to awaken? And what role did he truly play in the grand scheme of things?

Eventually, The Mist spit him out into a harsh landscape where he had to learn to adapt quickly. Sweltering Summers, biting cold in the Winter, and the ever roaming bands of marauders all proved hazards that should have killed Harbinger one hundred times over. He learned to scrape by with rudimentary fighting, thieving, and deceit. For five years he lived this way, but quickly learned it was not sustainable. It seemed every year the threats became greater, with more extreme weather and more vicious warriors. Harbinger needed to get stronger to survive, and so he set off to find a place to hone his skills.

He ended up in the Northern Steppes, and going by the name “Tzen” to protect himself from any crusaders who may still be in pursuit of him, he learned to fight. He was welcomed into this realm, and was brought under the tutelage of a warrior, a pirate, and a barbarian. With his three teachers, he learned the art of war. He found camaraderie, relative safety, and a place to call home. He tested his mettle against the strongest warriors of the Northern Steppes. Every time he was knocked down, it was a new lesson to be learned. He fought and learned like this for a few years, but fate had other plans for the young man.

The Mists rolled in once again, but this time while Harbinger slept. It sought him out, as opposed to its usual method of snatching folks who get themselves lost. This time, The Mist did not release Harbinger so willingly. It kept him there for many years. Over a decade he wandered The Mists, bolstering his resolve and mental fortitude to resist the temptations of whatever it is that lurks just beyond sight in that unknowable place. In that time, his sword arm may have grown weak, but his mind has grown sharper. He has made peace with his role as Harbinger, leaving his previous alias in the Mists. Now he has been spit back out of the labyrinth, this time he is greeted by flags and markers denoting the realm of Mittelmarch.