Heresiarch Uritel defiqe, Malice of Urrem'tier, a Human.
He has deep wrinkles under pensive amber eyes. His honey hair is shoulder length and curly, and is worn arranged in tight dreadlocks. He has copper skin.
He appears to be aged.
He has an elaborate arrangement of piercings in the flesh surrounding both of his eyes. Trines of blackened iron spikes tipped in amber are positioned above and below each eye, while a short, double-ended spike is inserted just above the bridge of his nose.
He has a tattoo of a grinning demon peering down sardonically at a group of hapless warriors on his back.
Light filters into the smoky barroom as the door opens and a cloaked elven woman enters. Glancing around the room she takes in the patrons, plucked from the seedy underbelly of the city, almost as if someone was setting a scene for a tale laden with mystery and intrigue. Sauntering up to the bar, and only tripping once or twice, the woman settles herself upon a barstool before gazing at the elven barmaid, with meaning.
A sly smile plays across the lips of the buxom barmaid as she eyes the newcomer, she grabs a pint from the shelf below the bar and fills it to the top with golden ale and places it in front of the woman. "Here you go, Sy... stranger." Giving a serious nod, she begins to walk away when the woman speaks.
"I am here seeking out information," she says, a little too loudly. The other patrons shift uncomfortably, whispering among themselves and eyeing the door. "I was told I could find out something about a man here."
Nodding solemnly, the barmaid adjusts her corset, fidgeting with the restrictive garment, betraying her discomfort with the garb. "I could help you,” she replies in hushed tones, “for a price."
Sliding an envelope across the bar, the cloaked questioner speaks softly, " I am seeking information about the cleric, Uritel. I was told he frequents such places. I was also told you would want this." Nodding at the envelope she watches as the other woman picks it up and glances at its contents, before tucking it in the top of her corset.
"So, Uritel is whom you seek," the barmaid asks, wincing at the awkwardness of the words.
"He is," the woman says with a solemn nod.
"He is like the night. A cleric by trade, he threw off the bond of holy work and has walked on, a loner in the seedy underbelly of the city," the barmaid recites, glancing at a parchment tucked in her apron. "His parents were brutally murdered in front of him when he was a small child. As his father lied dying at his feet, he begged him to undertake the holy work. His mother, bleeding and broken could only nod as her soul crossed the threshold to the starry road. "
Leaning in, the woman listens intently as the story unfolds, hardly noticing the elothean woman that has taken the seat next to her.
"Young, Uritel did not handle their deaths well. He vowed to avenge them, but, it did not really fit within the guidelines of the cleric guild. He was constantly fighting against the elders as they sought to lead him in the right direction. Often frightening them with the anger behind his spells.
"He kept to himself, wealthy because of the legacy left to him, he was a homebody and made few friends. Some say he has a lair, a place where he can hide away, he trusts few and loves even less. He is a soldier, fighting his own war by night in the city where crime never sle...."
"Why is it so dark in here?" A group of dwarven men burst through the door, talking loudly as they make their way to a corner table. The commotion breaking the din of the room as they look around at the other patrons, looks of confusion on their faces.
A woman in an apron rushes to them men's table and whispers to them, the group glances at the cloaked woman at the bar and chuckle before settling into their seats, doing their best to mimic the scowls of those around them.
Glancing around the room, the barmaid pulls at her corset, fidgeting uncomfortably under the gaze of the elothean woman. Pulling the parchment from her apron she glances over it muttering under her breath. "Soldier, dead parents, lair, night..."
Taking a drink from the stein in front of her, the Elven woman's face turns a shade of brilliant red as she begins to choke on the potent ale. Blinking back tears, she whispers "I thought we were going with tea?"
An ironic smile plays across her face as the barmaid leans close and responds, "I wear a corset, you drink the hardest ale I can find."
"So, he is a mysterious man of mystery then?"
"The most," the barmaid nods trying hard to smile. "Mystery wrapped up in an enigma with a dash of handsome ruggedness..."
"Oh my Gods," the elothean woman gasps as she recognizes the barmaid. "Caidie what are you wearing?"
"My name is Lola," the barmaid responds, dissolving into laughter.
"You are horrible at following a script," the elven woman exclaims, pushing her hood back and stomping her foot.
“Synamon, what are you doing?”
"Forcing me to wear this stupid corset," Caidie declares, still laughing.
“We are making Uritel a man of mystery,” Synamon exclaims, giggling at the Elothean woman’s confused expression. “You were married to him Arianah! You know the story!"
“Wait, the dead parents and vengeance," Arianah begins, gazing from one woman to the other. "His parents are just retired, Tesla and Foxxwen live in Aesry!"
"He might have a lair," Synamon exclaims, breaking into fits of giggles.
"Sure, we lived there when we were married. We had a butler named Fred-Al, and blight bat problem too," Arianah says trying to keep a straight face.
"This is serious stuff!" Synamon stomps her foot and attempts to glare at the men and women seated around her as they all begin to laugh. The waitresses giggle, completely breaking character, as they pull the curtains back allowing light to filter back into the not so dark and dingy barroom.
Shaking her head, Caidie reaches under the bar and pulls out a pink and white striped togball jersey and slips it over her head. Looking significantly more comfortable, she leaps over the bar and gives Synamon a playful shove. "I don't know why we had to do all this. He is really pretty interesting on his own."
"Oh sure, a Cleric that dabbles in all kinds of magic and doesn't even cleric anymore," Synamon says with a sarcastic smile. "Oh, wait, that is pretty interesting."
Laughing, Arianah says, "I always thought he was at least a little interesting."
The preceding tale is brought to you by the player of Synamon with or with out the permission of Uritel. Please remember it is OOC to call him bat-brain or ask where Robin is, but he is like the night, and awesome.