Arvid the Red
Description
Arvid manifests as a towering, statuesque figure clad in regal robes of deep crimson. His posture is always unnaturally still—so much so that lesser beings often mistake him for a lifelike statue until his gaze turns upon them. His presence is oppressive, not due to noise or movement, but because of the sheer weight of expectation and command he radiates. There is no wasted gesture, no unnecessary motion. When Arvid moves, it is with purpose; when he speaks, it is with finality. Every word is a verdict, and every glance an edict. His face bears the timeless beauty of the undead—refined, chiseled, and utterly bloodless. His skin is pale not like marble, but like the drained husk of something once alive, with subtle blue undertones of blue veins visible beneath the surface. His cheekbones are high and sharp, and his jaw is square, lending a noble severity to his features. His eyes burn like coals beneath a sheen of frost, gleaming crimson with the flicker of divine malice. They do not blink. His long, dark lashes give him an almost serene expression, broken only when his gaze sharpens into focus and reveals the predator beneath. Arvid's hair is slick and dark, nearly black, swept back and bound with silver clasps, as though a mockery of his current form. He wears a mantle of woven bloodcloth, stitched from offerings given in ritual by his high priests. The fabric shimmers faintly in dim light, as though recalling the lives spent to craft it. Beneath this cloak, his armor glints through—lacquered black plate etched with scripture, polished to a mirror's gleam where fresh blood never stains. His gloves are crimson leather, each fingertip sharpened with inlaid bone to serve as both ornament and weapon. The air around Arvid is unnaturally cool, not with the chill of death but with the sterile detachment of something beyond mortality. Wherever he treads, the subtle scent of iron and crushed rose petals follows. Shadows cling to him longer than they should, stretching unnaturally at his feet, and mirrors shatter when he walks near. Mortal eyes struggle to perceive his true form, often glimpsing half-remembered symbols of dominion and sacrifice floating behind him—phantom banners, dripping quills, and the ghostly silhouettes of kneeling supplicants. To witness Arvid is to be judged, and to be judged it to be weighed—and most are found wanting.Personality
Arvid is a being of supreme control, both over others and over himself. His mind is a fortress of strategy and discipline, forged across centuries of undeath and solidified by his ascent into godhood. He weighs every word, every decision, and every consequence with the precision of a judge and the foresight of a tactician. To Arvid, emotion is not something to be indulged—it is a variable to be measured and, where necessary, suppressed. His followers are not inspired by warmth or love but by fear, loyalty, and the ironclad certainty that his plans will succeed. Where other deities rally armies with charisma or miracles, Arvid commands with law, leverage, and blood-bound obligation. He is profoundly pragmatic, holding little regard for ideals that cannot be weaponized. Justice, freedom, mercy—these are luxuries that mortals cannot afford, distractions that lead only to ruin. Arvid sees the world as a ledger of transactions, oaths, and power exchanges. If a war saves a thousand lives by sacrificing a hundred, it is justified. If a tyrant's grip prevents a worse chaos, then the tyrant is a necessary evil—or perhaps not evil at all. He is not without a moral code, but his morality is rooted in efficiency and stability. He abhors chaos not because it is wrong, but because it is wasteful. Despite his cold demeanor, Arvid is not without respect for others. He values cunning, loyalty, and ambition above all else. Those who challenge him with cleverness, outmaneuver his pawns, or twist his own laws to their benefit are not punished—in fact, they may be rewarded. To Arvid, such individuals are assets, tools worthy of refinement and elevation. He offers power freely to those who seek it, but always at a cost: a cost written in contracts, bound by blood, and sealed with his divine mark. His cults do not preach blind faith—they preach results. Arvid does not demand obedience out of reverence, but out of the understanding that to follow him is to win. He is capable of cruelty, but never indulges in it needlessly. Torture is a tool. Execution is a message. Betrayal is a breach of terms, not a moral failing. Arvid is meticulous in how he delivers punishment, often allowing oaths to unfold toward ruin without lifting a finger, simply allowing the weight of broken promises to collapse upon the guilty. In his eyes, no one is ever truly innocent—only those who have not yet been tested. And once tested, they are measured by one standard: did they fulfill their purpose? Even among the divine, Arvid stands apart. He maintains a cold respect for his creator, Ismaraun, but does not revere him. Arvid sees himself not as a subordinate but as the next iteration—more precise, more principled, more effective. He holds little patience for chaotic gods or those driven by passion rather than principle. To mortals, he offers structure. To the undead, he offers unity. And to all who enter into his service, he offers only one truth: power is not a gift. It is a bargain.Abilities
Powers
Arvid holds dominion over blood, undeath, and loyalty. He cannot overpower his creator—Ismaraun—but seeks to outgrow his shackles. He holds sway over all forms of intelligent undead, but particularly vampires. He fights against Krivun and Zalarrna, seeking control over greater types of undead. Arvid specializes in structure—his undead do not rise in mindless hordes, but in disciplined legions. He can raise vast forces of the undead with a mere thought, but his true strength lies in the order he imposes upon them, transforming death into an extension of empire. Undead who serve him do so not as puppets, but as soldiers in an eternal campaign—tacticians, lieutenants, and governors bound by chain of command. More than a master of undeath, Arvid is a god of lineage, bloodlines, and sacred inheritance. He alone can grant the Crimson Gift, a divine strain of vampirism that bestows supernatural power while binding the recipient to his will through inherited compulsion. These “bloodmarked” mortals and vampire lords form a noble caste beneath him, each one a ruler of their own domain in life or unlife, but all tethered to Arvid’s divine ledger. Through these gifts, Arvid shapes generations—controlling not only the living but the lineage they leave behind. In addition, his dominion over oaths is absolute. Any creature that forges a pact with Arvid, even unknowingly, becomes subject to his divine law: oaths sealed in his name become immutable, enforced by curses and compulsions that shatter body and soul should they be broken. Arvid does not forgive betrayal. He ensures it never happens twice.Combat
Arvid enters battle not as a berserker or brute, but as a cold and calculating executioner. His combat style is a seamless fusion of martial precision and blood magic. Every strike he delivers is measured, every motion purposeful, designed to both cripple and command. He wields Crimson Verdict, which does more than simply kill those it strikes down—it binds them. Those struck by it feel an overwhelming compulsion to obey, their will sapped and bent by the divine weight of Arvid's authority. Each cut is not just an injury, but a commandment, enforcing silence, surrender, and servitude. On the battlefield, Arvid is more than a combatant—he is a general incarnate. With a mere thought, he can rouse entire legions of undead from shallow graves or forgotten mass burials, assembling them into disciplined formations of vampiric knights, skeletal tacticians, and dread courtiers. These forces act with eerie unity, directed not by instinct but by strategy, as if each one shares a fragment of his calculating mind. His avatar is immune to all mortal frailties—plagues, toxins, and wounds that would fell demigods are meaningless to him. Even when his physical form is destroyed, it is not true death; his divine essence retreats to the Crimson Bastion, sealed within a blood-soaked crypt beyond time, awaiting the proper moment to rise again and enforce his will once more. To oppose Arvid in battle is not merely to face a god of war, but to challenge a perfectionist tyrant who never fights without a plan already in motion.Possessions
Crimson Verdict
Crimson Verdict is no mere weapon—it is a declaration. Forged from the femur of a forgotten demigod who dared challenge Arvid during his rise to divinity, the glaive serves as both relic and reminder of Arvid's ruthless rise. The shaft gleams with a deep, dark sheen, appearing slick with blood even when untouched, and intricate carvings of oaths, pacts, and broken promises spiral from its base to its wicked, curved blade. This weapon has presided over the fall of empires and the coronation of undead kings. In Arvid's hands, it is less a tool of slaughter and more a ceremonial instrument of judgement—an extension of his divine will. Those struck by it find not only their bodies wounded, but their very minds and soul inscribed into the ledger of his law. The glaive is whispered about in mortal courts and undead crypts alike. In the myths of his followers, it is said that Crimson Verdict "listens" to the final words of those it slays, recording them silently into a tome bound in skin, hidden within Arvid's realm. Others believe that the blade drinks not blood, but intent—savording defiance, treachery, and regret. It is never drawn in haste, for Arvid believes every blow must be warranted, every death justified. When raised in his grasp, it casts no shadow, only a crimson light that flickers like candleflame over a sealed contract.Ruby Diadem of Dominion
The Ruby Diadem of Dominion rests upon Arvid's brow as a crown of silent power and eternal control. Crafted from ancient rubies mined beneath the ruins of a betrayed kingdom and set into a circlet of blackened silver, the diadem is a symbol not merely of rulership, but of subjugation made elegant. Each gem within it is said to represet a bloodline brought to heel, a dynasty conquered not with armies, but with pacts sealed in ink and blood. The diadem does not radiate grandeur in the traditional sense—it commands reverence through the weight of the history it bears, as though it remembered every knee ever bent before it. Wearing the diadem, Arvid does not need raise his voice. Undead of will and intellect feel its pull instinctively, their instincts smothered beneath the authority it represents. There are tales of ancient vampire lords falling to their knees the moment they glimpsed it, overcome not by magic, but by an ancestral magic planted deep in their very blood. The crown does not shine—it absorbs light, quiet ambition, and stills rebellion before it begins. To see Arvid crowned is to be reminded of the futility of resistance, and the eternal truth that even in undeath, hierarchy remains.Realm
The Crimson Bastion stands within Baator. Though Arvid owes no allegiance to the archdevils who rule its layers, save for Ismaraun, he claimed a sliec of this hellish plane through force and divine declaration, carving out a dominion unlike any other in the infernal realms. His fortress-realm exists on a ridge of obsidian that overlooks a river not of water, but of boiling blood—ancient, ever-flowing, and never clotted. The bastion itself is built of black stone veined with crimson, its towers shaped like sharpened stakes, its gates closed not with keys but with oaths. No sunlight reaches this place, yet it is never truly dark. The entire realm glows with a sullen red twilight. Within the Crimson Bastion, time itself feels heavy, as if every moment is being recorded, categorized, and judged. The air is dry and unnaturally still, thick with the scent of parchment, dust, and blood. Vast libraries house ledgers of pacts and betrayals, guarded by skeletal archivists and robed vampire scholars who maintain Arvid's bureaucracy with absolute precision. The undead here do not wander—they report, file, and serve. Military processions move through silent plazas beneath statues of Arvid in various poses of command, each one depicting a victory or conquest. Those who reside here, whether living supplicants or undead servitors, are bound by layers of vows that define their rank, their duties, and their privileges. It is a realm of rigid order, where defiance is not met with fury, but with chilling correction.Relationships
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