Niklos Mazinan
Niklos Mazinan
Westcrown’s fighting fans, perhaps spurred on by their love of opera, prefer a more theatrical combat entertainment. For commoner and lord alike, the most popular of these gymnasia is Acheron’s Ring. It is perhaps the worst kept secret in Westcrown that many of the fights are scripted, with gymnasiarch Iando Mazinan personally selecting the winner, but it’s also generally accepted that not all of the fights have a predetermined outcome, and sometimes the fighters don’t do as they are told.
The story of the Stone Devil has entered local pro fighting legend in Westcrown. Niklos Mazinan had been one of Iando’s monsters for 13 years, but, given Chelaxian prejudices towards Tieflings, had rarely been part of the championship scene. After a major altercation with Sir Roderick Strong, an ex-Hellknight (Strong actually never finished training, but he had the armor, which helped), Strong vowed to show the world that Hell served Cheliax, and not the other way around. The two men fought in the courtyard of a prominent sponsor. The fight itself was bizarre, with multiple conflicting accounts, but everyone agrees on two points - first, that Strong had envenomed the sword he was using (The Dottari confirmed it as part of the investigation), and that Niklos Mazinan effectively lynched Roderick Strong, holding him in a chokehold as he dangled the ex-knight off the side of a set of steps leading to the estate’s ramparts.
Mazinan became one of the most hated fighters on the circuit after that, but also one of the biggest draws. Iando, adhering to his own code of silence, has always refused to say if there was a different outcome intended for that fight, leading to speculation in every direction.
From Real Blood in Shifting Sand: A History of Professional Fighting in Cheliax by Alexandros Orduslin
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Nik is broad-shouldered and tall, towering over most men. He is clearly strong, though his build is covered in a layer of fat, in the way of many gladiators.
Body Features
His skin is like alabaster, both in color and texture - it's slightly rigid and as tough as boiled leather. His horns sweep back along his head, keeping his hair bracketed to either side, so it flows down his back.
Facial Features
His face is thick-set, and he has never been able to grow any sort of facial hair.
Identifying Characteristics
Nik has several tattoos, all in black ink to contrast with his pallor. He has a design that covers his back - an image of a black lillend, whose scales have stars twinkling in them, and whose wings are raven-feathered. In an arc over her head is a phrase: Tarrthoidh An Bandia An Laidre
The Rock of Gorum is marked in a thick scar, colored with black ink, on his upper left arm, over the words in Taldane Script, "Will You Fight?"
A stylized dragon runs up the right side of his torso, across his neck, and into his horns and hairline.
The Rock of Gorum is marked in a thick scar, colored with black ink, on his upper left arm, over the words in Taldane Script, "Will You Fight?"
A stylized dragon runs up the right side of his torso, across his neck, and into his horns and hairline.
Physical quirks
He is left-handed, and doesn't generally walk as much as he treads.
Special abilities
Unlike a lot of tieflings, Niklos is actually somewhat proficient in the use of his tail, and is able to manipulate it to move drinks or pick up small objects.
Apparel & Accessories
He doesn't own much in the way of clothes - his tunic and pants are of undyed linen, though the chain shirt he wears over his tunic is of fine quality, with riveted links, instead of just woven. His boots have large metal studs, which are mostly decorative.
Specialized Equipment
The only weapons he carries are a dagger at his belt (which he mostly uses as a utility knife) and a sling he keeps wrapped near the pouch of bullets.
He has a handful of "groaning bullets" - sling bullets that make a droning noise when spun or hurled, that he can use to be heard for hundreds of yards. He also has a skeleton key given to him back in Westcrown, for attempting to enter rooms he was supposed to go into and make sure he was the only one who ever walked out again.
He has a handful of "groaning bullets" - sling bullets that make a droning noise when spun or hurled, that he can use to be heard for hundreds of yards. He also has a skeleton key given to him back in Westcrown, for attempting to enter rooms he was supposed to go into and make sure he was the only one who ever walked out again.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
Saved from a life on the streets by the Chelaxian professional fighting community, Niklos was a fighter in Egorian until a scandal forced him out. He got scooped up by the Council of Thieves, who gave him a job as a bouncer, with the understanding that he'd be called on to use his skills for "freelance work" from time to time.
He followed Zekken Missepe out of working for the guild and out of Cheliax, traveling all the way to Falcon's Hollow.
He followed Zekken Missepe out of working for the guild and out of Cheliax, traveling all the way to Falcon's Hollow.
Education
Nik has had about four years total of what universities and schools in Golarion would call an "education." He had three years of basic schooling before he left home, and a fourth after he started living at the gym, to improve his reading.
The gym, however, provided him a first-rate education in the fine art of hurting people for the entertainment of others, and he studied that art diligently.
The gym, however, provided him a first-rate education in the fine art of hurting people for the entertainment of others, and he studied that art diligently.
Failures & Embarrassments
Arrangements were made for a tour of the Empire in 4694, with Niklos in a starring role as the primary villain of the fighting ring's storylines. An Inquisitor of Asmodeus, however, revealed that a series of divinations cast by the church had identified Niklos' bloodline as belonging to the Infinite Layers of the Abyss, rather than the Nine Hells. Even Iando, who care for Niklos like a son (usually) could not handle quarreling with the state church, especially not if the troupe were to visit Egorian.
He was cast out of the gymnasium, and his wife of two years had their marriage annulled on the grounds of "spiritual deceit." She went with the tour to Egorian and never came home. He has not seen her, or his daughter, since.
He was cast out of the gymnasium, and his wife of two years had their marriage annulled on the grounds of "spiritual deceit." She went with the tour to Egorian and never came home. He has not seen her, or his daughter, since.
Intellectual Characteristics
Nik embodies the word, "unlearned." Despite speaking three languages, he's barely literate in any of them, and the only reading he's ever done was at the free school run by the Church of Asmodeus. Despite that, his emotional intelligence is surprisingly high, and he has a talent for manipulating emotional reactions, whether an individual or a crowd...and whether into fury or terror.
Morality & Philosophy
Niklos' ethics are governed by a lazy morality that emphasizes his own survival above all else. He's not malicious per se, unless that seems to be required in the moment to stop events from escalating. That said, he's not afraid to be vicious - he'd just use it to calm a situation, rather than impose his own rule.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Niklos is in a strange place, mentally, after having to flee the disaster that was his life. He had been regularly defining down his ambitions, until he just wanted to live without fuss. Now that even that has been snatched, he feels a bit adrift.
Vices & Personality flaws
If left to his own devices, he starts drinking around noon, and stops just to give him enough time to get to a bed and fall down. On the anniversary of his firing from professional fighting, he might start at breakfast.
Since having to flee Westcrown, he hasn't had as many opportunities to imbibe, but you'd be hard-pressed to mark his sullenness as an improvement.
Since having to flee Westcrown, he hasn't had as many opportunities to imbibe, but you'd be hard-pressed to mark his sullenness as an improvement.
Hygiene
For all his seeming lack of concern, he keeps himself and his clothes clean and in good order. He spends time each week focused on cleaning his armor, or brushing out his hair. He made a point of replacing his soap block while the group was in Almas.
Year of Birth
4654
54 Years old
Birthplace
Westcrown, Cheliax
Children
Current Residence
Falcon's Hollow, Andoran
Gender
Male
Eyes
Blue-Gray
Hair
White
Height
6'4"
Weight
297 lbs.
Introductions
13th of Rova, 4708
The bar was loud, the cigar tasted of ash, as he’d lit the damn thing wrong, but the sharp smoke made the ale a little sweeter, so Niklos was grateful for small favors. The fella in Almas had said they were from Molthune. Nik had wanted to tell him he couldn't give a flying fuck where they were from, but the little guy had seemed proud of the fact, so what the hell. The wrapper was a little sweet, and it smelled of mulch. The walls of Jak’A’Napes were solid enough - more solid than The Sitting Duck, where they had been drinking earlier. Nik looked at the fancy crossbow hanging behind the bar and reckoned the bar needed to be sturdy to hold that mini-ballista in place.
Zeke looked so pleased with himself, Nik expected him to steeple his fingers in cunning triumph any second now. The human’s usual shadow of stubble was more substantial after some days on the boat, swallowing more of him than usual into the shadowy tones of his dark clothes and armor. Mira was diligently adding some new aphorisms to her Placard of Wisdom, her short dark hair trying to fall into her face as she concentrated. A chalkboard as holy text still struck Nik as weird, but weird was so standard now, Nik reckoned he needed a new word to describe it.
He had stepped from the boat to shore in the early afternoon, his legs shakily readjusting to a ground that didn't move. His belly thanked him for stopping the sway of the world, but also informed him he had not eaten properly in several days. Autumn’s chill was winning the seasonal struggle with the fading summer, and Nik pulled his poncho down a little to block the cutting breeze. His hood was back though, revealing his white hair, dyed black on the underpart, horns the color of stone, and alabaster skin. Several dockworkers and passers-by stopped to stare, but never for very long.
It took all the way until the first person they talked to for someone to offer him work as a laborer. Being six foot four and 21 stone was always good for something. But his purse was still heavy, and he wasn't looking for that sort of work. Not yet, at any rate.
Zeke was speaking of the future in that broad, non-specific way of his. He had a talent for making everything he said sound only half sincere, which meant that you never knew when he was giving it to you straight (rarely), or when he was telling a complete lie (also rarely), or when he was mixing the truth with his own version to suit his purposes (almost fucking always). Right now he was talking about taking over the Red Rocks guild, in the hopes of using whatever limited amnesty they had with the lumber dictator to set up shop. Mira was making that little frown she made whenever Zeke proposed a plan that involved inflicting harm without any clear benefit to them being ground under boot. She wasn’t opposed to mayhem, as such - she’d just rathered it lift someone up while it was taking assholes down.
Nik had met the corpserobbing pigfucker of a gnome after they’d dropped their stuff and started to get the lay of the land. Bric-a-brac, or whatever the fuck his name was, played the goofball, but he picked stuff off dead people like a vulture. Probably didn’t even have the decency to kill them himself. And then there were the faeries. As he squatted on the stump outside the shop, Nik’s throat tightened, just as it had when he first saw the stuffed and mounted little corpses in the shop.
He had known two that looked like that - small as his hand with little bug or butterfly wings. He’d called them “Frik” and “Frak.” They’d put sap in his boots and scattered his pack across a clearing, filling his backpack with mushrooms. When he’d started dating Arthelea, they had cut back some, and had helped him learn Sylvan. And they were always funny, though sometimes only after Nik had gotten his hair clean.
Nik drained the last of his ale, trying to hold the horn mug delicately, because it seemed thin as glass. He stood and nodded to his compatriots as he went to get another round for the table. He had done some solid work in lightening his purse today, but probably to good ends, or at least “good” as he saw it. Jak Criminy smiled in that way that people smile at you when you’re a terrifying monster, but your money is good. Nik smiled back in a way that he hoped was comforting, and ordered some more drinks. Jak didn’t have time for small talk, what with the place full of thirsty lumberjacks, so three ales later, Nik headed back towards the table and more of Zeke’s talk of the seeds they’d planted that day.
Nik walked out into the dirt road in front of The Sitting Duck, watching as Zeke and his chosen opponent sized each other up. The drunk had three drunk friends that were carrying weapons, but they were just watching for now. Zeke twirled his slender, curving blades and advanced on the balding, wiry fella with the dagger. Nik thought his friend was toying with his prey, but maybe Zeke was tired. Still, the dagger never got near Zeke, but its wielder sprouted angry red slashes across his chest. When Zeke leaned in on his sprawled opponent, blades seeking the poor bastard’s throat, Dagger’s friends, Mace, Shortsword, and Other Dagger, decided to get involved. Dumbasses.
Nik crossed the fighting space in four steps and stuck out his arm. He caught Other Dagger in the neck and clotheslined him to the ground. Mace went after Zeke, who had already killed their friend on account of them getting involved. Shortsword reared back with his blade and barreled in, hopping halfway over his prone friend. The steel slammed into Nik’s chain mail and pain shot through Nik’s chest, but the chain held. Other Dagger thought about getting to his feet. Nik lowered his legs into a crouch and raised his arm up. It looked for all the world like he was reaching for Shortsword’s blade, but the tiefling’s hand dropped and clubbed Other Dagger across the temple, sending him sprawling back into the dirt, and opening a fountaining gash above Other Dagger’s eye. Nik then lunged from his crouch, throwing both hands into Shortsword’s chest. Shortsword’s alcohol-laced breath blew out in a distillery wind on Nik’s face and the human fell over his friend, slamming to the dirt. The impact tried to force out air that was no longer there to be forced and Shortsword blacked out.
Nik looked down at Other Dagger, who was trying to keep his knife, crawl away, and wipe blood from his eye all at the same time. A familiar bile boiled in Niklos’ throat and he smiled.
“Beg,” the tiefling said.
“Please, please. I don’t want any more,” Other Dagger whined.
Nik’s hands twitched to reach out and crush Other Dagger’s stupid little face, to snap his bones and see if his screams could be heard at either of the splotches of fucking color in this miserable little clusterfuck of half-rotted wood that passed for a town. “Louder, so they can hear you.” he hissed at the terrified little man. Wretched lesser creature, a voice that was Nik and not Nik growled in the back of his mind, Mewl and cry so I can feast.
Other Dagger’s begging became shrieky and he dragged himself through the dirt like gravity had shifted and he was trying to climb the road. Nik stopped, tasting the man’s fear in the air, and straightened up. In a breath, the moment was gone.
“Go on, then.” Nik murmured, almost whispering. Other Dagger scrabbled to his feet and sprinted as Mace gurgled and died on Zeke’s swords, just off to Nik’s left.
Nik, more or less, understood what that had been all about. Zeke had wanted to let everyone know that they weren't to be fucked with, and that was, more or less, how it had gone: Zeke was marked out as dangerous, Nik was a monster, and Mira, who hadn't gotten involved, was a question mark. Put everyone on the back foot. Sure.
But take over the town? There were gangs in Westcrown that had more people than this whole shitpile of a town, and all the decent people seemed scared of the fucks on the hill.
Well, Nik reasoned, maybe this town needed a little more indecency then.
Zeke looked so pleased with himself, Nik expected him to steeple his fingers in cunning triumph any second now. The human’s usual shadow of stubble was more substantial after some days on the boat, swallowing more of him than usual into the shadowy tones of his dark clothes and armor. Mira was diligently adding some new aphorisms to her Placard of Wisdom, her short dark hair trying to fall into her face as she concentrated. A chalkboard as holy text still struck Nik as weird, but weird was so standard now, Nik reckoned he needed a new word to describe it.
He had stepped from the boat to shore in the early afternoon, his legs shakily readjusting to a ground that didn't move. His belly thanked him for stopping the sway of the world, but also informed him he had not eaten properly in several days. Autumn’s chill was winning the seasonal struggle with the fading summer, and Nik pulled his poncho down a little to block the cutting breeze. His hood was back though, revealing his white hair, dyed black on the underpart, horns the color of stone, and alabaster skin. Several dockworkers and passers-by stopped to stare, but never for very long.
It took all the way until the first person they talked to for someone to offer him work as a laborer. Being six foot four and 21 stone was always good for something. But his purse was still heavy, and he wasn't looking for that sort of work. Not yet, at any rate.
Zeke was speaking of the future in that broad, non-specific way of his. He had a talent for making everything he said sound only half sincere, which meant that you never knew when he was giving it to you straight (rarely), or when he was telling a complete lie (also rarely), or when he was mixing the truth with his own version to suit his purposes (almost fucking always). Right now he was talking about taking over the Red Rocks guild, in the hopes of using whatever limited amnesty they had with the lumber dictator to set up shop. Mira was making that little frown she made whenever Zeke proposed a plan that involved inflicting harm without any clear benefit to them being ground under boot. She wasn’t opposed to mayhem, as such - she’d just rathered it lift someone up while it was taking assholes down.
Nik had met the corpserobbing pigfucker of a gnome after they’d dropped their stuff and started to get the lay of the land. Bric-a-brac, or whatever the fuck his name was, played the goofball, but he picked stuff off dead people like a vulture. Probably didn’t even have the decency to kill them himself. And then there were the faeries. As he squatted on the stump outside the shop, Nik’s throat tightened, just as it had when he first saw the stuffed and mounted little corpses in the shop.
He had known two that looked like that - small as his hand with little bug or butterfly wings. He’d called them “Frik” and “Frak.” They’d put sap in his boots and scattered his pack across a clearing, filling his backpack with mushrooms. When he’d started dating Arthelea, they had cut back some, and had helped him learn Sylvan. And they were always funny, though sometimes only after Nik had gotten his hair clean.
Nik drained the last of his ale, trying to hold the horn mug delicately, because it seemed thin as glass. He stood and nodded to his compatriots as he went to get another round for the table. He had done some solid work in lightening his purse today, but probably to good ends, or at least “good” as he saw it. Jak Criminy smiled in that way that people smile at you when you’re a terrifying monster, but your money is good. Nik smiled back in a way that he hoped was comforting, and ordered some more drinks. Jak didn’t have time for small talk, what with the place full of thirsty lumberjacks, so three ales later, Nik headed back towards the table and more of Zeke’s talk of the seeds they’d planted that day.
Nik walked out into the dirt road in front of The Sitting Duck, watching as Zeke and his chosen opponent sized each other up. The drunk had three drunk friends that were carrying weapons, but they were just watching for now. Zeke twirled his slender, curving blades and advanced on the balding, wiry fella with the dagger. Nik thought his friend was toying with his prey, but maybe Zeke was tired. Still, the dagger never got near Zeke, but its wielder sprouted angry red slashes across his chest. When Zeke leaned in on his sprawled opponent, blades seeking the poor bastard’s throat, Dagger’s friends, Mace, Shortsword, and Other Dagger, decided to get involved. Dumbasses.
Nik crossed the fighting space in four steps and stuck out his arm. He caught Other Dagger in the neck and clotheslined him to the ground. Mace went after Zeke, who had already killed their friend on account of them getting involved. Shortsword reared back with his blade and barreled in, hopping halfway over his prone friend. The steel slammed into Nik’s chain mail and pain shot through Nik’s chest, but the chain held. Other Dagger thought about getting to his feet. Nik lowered his legs into a crouch and raised his arm up. It looked for all the world like he was reaching for Shortsword’s blade, but the tiefling’s hand dropped and clubbed Other Dagger across the temple, sending him sprawling back into the dirt, and opening a fountaining gash above Other Dagger’s eye. Nik then lunged from his crouch, throwing both hands into Shortsword’s chest. Shortsword’s alcohol-laced breath blew out in a distillery wind on Nik’s face and the human fell over his friend, slamming to the dirt. The impact tried to force out air that was no longer there to be forced and Shortsword blacked out.
Nik looked down at Other Dagger, who was trying to keep his knife, crawl away, and wipe blood from his eye all at the same time. A familiar bile boiled in Niklos’ throat and he smiled.
“Beg,” the tiefling said.
“Please, please. I don’t want any more,” Other Dagger whined.
Nik’s hands twitched to reach out and crush Other Dagger’s stupid little face, to snap his bones and see if his screams could be heard at either of the splotches of fucking color in this miserable little clusterfuck of half-rotted wood that passed for a town. “Louder, so they can hear you.” he hissed at the terrified little man. Wretched lesser creature, a voice that was Nik and not Nik growled in the back of his mind, Mewl and cry so I can feast.
Other Dagger’s begging became shrieky and he dragged himself through the dirt like gravity had shifted and he was trying to climb the road. Nik stopped, tasting the man’s fear in the air, and straightened up. In a breath, the moment was gone.
“Go on, then.” Nik murmured, almost whispering. Other Dagger scrabbled to his feet and sprinted as Mace gurgled and died on Zeke’s swords, just off to Nik’s left.
Nik, more or less, understood what that had been all about. Zeke had wanted to let everyone know that they weren't to be fucked with, and that was, more or less, how it had gone: Zeke was marked out as dangerous, Nik was a monster, and Mira, who hadn't gotten involved, was a question mark. Put everyone on the back foot. Sure.
But take over the town? There were gangs in Westcrown that had more people than this whole shitpile of a town, and all the decent people seemed scared of the fucks on the hill.
Well, Nik reasoned, maybe this town needed a little more indecency then.
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