Domokos the Heretic

Warlord of the Crimson Pact

Backstory

Written by Chris at character creation. "All Hobgoblins are students of war. Domokos, called Heretic, is dedicated to the art of combat, not just war for war's sake. In his pursuit to become a more complete warrior, his loyalties fell away from the tyrannical gods of his kind, who used war as a political scheme, in favor of Tempus; Lord of soldiers. Honorbound to not worship in secret, he was tried by combat. His success only protected him from execution though. He was humiliated, branded, and exiled from goblinkind. Despite this devastating loss, Domokos practices his trade among the other races, considering himself an example of Hobgoblin proficiency and dreams of one day returning to his people as a mighty warlord, demonstrating their power beyond subjugation to the cruel goblinoid god."

Warlord
by Chris

Nightal 23, NE1
Somewhere else, at the twilight of dawn, Domokos peers out into the night from his tower. He rests his hands on the broken shutter, smashed that day by Riven, called Black Knight. Behind him, the lamp burns low, illuminating a war table covered in the logs of the warlords who came before him. He watches Sand-Fury stretch her wings in the distance, too proud from her demon kill to rest without reminding the desert of her presence. Domokos turns, pursing his lips at the volumes still unread. He's been studying them all night, but there is so much history. He finds himself removing a book from his own pack, a it's pages burnt and loosely hanging from the charred binding. He runs his hand over the tome, remembering his humble beginnings. He thumbs through the pages of the combat manual, stolen from a human village he raided as a younger hobgoblin. It was the catalyst to all of this.

Returning the precious book to his pack with the reverence of a holy script, he crosses the room to the war chest. He reaches towards its contents, hesitating. He considers the words of Eliana, called Archer. After a deep breath he removes the armor and begins to don it.

"Tempus, steel my heart so that I may do my duty. Turn aside the blows of my adversaries. Though I wrap myself in steel, my strength is my armor. My technique is my shield. Turn your eyes on the glory of my combat and know pride."

He picks up the strange ring, his mind quieting as he slips it onto his finger.

"Tempus, grant me inner-kingship, so my mind may remain sharp in the pitch of war. Keep my thoughts protected from the subterfuge of cowards, so that I may outwit my enemies, thrill you by my exploits, and free my people."

He stands before the monolithic helm. A thing of demons, likely to empower their chosen soldiers. Now it will be brought to bear against them. He lifts it, the pauldrons resting heavy on his shoulders.

"Tempus, reinforce my heart, so that my will is adamantine and my honor unquestionable. Witness the strength by which I bear my burdens. May I be humble enough to put my warriors before myself. May I be worthy enough for them to stand behind me."

As the helm closes his head in the metal box, he feels the authority spread through his body. Tapping into the instinctual magic the resides within it, he issues a telepathic broadcast to all demons that might be able to hear him.

"We are coming. You will learn to fear."

Somewhere in the distance, Sand-Fury roars. Domokos slides a banner of the Crimson Pact into the holster on the back of his armor and marches toward the door to conduct the morning drills. If they are to be free, they must fight.