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View character profile for: Dothar Mandrake
View character profile for: Morkin the Imp King
Home, Sweet Home
Dothar was not happy to be home. He hated the stench of the corporeal realm but it was smelling less and less foul by the day. The staff he carried was the cause of that. The Staff of Decay was marvelous. It could spread rot and filth with a short incantation and by driving the tip into the ground. He only used it when he had to or had a good reason - not because he didn't love to, but due to the personal cost. The Staff of Decay worked by taking a bit of rot, filth and decay from it's master and transferring it a million times over out to the world around it. When he did, he lost a bit of himself each time. No... he wasn't dissolving or fading, though it felt like it. Slowly with every strike of the staff he was becoming human once again.
Three hundred and sixty years prior he had been a lord of some lands, content to profit off of the people and reap all the benefits his minor title of nobility offered. Then his dearly beloved wife died giving birth to their first child - a boy. The Fates took her from him and the child. Dothar fell into darkness with despair. For ten years he sought to ruin all around him so that all would feel the pain of loss, the cold of rot and decay he felt in his ever shriveling heart.
Then he was killed while sacking a city with his band of outlaws, men driven to despair and it's profit like he was. As his soul fell into the abyss, it was caught and taken before Lord Morkin who promised him an immortality in ruin, a chance to bring despair for all time. He jumped at the offer and became what he was now.
For over three hundred years he tormented souls in every way possible but it would never sate his lust for despair. Then, he found the Staff of Decay. There was a witch who lived in the deepest, darkest pit of the Burning Hell in which he lived who promised him a chance to find the feeling he sought - true loss, total despair. The Staff promised that and he felt it with every with every strike.
About twenty years ago he dealt a blow in a fight that felt the most exhilarating he'd ever known. But ever since, it'd been waning, ever slowly. Ten years ago he was in the corporeal realm and fighting a demon of the sun who knocked him down. Dothar fell into a rose bush. It smelled sweet to him and that hadn't been the case in nearly 350 years.
More and more of the same continued in the years since. It was getting so bad he was actually wearing a sort of mask to hide his true features, which were getting more and more human by the day. While the Burning Hells were 'home', he found them increasingly disgusting and not in a good way. It would only be a matter of time before he would not longer be able to stand the plane at all. This is why he had pushed Morkin to take over another realm, preferably a human one, so he could live there instead.