Veromos grew up in a typical rough life for any duergar. His father was
dead before he was born, killed for his gambling debts. His mother was a
whore - an ugly one at that, who had nothing but him. She named him
Veromos, meaning Perfect, hoping he would someday grow into it but her
disappointment grew from his birth and he would hear about it everyday. He
was constantly ridiculed for his looks and lack of ability, pointing in
others their superiority. "Look at the king's sons, now those are cute
boys! Nothing like you." During one of her "business visits", the moans of
animal lust became violent. His Momma was raped and murdered by the
customer who then came staggering out of the bedroom calmly to smoke with
Veromos. The eager young duergar stared in the eyes of his mother's killer,
carefully placing his words for he was a witness... "Momma dinna want the
Eternal Abyss." The man chuckled darkly, pulling heavily on his cigar - he
was well dressed, obviously a political official of some sort. "If ya want
somethin' from someone, juz take it. Us bastards were born in filth, it is
our greed that pulls us out tah riches. 'Member that." The man walked out,
still debating if he should kill the boy, as Veromos asked oddly "What is it
you liked of Momma?" The man grinned, stating in rememberance "Her tongue,
kid - like a snake... One helluva bitch...." As he left with a wink.
Veromos went into the bedroom... His mother laid there with a sickly gaze
in her eyes, her throat bruised heavily from being strangled. Using his
bare hands and all his effort, Veromos ripped out her tongue and held it in
his mouth - it was too big, but he would keep it. Rummaging through her
things, he pulled out a needle and spool of black thread. He began to sow
the tongue to his belt as he hummed his favorite tune.
Momma always liked to sow...
"No No NO!" barked N'og. With a swift backhand, he cuffed Veromos with
enough force to slam him to the floor. Veromos had always strived in his
training but he was the focus of all harassment in the class. Other students
had tried to kill him a few times, each time just barely missing their mark.
It was after last night, when he came in with his new "neck" that silenced
them. Veromos had spent all his money on the best prostitute the city had,
a well known female drow unrivaled in looks - and here he was, with her neck
stitched upon his neck. The town official, the man who killed his mother,
knew it was him but just waived the punishment with a grin. The class now was
silent in rebuking him...Dazed from the blow to the head, Veromos stood up
slowly in front of the teacher. "N'og teach you good things, but Veromos
weak!" Another blow to the head sent Veromos across the room to slam against
the wall. Satisified with his lesson, N'og slammed his hand on the desk
marking the end of class. As he watched the rest shuffle out quietly, he
noticed Veromos staring at his hand with a look that even made him shiver.
The next day, the class arrived to find Veromos early and eagerly showing
off his new prize - the teacher's hand was now grafted over his like a skin
glove. One class member gaged immediately causing the crowd to disperse and
run in fear. Veromos grinned.
Momma never said I'd graduate...
Trials had been hard for Veromos, but his icons drew him on - those
within the guild that held true power were become his idols, his envy over
their stature driving him on. Veromos always was friendly with the others
for a reason, for he always remembered the first rule of class of
battleshamans: "Opportunity". Taking lives here and there, nothing has
caught his eye for the taking to add to his "collection", although the
itching on his hand has began to slowly eat away at his sanity.
His prayers for "Mr. Ice" still continue - his Momma had always a soft spot
for the dark gods, groveling in their worship. She would drag him to the
churches, even once offering him as a sacrifice while he listened to his
life being bargained for her use. Veromos always thought it'd be fun to be
a God, but believes he lacks something to become one - but it doesn't stop
his continual envy...
Momma someday be proud of me....
The gruesome, portly duergar before you could only be described as
"patched" - various body parts including pieces of skin, teeth, and hair
have been stitched onto his body replacing what was once his. A beautiful
dwarven beard, still connected to the rotting flesh of it's previous owner
has been grafted onto his chin. Stretched to cover his entire neck is the
ebony skin of a drow female, the scars of the stitches still filled with
puss from recent work. Jarring out from his mouth are two orc incisors,
their placement locked over his existing teeth with fishing hooks that
pierce his gums. His original hair has been completely removed and replaced
with the coarse orange hair of a fire giant, lightly stained with blood and
stitched directly into his skull. His eyes have been untouched, their
cloudy gray color in a glazed stare as he admires his surroundings. His
armor fits his body fashion, patched together from the fallen in battle with
no apparent care for matching attire but only what he desires. Gripping his
weapon tightly, you notice his right hand has been completely replaced with
a hand of an ogre - the size obviously too big for him but its strength is
unmatched. A foul odor, resembling a decaying carcass, slowly starts
reaching into your nostrils.