Darius Naffles
Quick Reference
| Name | Darius Naffles |
| Race | Gnome |
| Age | ? |
| Class | Cleric |
| Relatives | Parents (both passed on). |
| Places | ? |
| Languages | Common, ? |
Quick Description
Darius Naffles is a fresh Cleric of Ehlonna. She is the God of Forests, Woodlands, Plains, Fora and Fauna. Darius considers her the God of Life, which is very fitting as his heart burns with hatred for the living dead.
Appearance
Darius is a small-sized gnome, with blonde hair, short white pointy beard and a mustache. He has his father's piercing blue eyes. Darius' ears are long and pointy, as is usual for Gnomes.
Clothes and gear
During the day Darius wears a shiny heavy armor, in multiple shades of green. It has Ehlonna's symbol on it in gold. He wields a quarterstaff (two-handed, 1d8 bludgeoning).
At night Darius changes all that because of a vow. He strips off the shiny plating of his heavy armor, revealing a black medium armor that fully covers his body. He puts on a nondescript hood and white mask that fully cover his face, save for the eyes. Out of his quaterstaff a blade emerges, turning it into a scythe ((two-handed, 1d10 Slashing).
Personal history
Childhood
My aging father had a gravelly voice. Which was rather fitting, because his profession was gravedigger. It was a simple life, didn’t earn much, but he loved it all the same. I would often sit on a bench as the sun set, watching him dig a grave. Or I would grab a spade and join him. I cannot explain it, and people probably think we must be crazy, but we both took silent pleasure in just standing on top of a grave-filled hill and listening to the silence as a nightly hush came over the graveyard.
On one such night – the very last night – he talked more than he probably had in my whole life. “There are countless secrets, hidden in the grave,” he said softly, “the dead like to keep them safe in their endless silence. Some have even died for them. And now look at them, the poor buggers.” He glanced at me, his blue eyes tired, but sharp.
“It seems so… pointless,” I confessed, “so scared of losing reputation, of being persecuted, of losing their marriage… only to be dead now.”
“Indeed, but it goes further back than that,” father added, “all these people here, no matter their race, gender, profession or even age, made some regrettable decisions in their life. And thus their secrets were born. That is wat seems so pointless to me. They did it to themselves! Why?! Those secrets stick to you like leeches and they feed off your guilt and pain. And consider what happens if those secrets are found out… Makes you wonder if it was really worth it.”
“Doesn’t that depend on the secret though? What if it wasn’t your fault? Or if it was forced onto you?”
“It would still be your decision to keep it and to live with it, wouldn’t it? A secret can only exist if you choose so.”
I decided to take a gamble then.
“What about you father? Do you hold secrets? What will you take to the grave?” To my surprise he laughed. I don’t think I have ever heard him laugh in my entire life and it made the hair on my arms stand up.
“I am a gravedigger, Darius, I don’t keep secrets, I bury those of others!”
“Surely you must have some.”
To that he just shrugged and shook his head.
“What about mother?”
A palpable silence fell over the graveyard. It seemed that even the dead held their breath. But father only sighed and didn’t seem upset.
“I buried her – and her secrets – myself. That night it rained, no, it stormed. The worst I had ever seen. The dig was endless, the pit kept filling with muddy water, but I kept digging because it had to be done. And it had to be me. I loved her to bits Darius, and I always will. And I suppose…” He shifted his weight onto his spade as he looked at me, “I suppose I will take some secrets to my grave. Your mother’s, may she rest in peace.”
At that moment an ancient looking door of a mausoleum burst open, the stone shattering from the impact. Out from the darkness spilled three robed figures. Two of them I immediately recognized because of the green flowery embroideries on their robes. These were clerics of Ehlonna, God of flora and fauna. The third one, a Cleric with a quarterstaff, wore a brown robe with yellow embroideries resembling the sun; a Cleric of Pholtus, the God of Light. They didn’t notice us at first.
“Quick, seal the entrance!” the burly Cleric of Ehlonna said while brandishing his hammer.
“That would be a whole lot easier if you didn’t just BLOW THE FUCKING DOOR OFF MICAINE!” shouted the second Cleric of Ehlonna who was holding a massive shield that covered his entire body. It looked dusty and ancient and he was holding it clumsily, probably because he had found it in the mausoleum. He now tried to block the doorway with it, but from what, I did not know.
“Stop it you both, we have company,” the Cleric of Pholtus said, who was carrying a quarterstaff. He started talking gibberish and waved with the staff. It took a few seconds before I realized he was casting a spell. But it did not go off right away, it seemed like he was waiting for something.
“Don’t worry, that’s just Harold, the gravedigger. And his son,” said the burly Micaine.
“Gormain wasn’t talking about them,” said the Cleric holding the shield, he was talking about them.”
From behind his shield and within the darkness of the mausoleum, came a high pitched scream so cold and terrifying that I had to keep myself from running just then and there. It sounded like death itself.
“It would seem some secrets cannot be kept even in the grave…” whispered my father with a face as pale as moonlight. Suddenly the cleric holding the shield was thrown backwards by a thunderous clap that almost made my ears bleed. And from the mausoleum came scattering a group of about a dozen people. It took me a second to realize they were not of the living. These were very much dead. They were on us in an instant; terrifyingly fast, clawing with bony fingers that still held some skin. Three tried to get to my father, who was bravely keeping them at a distance with his spade. Eight others were going for the Clerics. I was petrified with fear when one of the undead twisted its rotten face in my direction, eye sockets picked clean years ago.
“Lambert, can you Turn these suckers?” shouted Micaine as he was battling a few undead with his Warhammer.
“No! I’m out of power!”
“Blast it, me too. Gormain, one is going for the kid. DO something!”
“I can’t, this spell… it will…” the Cleric of Pholtus first looked at my father, then at my unliving assailant that was about to grab me and finally at me. “I… I’m so sorry kid,” he said and he finally unleashed his spell. I was the only one not caught in a massive ball of fire. In the flames I saw the clerics, shielded against most of the heat with glowing magic. I saw undead figures writhing in torment as death found them once more. And I saw my father, who just stood there as the flames engulfed him completely. And just as quickly the flames, the living dead, and my father, were gone.
I did not blame Gormain for what he did. He saw a child in danger and had no other choice. If he hadn’t I would probably be dead. That didn’t mean I didn’t hate him for it. I hated him with a burning passion as he and his companions took me with them. I had nowhere else to go.
They brought me to a temple of Ehlonna, where I was given a modest room with a fountain, closet and a bed. They took me in as one of their own. Gladly, Gormain, Cleric of Pholtus, soon left for his own temple. He tried again to apologize, and I accepted it. But we both knew there could never be full forgiveness.
It took a long time, years even, before I realized that if anyone was to have the full blame for my father’s death, it would be the one who raised the undead. The hidden one in the mausoleum that thunderclapped Lambert out of the way and that had set the undead upon us. The Necromancer that got away. And with that realization, I had finally found the motivation I needed to get through my training to become a Cleric.
Adulthood
I am now Darius Naffles, Cleric of Ehlonna, scourge of the undead.
Or at least... I would like to be.