(OOC Note: I may have overdone it a little, but hey, all in good fun. Enjoy.)
The year of 369 A.D. is where the story of Nizrahl Terimus Azailius begins, on the British Isles south of what was then known as Hadrian's Wall. An orphan of war, he was stolen as a spoil and sold into slavery when he was barely old enough to walk. At the age of three, he was thought to be more of a burden than anything to his captors, who auctioned him on the block for an exceptionally low rate. A Roman official took the bid, buying Nizrahl into a house of fine repute, if not the wealthiest. The man had no intentions of enslaving the child, however, for his wife was barren. She quickly became attached to the boy, who grew over the years.
While many other children south of Hadrian's wall were taught the sword, Nizrahl was taught to read, to analyze, and to interpret the words and thoughts of others; his adopted father was grooming him to take his position in the Empire of Rome, his successor in a profession that not many had the wits nor the stomach for. He was to be an Inquisitor, seeking out and destroying heretics as he found them. The term 'Heretic', Nizrahl soon learned, could mean anything--that is, anything outside of the grasp of the Church.
Near his twentieth year, a battle broke out between the Roman general Theodosius and another general--and self-proclaimed Emperor--Maximus. The latter was defeated and beheaded, resulting in a great loss of troops in Rome. Nizrahl's father was summoned back to his homeland, and soon he found himself in a city of a grandeur he never thought possible. With a few good words and a little arm-twisting from his father, he found himself working for the Church of Rome, doing exactly what he was trained to do.
There weren't as many 'Heretics' within the Capital, but the pay and prestige were somehow far superior. Word travelled fast in such a large city, and within five years, he was leading a group of others like him. He became known for his razor wit and perpetually calm demeanor. His interrogations may as well have been idle conversations for all of the emotion he showed; it was said that unholy screams were Azailius' Hymns. However, the victims of his inquisition seemed not to have a mark on them. What the populace did not know was that Nizrahl was an avid reader, and trained in many languages, a skill sometimes necessary. He used this to his advantage in conjunction with his access to the property of any he interrogated; some did indeed practice rituals, and while rare, every scrawling was a treasure to be learned from. Seemingly unharmed prisoners would gladly march to the cross if it meant being free of Azailius. Some had faces like cornered animals, some looked relieved that the ordeal was finished, and some did not emerge at all, found later with their faces frozen in the grip of sheer terror, eyes glazed over with the effect of a stopped heart.
Amazed by his ability to bloodlessly pull confessions from even the most stoic of men and women, the Church welcomed his skill with more promotions, more wealth, and above all, more victims. He would dine with members of the high clergy, and began using his knowledge to his advantage, manipulating his way up the hierarchy until he himself was christened as a Deacon. This was not enough, however, and Nizrahl became more engrossed in his studies of the Arcane, using his studies of the Church's Dogma as easy cover for his true interests. For some reason, the ability to heal one man's pain and bestow it upon another seemed second nature to him. He read feverishly, obsession slowly setting in until it burned within him like some ravenous hunger.
He worked his way further up the chain of command until he was granted his own Cathedral, thought to have been a Saint sent by God to punish wrongdoers and work miracles among the ill. Those who worked under him strived eagerly to follow in his footsteps, but none were quite as successful. Heads lowered in his presence, and gaps formed in the street when he chose to leave the Cathedral. Still, the night air ran rampant with shrill, inhuman wails, and still, he pored over scroll after scroll in private, often reading the same ones hundreds of times to be certain that he had permanently memorized everything. Before long, Nizrahl had learned a chilling secret: there were texts and spells forbidden even to those who practiced the black arts, with warning that even the slightest mistake could have dire consequences. Most of these were counterfeited to throw off those who would wish to acquire their authentic counterparts, but those which served a purpose were capable of producing results both awesome and horrific. However, this was of no account to the man, now an Archbishop, who found himself nearing his middle years. The lives of his victims were expendable so long as he could practice on a breathing specimen. The lust for knowledge--and in turn, power--consumed Azailius to his very soul. He had encountered a few of these texts, apocryphal even to the heathens which owned them, and with experimentation, Nizrahl inadvertantly discovered a makeshift means to partial immortality. By drawing years out of a victim's life, he could keep his body strong and nullify the ravages of time, leaving him ageless. In order to secure his secret, he subtly and slowly began altering his position within the church, favoring hooded robes which obscured his face, seclusion from all but the most trusted members of the Church, and appointing those beneath him to wield his power openly, attaching strings to each of them. This puppeteering act would last for centuries to come.
As time passed, he shifted from name to name, cremating body after body of those he sapped the life from, often naming himself as a protege of the prior Patriarch, dating all the way back to the days of Nizrahl Terimus Azailius, whose ashes were thought to have been resting in the crypt below, with his chain of dynasties at his side. The sapping came at a price, however--his humanity. As time passed, his emotions slowly withered and dulled down, his capacity for pain grew to sickening heights, and his demeanor, while still the calm he had always exuded, became innately icy. His church warped and twisted as time flowed by like some intangible river, with only the most devoted followers learning the truth--that Nizrahl Azailius had in fact never died at all. This fact was apparently air-tight, too ridiculous for any of the doubtful to swallow even should his secret be leaked. This brought silent awe among the dedicated numbers, who thought him an angel, sent to unify the world. His beliefs became their beliefs, and as technology advanced forward, it became apparent that others among his numbers
were like him as well, seemingly chosen for some higher purpose than a mere man, each with his own array of special talents and abilities.
The Church, now referred to as simply "The Black Spire", embraced this idea, having been promised a place at his side when the world was finally unified. Years became decades, and decades centuries, until over fifteen hundred years had passed. As the times shifted, Nizrahl found his precious Order dwindling. Without a word passed, he left the Spire, setting out in search for those who had the means and the motive to fulfill his own dark causes...
