Dusan Wyka

Basic Information

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  ◦ Full Name ◦ Dusan Wyka ◦ Alias/Nickname ◦ Ursin, Radomir, The Scarred One [give him more] ◦ Gender ◦ Male ◦ Species ◦ Half Elf ◦ Age ◦ 52 ◦ Orientation ◦ Heterosexual ◦ Marital Status ◦ Single ◦ Height ◦ 5'9'' [175.26 cm] ◦ Weight ◦ 160lbs [72kg] ◦Complexion ◦ Pale.

  ◦ Scars ◦ Many, the most notable ones are the two large marks out of his back, and the brand on his chest as well as the scars that bum his eye ◦ Body Type ◦ Endomorphic frame with Muscular form ◦ Eyes ◦ Hazel right eye. Black left eye ◦ Hair ◦ Orange with streaks of grey and white ◦ Facial Hair ◦ Rough stubble and sideburns ◦ Tattoos ◦ None ◦ Language ◦ Polish, Common, Elven. ◦ Occupation ◦ Nomadic Monsterslayer / Mercenary
• Background

  
  

  He had been born to such a life, but he would not know the full extent of what it entailed until he came of age. His early life was overall fairly normal. His family was regarded as strange by outsiders, but it was all he'd ever known. He was not mistreated, but they were a distant sort. There was little affection shared. His father said that the family was outcast because of their powers. Nearly everyone in their family line was a powerful healer, and people misunderstood the power. Something about that story seemed rather hollow. Even as a child, he knew something was not quite right.

  
  

  The rest of the story

  The Roots

  He was not often allowed to associate with other children that were not part of his large extended family. They lived on the outside of town, in a large abandoned temple they had moved into and restored. There were his parents, his siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. It wasn't so bad, really as there was almost always other children who did not have chores or lessons occupying them. Sometimes, even if there were other children, he would sometimes slip away, down the road to the town. For months this was a regular occurrence, and no one recognized him as a member of that strange 'other' family. It was there, that he met Balan. The boy was his age, and perhaps only about an inch taller, with dark hair and eyes, a human, rather than being of Dusan's mixed blood, as much of his family was at this point. The two quickly became close friends.
  
  Balan's family did not even suspect Dusan was from that other family. They assumed perhaps that he was a child from one of the poor peasants in the slums, as Dusan almost always wore a very basic and simple 'flour sack' style of shirt. Rough, sleeveless and tan. The pants he wore were usually of the same material, often several sizes too big and held up by some old jute twine, and he was always barefoot. It was of course the standard attire for his family. His father taught that fine fancy clothing was vanity and meaningless. Clothing was merely to cover one's body and in the cold, to shield from the elements. Dusan supposed that meant Balan's family was vain, but he made sure not to mention it. He did not wish to upset his friend. He ate dinner with them around once a week however, and the family even asked him if he wished to take back some bread, or a wheel of cheese, or something similar, with him to share with his family. He always declined. He knew father would be angry, both that he accepted handouts, and that he was associating with 'those people.'

  
  
  

  Confusing Youth

  On his twelfth birthday, his real training began, and he had less time for sneaking away to play with Balan. The two had become closer over the years, and had sometimes even spoken of running away together to go become adventurers. It was typical young boy talk however, not something either of them would ever do, although sometimes Dusan wished Balan was more serious about it. Had Balan really meant it, Dusan might have had the courage to leave, but Balan had a very nice life. The longer he knew the boy the more he realized that. Balan's family were fairly well off merchants, and he was an only child. His parents doted on him often, but not so much that he was a spoiled child. Dusan meanwhile, lived a life that was slowly becoming more strict and regimented. It had been decided he would become one of the family's Master Healers, as he had the gift, so he was told. The lessons were long and hard, and required much discipline, and for the first time he saw actual cruelty displayed by his family members. Sadly, what he witnessed barely broke the surface.
  
  He watched one of his uncles take a knife, and cut a thin line down the side of a stray kitten. The mottled scrawny creature cried out in pain and struggled to get away. It was then, handed over to Dusan, where he would be commanded to heal the wound. He would do so, upset, shaken and fighting back welling tears. The kitten, once healed, would be taken from him, and injured again in some way. Sometimes it wasn't a kitten. Some days it might be a rat, or a stray dog, or a rabbit they'd caught that was going to be cooked up for dinner later anyways. He had to swear that he would never speak of the teachings. There was something in the tone of his Uncle's voice that made him deeply afraid. He kept his word. He never so much hinted at anything that happened, not to Balan, not to anyone. In time, he could watch an animal, and later a person take injury and not flinch, and then heal them. He no longer felt anything for them, he wasn't allowed to.
  
  He become colder, closed off, and only when he was around Balan was there any glimmer of warmth and life in him. Sometimes it was as though he was two people. When he was 'home' with his family he sealed away all outside thoughts, there was only his training. When he was with Balan, he was a young boy again. Little by little the line began to blur, more and more. Balan began asking him regularly, what was wrong. His odd quirks made him no longer so welcome at his friend's home.

  
  
  

  Troubled Adolescence

  At fourteen he began rather intense training in the use of a sword, it was primarily an older brother who taught him. Two hours a day, he trained to fight, and another hour was devoted to pure physical conditioning, he was made to carry buckets of stones, and hold heavy thick boards over his head, sometimes balancing things on top of them. He ran, with bags of sand lashed to his legs, all manner of sometimes bizarre exercises were given to him, all with the intent of training his body. There were nights he barely had more than an hour to himself where he wasn't in physical training, magical training, meditation and prayer, or fallen into an exhausted slumber.
  
  At sixteen he and Balan had started meeting in secret, as Balan's parents had finally realized where the boy was coming from, and no longer liked the eerie young man, who was rumored to be responsible for a number of missing animals from the town, around their son. Now that he was older, he had been entrusted with more responsibility, one of those responsibilities was obtaining more animals to practice on, and offer as sacrifice. He was caught stealing chickens once and was briefly detained. His Uncle had come for him when he did not return. He was not sure what he said or did, but the guards, looking pale faced, released him from the cell without question.
  
  Several members of his family were furious he was caught. He was lashed violently, and not permitted to use his healing powers until the following day. It was then, he was told the next level of his training would begin, his lessons in pain. It was then he learned the true nature of the cult, why it's members wore long sleeves even in the height of summer outside of the temple, why so many had bizarre scarification. Something in the back of his mind whispered of wrongness. He couldn't help but think of things Balan had told him, how the boy had been so very different, how he was kind to all creatures and people. There was no kindness in Dusan's world, and on this level of training, he was injured in vicious and brutal ways, slashed, whipped stabbed, struck with blunt objects. Sometimes they burned him. Each time he was healed, or another healed him. Not all the healings kept him from scarring.
  
  He now only saw Balan every other week or so, and he was often quite distant with him. His friend, knew something was wrong, and kept asking Dusan to talk to him. He was torn, as here was someone who'd been nothing but kind and patient to him for years, yet he'd never told him anything of what he really was. Part of him wanted Balan to know his ways. Was this not the most devout way to live? Pain brought purity, and the blood he shed in ritual and in sacrifice was given to his god. Doubt always whispered however, and he did not want Balan to be harmed. The thoughts felt strange to him. Pain was the path to divinity, yet he did not want it for his friend? The conflicting thoughts, and all the lies and secrets ate at him.
  
  He finally told Balan he could never see him again. He begged him to just stay away. He told him it was dangerous to be around him. In what was probably one of the most confusing moments of his friend's life thus far, on impulse, Dusan kissed him fiercely, and then threatened him with a knife. He shouted at him demanding he stay away from now on. When Balan seemed convinced Dusan wouldn't hurt him, he slashed him across the forearm. It was shallow and well away from any major veins, Dusan had made sure of that, but it was serious enough, he felt to frighten his friend. Horrified, Balan fled, and Dusan, with rather unexpected tears welling in his eyes, returned home.

  
  
  

  Painful Adulthood

  With his ties cut to his friend, Dusan threw himself headlong into his training. He began working with his sword forms on his own, and trying to find other young men close to his age and skill level to spar with. The loss he experienced, separating himself from his only friend turned into a cold anger, that was quickly edging into hate. His healing powers were growing, and soon he could heal grevious wounds with ease. He participated in his first human sacrifice when he was eighteen. On some level it sickened him. He tried telling himself the man they'd taken was 'just' an old hobo. He told himself they were actually doing him a favor, cleansing his soul and delivering it to the afterlife.
  
  When it had been his hand that held the knife, three times, he was ready. He had been told of this final stage he would be subjected to, before he was fully a member of their Order. He was lashed face down on a table, naked. A razor sharp knife was used to cut two sections of skin from his back. He was given a leather wrapped stick to bite down on, but nothing was used to numb the pain. The pain, was part of his final test. The pain was part of the initiation. He bit down so hard into the leather he thought his teeth would crack. Muffled sounds of agony, screams silenced by his clamped teeth, came again and again. Blood, mingled with sweat, and he briefly blacked out twice, before the pain brought him back again. It seemed to take an eternity for the process to be complete, and when it was over he lay there, a twitching, silently sobbing wreck.
  
  His brother healed his back, but it only healed over the wound, it could not simply replace the missing flesh. He would forever have those two scars under his shoulder blades, that some would think indicated a loss of wings, when he was older. The pain was suppose to make him one of them, but all he could think back to was Balan, and his kindness, and how much his missed him. It was too late for him however, wasn't it? The skin removed from his back, was tanned, and to be used, along with other sections taken from other members, to bind one of their 'holy' texts.
  
  His whole world became nothing but intense training and dark rituals. For several months, from dawn til nightfall, that was his world. He did not wish to leave the temple out of fear of seeing Balan again. He was ashamed, of both what he'd become and what he felt for his childhood friend. At the same time, he missed him so much it was painful. Many a night he entertained the thought of just leaving, cutting ties, finding Balan and running away like they said they would do as kids. Always however, the teachings that had warped his mind would rear their ugly heads, and he would pray silently to that cruel god, and he would fear that somehow, his doubt would be labeled as heresy.

  
  
  

  Loss and Freedom

  Doubt still lingered however, and one night, when he was nineteen years old, Balan came for him.
  
  He had not seen his friend in just over two years, but he came for him, sneaking into the Temple one afternoon. He was caught, and Dusan didn't know about it until his Uncle came to speak with him. He told him, how an outsider had come and had said Dusan's name. He'd been very adamant about finding him, and had demanded to know where they were 'keeping him' and had insisted they 'let him go' Dusan's heart leapt to his throat, his stomach twisted into knots and he felt faint. He tried to lie, saying he'd only spoken to the stranger a few times in town, briefly. He said he had no idea why he'd followed him back. Fearful, he begged first his Uncle, and then his Father, claiming it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding and that the young man should just be let go.
  
  He'd known even then, his pleas were in vain. Balan was set to be ritually sacrificed that very next day. Dusan was not allowed to even speak to him, Dusan himself, was hauled away and given twenty two lashes for his trouble, and ordered to not heal himself until told otherwise. Fear for his friend had driven him halfway to madness, and he merely waited until things were more quiet, healed himself, and tried to break into the dungeon to free his friend.
  
  He had gotten so close. He saw Balan there, looked battered and bloodied, but very much alive in his cell. He scrambled to find the keys, desperate, pleading with Balan to stay silent. He reached out and clutched his hand.
  
  Two guards, arrived, before Dusan could get the cell door unlocked, but Dusan was an adept fighter as well, and he was not so easily subdued. However the sounds of struggle brought two more guards, his father, and the High Priest. The old man's gaunt face leered at him, and said he would make him watch the sacrifice. With a strength he didn't know he had, Dusan broke free of the guards holding him. Seeing nothing but red, his hand somehow found the long curved wicked dagger at the Priest's side. Lashing out like a striking snake, the blade found the man's throat, severing it completely.
  
  While many of the cult were master healers, there were some things that could not be healed. The Priest gurgled and slumped to the ground. Several rushed to try and save him, but it was too late. Dusan fought like a mad animal, snarling and slashing, managing to severally injure several guards before he was taken down by his own Father, and knocked unconscious.
  
  He awoke, to find himself chained in a cell. For several days he was kept there, given only a bit of stale water and nothing else. He'd screamed until his throat was raw. When he was finally taken out of the cell, drug in chains to one of the ritual rooms, he saw Balan's dead body, with signs that he'd been tortured before his life had been ended. He tried to lash out at his captors, no longer caring what became of himself. He tried to scream with a throat that had long gone raw and hoarse.
  
  It was decided that he would not be sacrificed. Because he had betrayed them, killing him would be too 'good' for him. Instead, he became a test subject for the youngest members. For weeks, he was cut and bruised, and burned, then healed, sometimes nine or ten sessions a day. But, as he became less responsive, they got lazy. One evening, when they were moving him to be cleaned up, and given his cup of gruel, he struck. He choked the life out of one guard, with one of his chains, after catching the other in the back of the head with a well placed kick. He killed another member on the way out, to keep himself from being seen, stole their coinpurse, and fled into the night, still in chains.
  
  It was by sheer will that he made it to the woods, crossed the stream, and into a field before he passed out, and perhaps mere luck or chance that he was not found before awakening the next morning, with the sun baking down on him.
  
  He stole from crops to keep from starving, or out of henhouses, several times running for his life as a farmer and or his dogs gave chase. It was days before he found a blacksmith and bribed the man with what little money he had to free him of the dangling chains and shackles. He thanked the man by stealing the clothes he had hanging up to dry outside. They were too big, but at least they covered him. He managed to hitch a ride on a wagon, even further East.

  
  
  

  A New Life

  He scraped by for years, at first stealing, then getting odd labor jobs here and there. He was plagued by nightmares quite often, and took to drinking fairly heavily. Eventually he was able to buy himself a sword. One evening, when he was working his forms just outside of town, a man stopped to watch. Dusan, was offered a job. For the most part, it was mercenary work, but within a year of doing mercenary jobs, he was doing missions for an adventuring guild, slaying goblins, even fighting an ogre once.
  
  He was always regarded as strange, and even feared by some of the other men of the guild. He was known for his strange outbursts, sudden fits of rage, when the rest of the time he was eerily cold and calloused. The nightmares still came, but they'd slowly been getting less frequent. He'd repressed memories of Balan, and his past as best he could, managing to block quite a bit of it out, that was until his Brother found him.
  
  It had been six years since he'd fled what he now knew was a Cult. He'd had occasional lapses, where his 'teachings' had rushed back and seized hold of him. Once, he'd hurt a prostitute rather badly, terrifying the poor woman, before snapping out of it and healing her. She'd fled, and he'd left town. Nothing however, had made the memories well up as strongly as when he lay eyes on his brother.
  
  He'd even tried to reason with him at first. He told him how he'd broken free of the Cult, and so his Brother could too. It was to no avail, as his brother had been sent to find him, along with others, who'd been searching for signs of Dusan ever since he fled. His brother was suppose to find him, and kill him. In the end they fought, and his Brother found that Dusan had not been slacking in his training, in fact, with the mercenary and guild work, he'd gotten better at hand to hand combat. He bested his brother, but faltered. His brother had never inflicted the horrors on him that the others had. He had wounded the man, and held him at sword point, but instead, knocked him out.
  
  Once again he ran, this time crossing hundreds upon hundreds of miles before he began looking for work again. He was well off enough to also pursue other studies, and began researching branches of the occult that would benefit him in both mercenary work, and what he felt was his calling, monster slaying. A decade passed, then two. He became one of the best at his line of work, but the shadow of his past still loomed over him. It had left scars, both physical and not.

• Inventory

  Gear pack - Bedroll, 7 days trail rations, 10 torches, Belt Pouch, Flint&Steel, 50' rope, Grappling Hook, Sack, Waterskin, Whetstone, Fairly large Hay hook. - Total weight: 59 lbs - Often worn when traveling. Sometimes pulls gear off of it he thinks he needs and takes just that.

• Gallery

  Art by Negativisms
  Character purchased from Legion
  Original name was Stonewell

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