Zectaras Neithurus

Identity

Name(s)

Zectaras Neithurus

Title(s) and Rank(s)

Culture

Waejiran

Profession

Priest of Neithur / Olineitar

Description

Ethnicity

Waejiran

Gender

Male

Age

37 sols, (610 WR -- )

Height

1.73 metres (5 feet, 8 inches)

Build

Lean, 62 kilograms (138 pounds)

Appearance

Zectaras is a smaller man, with a slight build, and a pale complexion. He has short cropped black hair, and keeps a trimmed moustache without a beard. He typically dresses in the ash grey robes of a priest of neithur, with the bronze mask of his station. When performing his martial duties he wears full bronze helm, a short hauberk of bronze scale, and kurbul armour on his arms and legs. For weapons he carries a short sword, hand axe, and round shield.

Personality

Zectaras is a pious man, who strongly believes in his purpose. He is stoic, and generally a man of few words. He is surprisingly stable minded despite the horrors he has witnessed in following his holy task to rid the world of monstrous undead. Being quite knowledgeable on the topic of the undead, he is considered the local expert in Aerimadur, and as such is the lead trainer of new olineitar recruits,

About

Home

Aerimadur, Waejir

History

Zectaras is a templeborn, orphaned as a newborn child and delivered unto the temple of Silat. At the age of six he was given to the Temple of Neithur since his interest in the death of his parents led him to seeking answers only available to that temples clergy. In his teen years his physical abilities showed promise so he was trained to become an olineitar, to hunt of the undead. Zectaras has spent the majority of the past decade investigating rumours of hauntings, and outbreaks of strange death related phenomena such as ghüls, neitlumar, and shigtikar.

First Encounter with Neitlumar

I remember the smell more than anything. The rancid scent of old blood, the air filled with the sweet heavy taste of meat that was left out in the sun too long... and they way they moved. First just slowly shambling about, some sniffing the air, some peering about with what remained of their eyes, others snapping their head in the direction of every sound.

Once they sensed we were close, they charged straight at us, mouths agape and clawing at the air, like they might pull themselves forward with greater speed.

We were trained, we had been told what to expect, and we were not ready. Four of us had managed to draw our swords before they hit our line. Three of my brothers stood frozen in terror. Another pair fled screaming, and the last collapsed into a sobbing wreck.

It was mutual slaughter. They just kept pressing, ignored their injuries, and seemingly immune to pain. We stood our ground as best we could hacking and thrusting at the mob of bodies. We cut off limbs, and they didn't slow. They only stopped when the blow was directly fatal; a stab through the heart, or a severed head.

In the end we... three of us... survived. Neithur be praised.

Connections

Familial

Personal

Professional

Siontarias Neithurus

Stories

Dead (fifty word fantasy)

See Also

Undead