Kronus Asimov Zakharovich

"This 'old man' turned my family and friends into a flesh totem. He deserved worse than what I did"


Race: Human (Variant), Revenant
Class: Rogue (Assassin)
Background: Criminal
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Age: 26 years old (Died and revived at age 25)

Wife: Alisa Galina Zakharovich (Died: Age 25)
Son: Mihael Aleksandr Zakharovich (Died: Age 8)
Daughter: Zanida Valentina Zakharovich (Died: Age 7)


Born and lived in Axia, a harsh, frozen land. Grew up as the son of a hunter, living in a one room cabin until the age of sixteen when, like others, he became a man. He began to build a home with his own hands, as is tradition in his culture. A small barley and oats farm on the Southern edge of his village, called Bakovo, with plenty of room for a family. When he turned eighteen, he presented this home to the woman he loved, Alisa, as a promise for his wish to spend their life together. They were married, and they were soon graced with a son, Mihael. A year later, a daughter named Zanida was brought to the family as well.

Due to a poor economic outlook, the couple decided to wait on further children, despite Axia’s cultural inclination toward many offspring. This proved to be a good decision, as they had the funds to provide for their two children during a light depression. They came out of it as happy as they entered.

A year ago now, just weeks after Mihael’s eighth birthday, Kronus’ life was simple and happy. He loved his family, and they loved him. Like every other Monday of every week for years, he went out into the woods and spent the day fishing at the river North of the village. Netting and gathering up a large basket of fish could take all day, but it would feed the four of them heartily for some time, keeping much left over for the iceboxes. Only an hour into his trip, though, he found himself in the company of several travelers, looking for his village. They wore spring clothing, unfit for the winter, and he feared that they may become lost and in danger. They gave him parchment and he drew them a map. Truthfully it was only a few miles, but in Axia’s winters, a few hundred feet can be life or death to the inexperienced.

One of the travelers asked him a question. Once answered, the man lifted his hand and the world went black. The events that follows exists only in flashes of memories. A tent, a table, bindings, blood, magic, voices… Death. Rebirth.
He awoke, wearing only his trousers, amid a night blizzard. Weak and exhausted, blinded by the snows, he looked to his hands and saw that his flesh was just as white as the tundra around him. Kronus crawled, using his position near the river as a guide. He crawled to his village as fast as he could, all throughout the night, until he made it. The buildings were there. The people were not. Their fireplaces roared as if they had just been fed, their boiling pots stewing like dinner was about to be served. Their clothes lay about, in living rooms and bathrooms and in the snow-covered roads, as if the people within them had simply gone.

His father’s lessons awoke within him. He found the scent, drops of blood here and there, a disturbance in the snow from where something rested for a moment. He ran South, following it. Right to his farm. His home was the same as the others, no sign of anyone, but the blood kept him running. Blood was life. He felt empty inside, if not for that hope.

Twelve miles South of Bakovo, the trail stopped. Black amid the bright whites of the tundra, what he saw cracked his soul and made him scream. The tall structure, an obelisk, mashed together from flesh and bone, wrapped with the skins of the villagers, rows of their intact faces adorning every side, perpetually screaming against the wind. Only his voice breached the howls of the winter. He screamed louder than the blizzard, for the faces he saw first were those of his family. The obelisk stood in the center of a large circle, a magical creation of some kind that used the lives of the villagers for a powerful ritual. This meant little to him. Only the pain was real.
He scarcely remembers what he did after that. Burning the obelisk and the circle, heading home to collect some things and pack a bag, then leaving. There was nothing for him in Bakovo anymore, though he did not know where he’d go. He wandered Axia for some time, almost unconsciously preparing for the task he knew he would have to complete. He took from the empty home of his father, blades and thermal leather, bleached white as snow, the gear of an Axian hunter. A mask, to hide the living corpse beneath.

Three months ago, his search held a lead. Stories of magicians in the country of Tyriss that knew of blood magic and its practitioners. Something deep within his soul reached out, yearning to go, as if he knew his path must lead there. So he made his way to the small port town of Kyvat and boarded a ship, taking a long, but free route to his destination. He checked into an inn on the first day, talking to locals and trying to find a lead.

And on the seventh day, he was awoken to the sound of bells.

Kronus Asimov Zakharovich

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