Corin of Lamhet - Half Elf Duelist

A half-elf sellsword raised in a quaint village in Belfrie’s southeast, nearing the borders of Nan Thalias. Corin was raised mostly by his human mother, his father being a sentinel for the woods who would often spend weeks and months at a time away. Thus he never felt a great deal of closeness to his Elven heritage, nor did any of his younger siblings, being raised among a village of mostly humans, where none blinked or scoffed at their mixed blood. When Corin came of age, he chose to bid his village and family farewell, leaving to a bid of wanderlust, initially travelling to the major cities of Belfrie, before finding himself on a voyage to the far north lands of Greypeak. Here he fell into employment with a small security detail for a merchant: a purveyor of illicit magic goods, one who procured his wares from the frontlines of the Liturium War, paying a great sum for stolen artefacts and Breath imbued trinkets that he would flog on to the highest bidder. It was an easy gig for Corin, and one that kept him travelling the lands in the north around the border of Leacianus. Trading in such goods was always due to attract attention from undesirable sorts, however, and Corin and his colleagues were not prepared when their caravan was beset by a host of cultists, worshippers of Mindoriel. Corin was mortally wounded, his allies slaughtered and his employer’s entrails splayed across the road. Yet as he lay dying, a force beckoned him from the debris of the caravan, a cutlass brandished with macabre markings laying in a pool of his comrade’s lapping blood. Dragging himself to it, his hand reached for its grip. The blood beneath it seeped into the blade, before it hummed with a crimson aura. Corin’s wounds were healed, and he mounted a desperate last stand against his attackers, yet he found with each blow he landed, any wounds he sustained faded. Bloodlust overtook him, and he did not halt until all his enemies lay eviscerated. Adrenaline coursed through him, his legs and arms weightless as he fled the bloody scene, running for hours until he eventually collapsed, dozens of miles from any roadside. It was here that finally, clarity came to him in the form of a haunting voice, whispering to him from the hilt of the blade. It told him its name, Loathe, and that now he had drawn blood with it, he would need to continue doing so for time immemorial. In turn, his life would be endless, yet if he relented, his wounds would begin to catch up with him. The more dire the blade’s thirst, the more dire his old wounds grew. Thus he was bound to a life of bloodletting, and though he was nigh unkillable in a fight, he was forced to always seek them out, lest his mortality catch up with him. So, he took a job on high stakes caravans and ships where risk of attack was almost guaranteed, a wise way to constantly sate his weapon’s hunger. Now he finds himself trapped within the walls of Grimhelm, the city besieged and the residents themselves quarrelling. With no means to exit, he must find a way to feed his blade within the walls, or bind himself to a cause in hopes that bloodshed comes sooner rather than later.