Name: Radu von Carstein.
Homeland: East of Kislev - Exact location unknown.
Bloodline: von Carstein.
Appearance: Tall, slender and graceful, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His eyes are a dull, slate-grey, almost black - Predatory and hungry, animalistic in their intensity. Radu von Carstein is notoriously handsome - With sharp-cutting, statuesque cheekbones and a narrow, straight nose - All accentuated by a smile that cuts like a knife. His hair is long and silken, raven-dark, falling to his shoulders in lazy ringlets, though he bounds it into a single braid whilst traveling.
Raduís armour is as handsome as he - Forged in the finest of Tilean workshops a century before, - The chest-plate, greaves and vambraces inlaid with a thousand blood-red roses, contrasting beautifully against the oily-black of the plate itself. His helm is, remarkably, unremarkable - Save for a plume of dyed feathers, so that friend and foe alike can witness his presence on the battlefield.
While not campaigning, Radu von Carstein favours to wear white - White cloaks, white gloves, white riding trousers, white gowns - All white.
Personality: Fastidious, calculating and mercurial. Radu has a glacial temper - Slow to anger and slower to act - Though, when provoked past his point, his fury is unmatched. He has a courtierís wit - Often mocking, belittling and jesting. Radu has a renowned distaste for unnecessarily violent deaths - Preferring to be meticulous in his killing, - Viewing warfare as a form of art, displaying the uttermost elegance in his strikes and parries. Radu has a beautiful voice, deep and melodious, calm and measured, with an hint of arrogant intelligence within his tones.
Background: An horseman, a centaur - One of the nomadic tribesmen who dwell East of the Mountains of Mourn - Radu was born into a roaming tribe, the Grass Cats, the son of a sub-chieftain - The most esteemed and benevolent Sarkxus. Under the tutelage of an exiled Bretonnian, Guy de Montfort, Radu learned history, geography, philosophy and languages; spoon-fed information on the Empire, the Arabyan Caliphate, Bretonnia, Norsca and all the rest - Until, by the age of twelve, Radu was outstandingly aware of the world, and his tutor died of a chill.
Radu was raised in the saddle - Excelling in all equestrian arts, horse-archery counted amongst them. When he thirteen, Radu felled his first man, a horse thief, with an arrow through the side. It had been a messy death, the man crying away his life, slowly drowning in his own blood. The experience had broke Radu. He had hated the stench of death, the sounds, the uncontrollable trembling of his hands. Sarkxus was horrified that his son hated it, beating Radu with his gilded riding crop - Wanting nothing more than to toughen up the boy.
It did not. Sarkxus was ashamed, dispatching riders across the expansive grasslands, seeking out war-tutors who could instruct his son in the ways of combat. Dozens came, most brutish, half-witted barbarians, others gentlemen-Sellswords from the Empire and Bretonnia. Radu declined them all, unwilling to become a mindless murderer. And then, after months of denials, Radu finally met his war-tutor.
Shrouded in silken veils, atop a massive gelding, she arrived in the dark of night - Boldly entering Sarkxusí tent, where only men were permitted. She was beautiful, her limbs muscled perfectly, her eyes a wondrous azure, fringed by thin, soot-grey eyebrows. She smiled wickedly at Radu, her eyes glinting with inner mischief, her robes flowing like silk around her milk-pale skin. The boy was enthralled, smitten by this audacious maiden.
Introducing herself as Medea von Carstein, her accent a strange, musical lilt, she took Raduís hands in her own - Her flesh as cold as ice - And asked his permission to educate him in the ways of combat. Radu accepted, despite Sarkxusí dubious stares and argent demanding for his son to reconsider - No woman, he declared, could master the arts of war.
With that wicked smile of hers, Medea offered to demonstrate - She against Sarkxusí most skilled champion. Sarkxus agreed, and called up a brash youth - Who selected a bronze-tipped spear while Medea chose a crescent-shaped blade.
With a clap of Sarkxusí hands, the duel commenced. In as long as it took for a loosed arrow to impact the ground, the youth was down - Hamstrung and lacking his right hand, blood spurting from a dozen well-aimed strikes - Medea remaining untouched, not a droplet of blood marring her statuesque features.
All the while, Radu sat, watching the macabre display - Or, rather - Watching Medea like a wolf watches a buck.
Not only was Medea beautiful and skilled, she was also brilliantly educated - Able to recite vast quantities of poetry, religious and historical texts. She knew the stars better than anyone that Radu had ever met, able to name hundreds of constellations and navigate by them alone. Medea was cunning and terrifying at the same time, and wherever she walked, men watched her hungrily - Though, those few who ever attempted anything more than peevish stares ended up on her serrated blades.
Over time, Radu and Medeaís relationship developed from teacher and pupil into peers and lovers. Sarkxus was disgusted, and one winterís evening, with a band of shrouded horsemen, stole his son away from the womanís tent. In a night of debauchery, they tortured Radu. Vast swathes of his skin were cut away - The flesh beneath scorched and beaten, until Radu was a screaming, pitiful wreck.
Sarkxus was unrepentant - Looking down at his son, spitting hateful words, naming him a disgrace and a harlot. With a maddened shriek, Medea fell upon the men. Gone was her usual alluring grace, replaced with demented barbarism. The tribesmen died in a matter of seconds - The snow flurrying crimson as heads rolled and limbs scattered. Half-dead, Radu watched, horrified, as Medea sank her teeth into Sarkxusí throat and gorged on him.
And then, as Medea tossed away his fatherís desiccated corpse, Radu died. Only, he did not. He awoke a month later from the hollow comfort of death, bundled in furs, amidst an incense-filled tent. Medea had gifted Radu with the Bloody Kiss - Having grown possessive of the young man, - Unwilling to let go of her newest get. Emaciated, sunken-eyed, and blisteringly hungry - Radu stumbled from the tent, into the inky blackness of night. Every sense was heightened, every colour brightened, the gentlest of breezes now icy-cold on his taut flesh. It was sensational, wondrous, undeath was a blessing rather than a curse. He accepted it wholly.
Raduís first act as a vampire was the slaughter of his tribe - He and Medea feeding gratuitously on their kinsmen, new sensations flowing through the youth as he pranced merrily amongst the soon-to-be-corpses, none escaping his insatiable desire. Children, women, old and young men - All died. His blade anointed in the blood of the innocent, Raduís descent into uttermost darkness had begun.
Gone was the peevish child - Now replaced by a vengeful, blood-craving monster. Years passed, Medea and Radu preying on the nomadic tribes that inhabited the sea of grass beyond the Mountains of Mourn - Reigning over the mortals with an iron-fist, preying on who they pleased, unopposed by the meagre selection of warriors that the devilish pair had allowed to live. However - All was not well.
A vast Orcish host, a veritable incarnation of swarming, green-hided death, was encroaching on Radu and Medeaís hunting grounds. Rather than stand and fight - To protect that which they had taken with sword, claw and fang - They fled, Westwards, into the domains of man. The pair left a swathe of dried corpses in their wake - In Tilea, Estalia and even distant Araby - Before finally settling in the Empire of Sigmar.
Under Medeaís dark wing, Radu lost all semblance of his former-self. He was now dastardly arrogant, menacingly skilled with his ostentatious falcata, a spectacular bowman both mounted and on foot. He cared little for death - He was above such mortal things - Putting himself in peril on more than one occasion, seeking out the deadliest of opponents for the sheer thrill of it. A dozen times he died, and a dozen times Medea brought him back - His body masterfully reknit, his wounds nonexistent, save for the tiniest pangs of pain.
During this time, Radu became acquainted with another vampire by the name of Mordred von Drakenblood. Their initial encounter was one of hostility - Radu impetuously chiding on Mordredís expense. Medeaís cruel tongue had put Radu in place - Informing her that she and Mordred were old friends - And Radu found himself overcome with virulent jealousy. He swept forwards, falcata in hand, a silent roar upon his lips - And found Mordredís fingers entwined around his throat. With a dismissive sweep, Radu was floored, sword skittering away, a boot placed firmly on his chest.
With a lopsided grin, Mordred had hefted Radu back onto his feet - Then proclaimed, with the smallest of chuckles, that Medea had found herself another fire-hearted whelp. This initial, violent, encounter would not be the setting stone for Radu and Mordredís relationship, however - The von Carstein and Blood Dragonís relationship evolving from a jealous hate to a cool, steady friendship. Both Medea and Radu took lodgings in Mordredís Bretonnian keep; where, here, Radu pledged his sword to von Drakenbloodís cause.
Medea, on the other hand, was not content to wait. On one stormy night, the dark seductress bade Radu farewell - Promising Radu that she would return, someday, but until then - He was Mordredís man, to do with as the Blood Dragon wished. And thus, half-a-century before Mordredís hateful campaign, Radu made the final step into loyalty - Swearing his fealty to the undead lord.
Bloodline: von Carstein.
Vampire Level: Vampire.
Magic Level: 2. (Spells - Spirit Leech(10 Magic Points); Aspect of the Dreadknight(5 Magic Points))
Vampiric Powers: Quickblood: 40 Points - +2 I and Always Strikes First
Dreadknight: 20 Points - +2 WS
Master Strike: 25 Points - +1 S, -1 I, Killing Blow.
Total: 85 Points / 100 Points
Wargear, Equipment and Mounts: Falcata, (Sword of Strife - 20 Points.) Armour of Radu, (Full-plate armour - 15 Points.) Shield, (5 Points.) The Talisman of Endurance (35 Points.) Barded Nightmare (25 points.)
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'