Villains International League of Evil
Getting what he deserves
A man of many forms, although always objectively attractive. Few to none have seen his true form but his most frequently taken is that of a blonde elf. Always in his best clothes which never seem to deteriorate.
Born into a family of reasonable means Octavian began school in Zirnkosa as soon as he could hoping to achieve great things. Having learned from the bards that those who work hard and diligently are given their rewards he always strove for perfection. For what else would he deserve? But he found his home kingdom to be an unaccommodating place to find this. What with it being a strong matriarchy where if he was lucky he would become a royal consort.
So he set off to the south, as he didn’t fancy his chances further north. Fed on tales from the bards of heroes setting off with little means and from humble beginnings Octavian had no concerns when leaving with next to nothing of what would be needed for a long journey. Quickly running into trouble when he ran out of money, he couldn’t afford to live. Without food or shelter and far from home in Borkul. Initially he hoped that he’d be helped, as the nobility from this land were kind people unlike the Shax worshippers of his home.
But salvation never came, not that he wasn’t being proactive but as little more than a child there was little he could do. So days turned into weeks and then to months. Finally he had given up. No one was coming. No one cared. And why would they? He was invisible, a bystander, no one. But there was one thing he could do. Pray. So he took his knife (one of the few sensible things he bought) and killed a swan, poured it’s blood into a bowl, placed a white feather atop and prayed. Not for anything in particular but he prayed for help.
Immediately he felt a change. Crying out in pain as his blood began to burn, he could feel every vein, artery and capillary. And when he got up after some time of crying, there was a second gift. A man of considerable age before him. Dead. Not sure what to do, Octavian looked over him but with new eyes that could see the magic woven into his clothes. The hat and sleeves were glowing faintly. Although it pained him to do so he took them for himself and immediately found himself in noble regalia, his features pristine and his hair on point.
Muttering a prayer of thanks to Shax and an apology to the old man he set off. It’s surprising how far nice clothes and a convincing lie will get you. All of a sudden he was a favourite amongst the town. Which led him to see how far he could go. Arriving at the home of the local nobility he noticed a further change had occurred. His voice was changing and people would be transfixed by his eyes, then his lies. He found himself a frequent guest at dinner and then the bedroom. Although he could never bring himself to the act as that shouldn’t be attained through deceit, but one sleep spell later and he had a nice bed to sleep in.
Deciding this life suited him Octavian made his farewells, after raiding the jewels and vault and headed further south. Maybe not the adventure he expected but still an adventure. Hiring a coach he set off for Anosta. On his trip he found himself committing the same crime he accused others of, ignoring those beneath him. It had been a swift climb but he got what he wanted, that was what mattered.
He arrived at the palace of a local princess and made his usual impression and was once again invited to stay as visiting nobility from Zirnakosa. It was as usual an enjoyable evening that became a week. As he was making his usual polite conversation amongst the rest of the nobility, he arrived. A man strode in with random ramshackle gear poking out of every pocket and bag. But he wasn’t mocked. He was admired. He was a hero, an adventurer. As Octavian was talking to the princess he was ordered aside by the hero. Trying not to cause a fuss he apologised and moved. But he met the heroes gaze, and was scared. The hero looked directly through his illusions and lies he had been feeding the nobility. Octavian could see the aura of magic on he heroes monocle, it saw through everything.
What’s worse is the hero knew this and immediately drew everyone’s attention to Octavian, before his shadow seemed to giggle. Then it fell away. His clothes returned to rags, his hair in tatters and everything he had gone. Seeing red he tried to attack but before he knew it he was on the ground at sword point. Howling curses at the people that only minutes ago couldn’t tell the difference between him and them he fled.
He wasn’t different from them, they were all the same. Or were they? He had the magic. He had his gods favour. He had the ambition. They weren’t better than him. He was better, and he would continue to get better. Until he was perfect. Then he’d return. Then they’d kneel before him. But until then he had to get his items working again, and a place to stay. Back to square one…