Amadaeus stands at 6′ and 2″, broad-shouldered, yet spare of build. He has a sort of wiry constitution about him and an almost manic energy to his movements. His skin is pale, his hair dark but starting to streak with grey despite his relatively young age. He hasn’t shaved in the last few weeks, his stubble starting to turn into a beard, creased on the left cheek by an old scar. His eyes are a nondescript brown, but offer a disturbing window into the turbulent thoughts below.
His clothing is well-used. His robes used to be black, but travel grime and the partially cleaned stains of combat have reduced them to less than their former glory. The creak of well-maintained leather armor can be heard beneath his robes as he moves, the bulk of the armor making him appear less scrawny than he actually is. His face is bare, his hood down by preference, with his hair tied back tight in a ponytail. A traveler’s pack sits on his back, a weight so familiar he barely even notices its presence.
His hands hold a mysterious grace, strength and power evident in the flow of his fingers, the tendons in his arms proud from long hours of exacting motion. Tangled scarring runs up his left hand, the aftermath of a bad burn.
Seldom seen, though often cursed, his imp familiar flits about, barely under control and the subject of frequent blasts of energy from its frustrated master. Despite repeated deaths, the imp, nicknamed Stressball, refuses to stay banished and returns to his side after an hour’s delay.
Amadaeus was born the youngest child of a middling-wealthy half-elf merchant. With over a dozen older siblings spread out over nearly a century, his siblings were never close, and the human wives his father took bore their brood then passed away, leaving Amadaeus with little in the way of stable family. His father was an old philanderer, without enough money to grant his children much more than apprenticeships. Even those funds ran dry for Amadaeus, and he was forced to find his own way in the world.
Being of the introspective sort, and prone to viewing those around him with hostility, it wasn’t long before fell in with a nefarious street gang that dabbled in the dark arts. This provided Amadaeus the rough outline of an apprenticeship of sorts, though it lacked more traditional structure and didn’t truly provide him with any lasting skills beyond a facility for making people dead.
His dabbling grew to an obsession, and he delved deeper into the forbidden lore, finally contacting a demon lord. The mumbled syllables of the ritual meant nothing to him, just something he scrawled on an old scrap of parchment, a compilation of overheard whispers and pilfered library pages. The result was undeniable, though, and the gates of his psyche were thrown open by a malevolent intelligence bent on his subjugation.
For almost a week afterwards, Amadaeus was trapped in a waking nightmare, phantoms of the demon prince haunting every shadowed cornered and harrowing flames raged at him from his peripheral vision. Recovering from that mental invasion was a slow process, one that forced him to split his mind in twain: his subconscious doomed to endless torment in thrall to the demon and his waking mind walking the narrow balance of sanity.
His eldritch powers grew as he learned to draw off the energy accumulated in his subconscious, and he learned to harness the impulses continuously being grafted into his consciousness and bend their twisted machinations toward his own purposes. Those who new him grew distant, driven away by fear of his infernal nighttime mutterings and cries. He grew wan, strung out, harried by the demon riding him, at all times hanging onto his sanity with the barest of threads, the roiling pit of his subconscious a constant temptation and danger.
The state was unsustainable. While it granted him some modicum of infernal power, the danger of mental collapse was an inevitable threat. Attempts to drive out the demon on his own were laughable. He had to find the power somewhere to overcome this creature of the darkest pits.
Power, and perhaps, eventual freedom.
Ideals: Amadaeus believes with all his heart that he is on the right path. With insanity a breath away, he must believe in himself above all else. A single lapse will introduce doubts and a downward spiral inevitably resulting in his insanity and subjugation by the demon. This has obvious flaws that he tries hard not to think about, not the least of which is his inability to recognize a mistake when its made.
Bonds: Amadaeus has a perhaps flawed memory of his childhood. A time of doubtful safety and dubious companionship, it never-the-less stands out in his mind as idyllic innocence, something he secretly yearns to return to. He cherishes the time he has alone in silence, as he can let his mind drift and pretend, even for a moment, that he isn’t on the brink of annihilation.
Additionally, Amadaeus dreams of one day defeating his patron. Slaying a demon lord is far out of his potential… for now… but he doesn’t let that stop him from dreaming.
Flaws: If there was one thing that sums up everything that went wrong in Amadaeus’ life, it would have to be his lack of patience and foresight. He is impulsive to a fault, aggressive, and prone to unplanned action. Consequences are rarely, if ever, brought into consideration.
Combined with his insistence that he can do no wrong, Amadaeus is frighteningly unpredictable, with only his clouded dream of ideal childhood giving balance to an otherwise turbulent soul.
Recently acquired a statue of the demon lord Asteroth, Father of Alchemy, often credited for bringing the science of alchemy to the mortal realm. The statue is part of a ritual, the completion of which requires a troll’s ear, a violet toadstool, a willow branch, a sulfur crystal, and an honest man’s molar.
Amadaeus found a violet toadstool inside a catacomb near Amesway. He has also acquired a molar belonging to a monk. Though, without being able to confirm the honesty of the monk, it remains a questionable element to the ritual.