The Rogue. The Hero. The Maracas. Edit
Muertoreb is the Jungian shadow of Oreb, the Magister of House Charron, spawned as a fragment of his personality through the mage's pursuits of power. Muertoreb represents his romantic side, his love of music and fun, his passion for breadsticks and parties and the company of avocado-haired women.
The city of Menaphos lays still, a suffocating depression that none dare to break for fear of the vile repercussions. The scent of breadsticks lingers in the air, as does the sinister strumming of an old guitar that winds its way through the streets, instating a foul curfew at the oddest of hours. The music pauses, a chill lingering upon the spines of those whose ears are pressed to their doors, hoping to track his movements by his dreaded instrumentation.
Muffled cries ring out as a new sound begins: the faint ‘shakka-shakka’ of the ominous maracas.
He has located an unfortunate soul, his latest victim.
One unlucky civilian cracks their door ajar, gripped by some morbid curiosity, only to find that - to their mortification - the fiend sits upon the very railing of their external stairs.
They slowly shut the door, heart racing as his head tilts this way and that, releasing a ‘CRAAAWK’ that no mortal throat should be able to replicate.
The maracas intensify.
The Life and Times of Muertoreb Edit
His exploits bring him across the land: from Nomad's doorstep, to deep within Menaphos, to beneath the Falador gardens. Muertoreb's life is one of freedom, unbound by gods or morality or the need to bathe. He goes where the wind takes him, playing his instruments, nabbing breadsticks, drinking fine store-bought ready-made margaritas, and wooing particular people who are into bald, morally unsavory, glowing-eyed chaps.
He holds no desire to be reabsorbed into the Original Oreb, and will in fact react quite unhappily to the prospect when it may arise.
Muertoreb is known to have produced at least one offspring, a fashionable fellow named Linus who has a penchant for cosmetics and outfit design. Linus's young years were spent travelling with his single father, learning the art of guitar and merriment, never questioning the oddity that is his motherless creation, as in his mind the only reasonable parent ever needed was the one which breadstfed him. Linus now has parted ways with his father, though each Novtumber they once more cross paths and catch up on tales of the year past over shared alcoholic beverages.
During the early Sixth Age, the mustached marryman's wanderlust brought him upon the presence of an undead fellow by the name of Silvarius Ivanov. Seeing that the lad was obviously in need of company, Muertoreb chose to bless him with his own, slinging an arm around the boy's shoulders while offering him a fresh breadstick.
Now, Silvy was clearly off-put and befuddled by the other's prompt decision of friendship, but eventually grew to appreciate his eccentric nature and love of festivity - partially due to his limited option on companions. The Lieutenant found himself drug to parties, both with and without invitation, and was taught the ways of the maracas.
One of their most infamous outings involved a well-timed visit to a H.A.M. meeting, which quickly escalated into a memorable night of pranks. Breadsticks were shoved into shoes. Graffiti of Muertorebian proverbs were painted upon the walls. Member robes were dyed an edgy black. Faces of the sleeping and awoken were scribbled upon in pen, ranging from aimless doodles to belief-countering Saradominist scriptures.
The organization has still yet to recover.
- Even a mod loves him
- and now has a link to this page oh jeez Domi
- He wears his sombrero at all times.
- ALL TIMES
- ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
- ALL TIMES
- He's "basically a tourist"