Name: Duncan Armstrong of the Red Iron Brotherhood, formerly Vladimir Laeknir

Pronouns: He/Him

Age: 29

Profession: Formerly an unemployed foreign traveller, now a licenced Ranger for the Trapper's union. He also serves as a magically gifted field medic, however he does not have a licence to practice medicine.

Sexuality: Heterosexual with a kink for musculature, however has a particular attraction to more assertive, stronger personalities. The easier it is for a woman to murder him, the more he's into her.

Powerset: Duncan's most obvious trait is just how well-built his body is. Through a combination of careful, arcane blood infusions, and almost a full decade of rigorous training, Duncan's muscular system has been enhanced to absurd degrees, allowing his physical strength to exceed pretty much any non-enhanced member of Engrievion society. He could lift entire wagons or cars with both hands, or plough a full crater into a human torso with only one. Clockwork machinery, mutated flesh, or magically exploited rigor-mortis, all would normally tear the average human to shreds with barely any effort. Not Duncan though, Duncan could match and counter that strength easily, giving even the oldest of undead, the most bloated of mutants, or the highest quality automatons, something to actually be concerned about.
Additionally, Duncan's mixture of magical and physical exercises has granted him the ability to take damage just as well as it can dish it out, as his solid musculature has become dense enough to double the durability and endurance of what would otherwise be a normal human body. He's not indestructible of course, blades and bullets could still bring him down just like any other man, however in the heat of battle, many of those who faced Duncan could swear that he didn't even notice pain when he received it, assuming the pain even managed to successfully land. He could be punched through several, solid stone walls, and get back up like nothing happened. He could get stabbed in the gut and shove himself further into the blade so he could punch the man wielding it. He could even be set on fire, and keep on fighting for a solid several minutes before feeling like he should put himself out. It's very plausible that the outlander could take on an entire phalanx of sellswords, completely naked and devoid of weapons, and still have a very high chance of winning. The dude is a monster.
But, not a fool.
For while Duncan would not bat an eye at having to fight with nothing but a loincloth-if even that-, he knows full well that weapons and armour exist for a reason, and he is very happy to use them.
When he had arrived in Engrievion, Duncan had boasted a reasonable mish-mash of Scornvolk's craftsmanship, a pair of axes and a studded leather ensemble with a steel cuirass. Decent enough for his homeland, alright for the seas, but terrible for a place like Engrievion, as the colder climate made his single glove and sleeveless tunic seem far from ideal equipment, worsened still by Scornvolk lacking access to Serpant Oil and the plants they came from, making whatever damage it sustained permanent. Fortunately, Duncan had befriended one Brian Smith, a highly trained local craftsman, and the engineer was more than happy to give his buddy some much needed adaptations to the region. Thanks to Brian's work, Duncan's equipment now sports the regenerative enchantments famous in the forest nation, letting it slowly heal back into pristine condition no matter what kind of damage it sustains. On top of that, the metallics of Duncan's armour were upgraded, going from basic steel, to a steel and adamantine alloy, dense and durable enough for gunshots to bounce right off. The axes meanwhile had been destroyed entirely prior to the two meeting, which gave Brian the chance to completely retrofit them with the flintlock firing systems they had idly chatted about, transforming a pair of basic handaxes into a fine set of "Gunaxes", large flintlock pistols with axe blades grafted into them, letting Duncan fluidly switch back and fourth from his usual dual axe style, to a skilled gunslinger, with nary but a simple tilt of the wrist. But why go with flintlock instead of revolver? How does he reload? And how does such a basic set up, keep up with such a high-risk environment? Well, it's simple: This set up is designed entirely around meshing with Duncan's more unique skillset.

For Duncan does just use technology or his bodily prowess. He has something that a very rare minority of the forest nation possess.

Magic.

This hulking Viking man, is a spellcaster.

Magic Speciality: Out of the entire main cast, Duncan is perhaps the most well-versed in the lore of spellcraft, leagues beyond his compatriots, and notably even more than any other local to the nation. Engrievion was no strangers to those capable of harnessing many different sources of magic, but most of these mages were either naturally born with their arcane talents, or control it through devices and artificial replicas. Scornvolkian methods to wielding magic meanwhile, though somewhat similar, were far more nuanced.
Runes played a key part in hooking into the weave of arcana, so that it could be shaped and sculpted into what was required. All these techniques needed was a source of magic to hook into, and in the case of Duncan's people, the Red Iron Brotherhood, their tattoos matched the typical styles needed for runic enchantment near 1:1, granting them deep connections within the very system of anatomy.

This was the power of "Blood Magic", the ability to cast one's own will into the lifeblood of fellow living creatures, to twist and warp them to whatever the wielder fancied. With biological laws under their control, the Brotherhood could conjure all kinds of miracles and horrors alike. They could heal and undo wounds, halt the flow of blood cells to prevent the brain from receiving oxygen, track their elusive quarry through the scent of their viscera, alter the viscosity of bodily fluids into forms like gelatine or mist, and much, much more. Duncan's training in his craft leaves a bit to be desired-though he'd never admit it-, yet even he still possesses more than enough talent to make light work of any biological hurdles.
With his extensive knowledge of medicine and biology, Duncan makes himself a highly effective medical agent, able to seal wounds and repair internal damages that would normally spell either quick, or inevitable death to his compatriots, yank disease, infection and parasites from their flesh, and he's even starting to get the hang of reattaching entire limbs, though in the fight against the Primal Mutation, oftentimes it's best to just get prosthetics instead, much to his disappointment.

However, despite his expertise, healing is not quite Duncan's passion. More often than not, he tends to prefer using his blood magic in more offensive, combat-oriented ways, and he does so through his personal favourite feature of hemomancy: Iron.

Within the blood cells of living beings are vast traces of iron, and through blood magic, the Red Iron Brotherhood can exploit and hijack that unrefined metal, and shape it into whatever they fancy. And nowhere is this more prominent than through the outlander himself, for Duncan is a master of weaving raw, liquid iron into various constructs and weaponry for whatever situation he finds himself in. From hovering, needle-like darts, to chains yanking the internals out of the wounds he inflicts, shields and cover formed of elegant curves, to bolts and staples holding things together, even his own equipment, as stated before, is melded into his malleable craft, letting his armour shift and change in seconds, either retracting his helmet for storage, or re-organising metal to block a targeted strike, whilst the ammunition for his firearms is formed from the blood he spills from his axe-slashes, siphoned and absorbed through the vents and gutters engraved along their blades. Whilst already a fairly dangerous person, Duncan's excellent talent for blood magic changes him into something of a one-man army, able to charge right into the front lines, healing the wounded, before taking the blood splatters of combat, and weaving them into disposable blades and spears. Mages of the forest nation are already massively powerful threats, yet amongst a very select few within BBB's ranks, those who know of Duncan's full past, a very slight, theoretical terror lingers in their minds.
Because if Duncan was truly a Scornvolkian blood mage who was poorly trained...

Then it would be frightening to know what an actual master of the craft could be like.
Many hope to never have to find out.

....much to Duncan's dismay.

Current Intentions: Find the Lake of Blood, but rescue Mixholme from the encroaching Mutant outbreak first.

Background: Far to the east, beyond the immense oceans, and stretched to the billowing clouds, lies the nation of Scornvolk, the land of magic.

Where Engrievion has its vast seas of forest and jungle, and Apatharia its endless void of lifeless desert, Scornvolk is most famous among the known Golus world not for its own cursed woods, but for the things that tower above them: the nation's absolutely titanic mountains, rising so far up into the sky that their highest tips are believed to pierce the very atmosphere. Thanks to this otherworldly mutation of landmass, the humans that reside upon these peaks were exposed to a deep secret of their forever mysterious planet, for high into the sky of Golus, accessible only by mountains such as these, is a drifting, shifting, bountiful source of malleable mana that encompasses the entire globe, coined by its witnesses as "The Glint in the sky", for the beautiful patterns of light it was. Through generations of careful study and symbiotic practice, the Scornvolkian people learned to harness, control, and master this Glint into what is known to them now as Arcana, the art of magic, and through its power and knowledge did Scornvolk develop and evolve, changing from a sporadic scattering of tiny camps, into a proper society, a kingdom led by the greatest individuals among them, the one they crown "The Jarl".

However, not all who reside upon Scornvolk answer to the governance of this Jarldom, for further down below, to the border between the peaks and the woodlands, another section of Scornvolkian society makes its own sovereignty. Here exists not a single kingdom, but rather a collection of enclaves and nomadic tribes, each with their own beliefs, laws, and even doctrines of magic. For these tribes don't have access to the Jarldom's Glint due to living at a lower altitude, yet they are not barred from the secrets of arcana. Instead, they have found an alternative source: The very land they live upon. In the trees, the beasts, the soil, even the body, flows a much more primal form of natural magic, "Wild Magic", far less elegant than the Glint, but notably easier to access, allowing for a wide variety of more...unconventional, arcane traditions.

For instance, the "Beastwalkers" carve the runes into the hides of slain animals, before sowing the hides into their own skin, fusing the sources of magic together, and granting them the exact abilities as the chosen animal they've uh, "bonded to", some even ending up with the power to change into them entirely.
"Sledovik's Sculptors" meanwhile carve their runes into stones and rocks to craft bizarre weaponry, sparking raw kinetic energy into powerful enchantments, that they utterly refuse to allow anyone outside of their clan to utilize.
And one of the more infamous enclaves, "The Red Iron Brotherhood", carve the runes directly into their own bodies, adorning their skin in scars and tattoos that hook into the faint magic found in the human form, letting them attune to every single little cell and ecosystem that operates within it, and control them with sheer willpower, the technique known widely as "Hemomancy", the art of "Blood magic."

And within this Brotherhood, many years ago, is where Duncan Armstrong's story begins.

To start, "Duncan Armstrong", was not actually his name, at least not at the beginning of his life. Instead, when Duncan was first born into this world, he was gifted the title of "Vladimir Laeknir", a generic name for the few male members of his caste.
For the Red Iron Brotherhood's methods of dictating its society were...not exactly ideal. They operated on a "caste system", where the new-borns were given their purpose alongside their name, set to spend their lives trained and raised almost exclusively within it. The soldiers of the warfare caste were never given lessons in literacy. The hunters and explorers of the scouting caste rarely knew the taste of man-made food. And those unfortunate enough to be placed in the sacrificial caste were....uh...well, you can probably hazard a guess.
The point was, families were not built in the same way they were elsewhere, for the clan itself was the child's family, not the ones who conceived them. "Fathers" and "mothers" were not a thing in the brotherhood, only "brothers" and "sisters", so biological parents were never to reveal themselves as such to their child, so that the child did not become reliant on them, or even attached to them.
All members had a destiny deemed by their rituals, and this destiny was to be followed and obeyed without a single lapse in commitment. Should an individual ever develop a stance on how any part of this system worked, it was to be ignored, considered irrelevant, and perhaps even mocked and shunned and called stupid and idiot for good measure, for it was the brotherhood, the collective clan, that mattered, not just one member.

I bring this up because, unsurprisingly, Vlad was not exactly pleased with such a way of life. He was born into the healing cast, the mages who were destined to be the doctors, herbalists, and medical caretakers for everyone else in their clan. It was an arguably vital part of the society, but it often proved to be a far more complicated practice than a good number of other positions, due to how intently its members needed to study every single fraction of complexity within the human anatomy, to stand any hope of actually weaving their hemocraft for medicine. And Vlad, expectantly, just couldn't find the patience for it. He was raised on kindness, and had an empathic heart compassionate enough to always wish the best for others, but the problem was the healing caste were incredibly....limited, in how they could help.

Due to the social structure of the caste system, only the most trustworthy, veteran members of the healing caste were permitted to even leave the Brotherhood's main settlement, let alone with other castes. The rest, Vlad included, were stuck to only helping the ragged, brutalized bodies of the brothers and sisters who returned from the forests, oftentimes far too late for even the most careful of surgeries to save.

The contrarianism was frustrating, for every single patient the young, barely pre-teen Vlad lost, he was scolded and ridiculed for failure, yet rarely, if ever, actually guided on how to better himself. Instead, his days were spent endlessly studying mindless text after mindless text, thrust right into the brunt of a wounded soul's final moments, or stuck in his abode, waiting for either. That, was the part that infuriated the boy the most: Waiting. All Vlad's life, he was taught that he was meant to help, and such an upbringing made him desire nothing more than to do so. Yet, the only opportunities he ever got were well past his ability by the time they reached him, because he and majority of his caste were permitted only to wait for their permission, to wait for the suffering to have already left its grisly mark, rather than preventing it outright.
Most of his fellow children could tolerate it, and Vlad had been told by the caste Elders that "It's a normal part of the learning processes", more times than he could count, however Vlad sported possibly one of the worst track records for healing out of his entire generation, purely because he was almost always unlucky enough to end up with the most grievous of casualties, not helped by his Elders responding to his failures by intentionally piling on even more difficult trials, sending his reputation into a spiralling mess. Thanks to leering feedback loop of difficultly, failure, and higher difficulty, Vlad inevitably grew to heavily resent his position within the brotherhood. His rage was quiet, unable to be indulged, but with each passing day, Vlad felt like he was being further and further wronged, robbed of his chance to actually do what he was raised to do, what he wished to do.
What kind of "hero" just sat around all day anyway? Waiting for tragedy to pass, so he could pathetically tell the victims to cease their crying and mourning? Every time a patient fell still under his inexperienced care, Vlad wanted nothing more than to travel back in time, to the moment the disgusting wounds would be inflicted, and...well, do something, anything, to prevent such a unenviable fate. But he was just a boy, trapped in a world outside of his control, and it would take a lot more than burning, spiteful determination, to free himself enough to be the hero he dreamed himself as.

And then, one day, fortune finally smiled upon him.

His name was Strannik, a lad from the scouting caste roughly beneath Vlad's age.
The two boys met when Strannik was brought in from an attack that resulted in the death of an entire squadron, leaving him the only survivor. Strannik was dumped-sorry, "placed", under Vlad's care as another "test" by the healing Elders, and potentially as a punishment for Strannik's failure from the scouting Elders too. Yet everyone overestimated the severity of Strannik's wounds, and Vlad was able to get the boy conscious and healthy within days, marking the first successful surgery Vlad achieved in ages, not that anyone noticed. Funnily enough however, thanks to the disregarding of the injured scout, and Strannik's own inexperienced youth, he and Vlad were able to speak with each other in direct, if unintentional defiance of Brotherhood code.
And through these conversations, Strannik was able to share a detail with Vlad that no-one in the healing caste were ever permitted to hear, information so adamantly censored to them, that it was why most of their people were ordered to never leave the healing caste's region, why Vlad's frustrating lifestyle was the way it was.
The information...as to what had killed Strannik's squadron

For as the dumbstruck Vlad would discover through his growing link with Strannik, there was a reason, for why the brotherhood had tried so hard to minimize the idea of individual desire:

They were at war.

Long ago, when humans first began to build society, there were complications in co-operations. According to myth, when humanity finally broke away from the clutches of nature, some...turned back around. Whether it was because they did not like how humanity was forming, thought that they could control nature whilst it was weak, or were perhaps seduced by the dark whispers of its wild magic, this splinter species of humanity discarded and rejected the gifts of the watching eye, and instead let the trees of the vicious woodlands burrow and fuse with their bodies, forming a new race of creatures, not human, nor beast, nor plant, but instead an abhorrent melding of all three, crowning themselves:
"The Fae."
Most upon the peaks know nothing of the Fae, for their rulers hide and censor the existence of the traitor humans, so that they could maintain an ancient treaty where the Fae would live in the woodlands, whilst man claimed the peaks. However, whether out of ignorance or arrogance, The Red Iron Brotherhood defy this treaty by laying claim to territory at the foot of the mountains, making themselves a hated enemy of both the Fae, and the Jarldom, with poor Vladimir none the wiser to the wider truth, and Strannik only finding out a mere fraction of it, from an encounter with the Fae's militia that nearly cost him his life. All the boys knew now, was that their clan was fighting an enemy they wasn't supposed to know about, and trapping their own people into a flawed, oppressive regime to do it.
Was it the only way for the Brotherhood to stand a chance against such a disturbing foe?
Were they just scared and desperate, trying anything they thought could help, without any assurance that it was?
Or, were the Elders just fools, stubbornly refusing to relinquish the fight, just to fuel their own power and egos?
Vlad was too young to know for certain, and Strannik wasn't able to provide any better insight. All Vlad could tell, was that this method of warfare wasn't the right way to do it, his clan was doing something wrong, horrendously wrong.

...and it was up to him, Strannik, and whoever else shared their ideals, to fix it.

Now, at this age, Vlad was uh....not exactly wise. His youthful outrage at the limited truth Strannik shared with him, blinded both of the boys to the fact that they were...well, boys. Young, weak, and inexperienced children, too caught up in their own frustrations to fully process just what kind of danger they plotted to throw themselves into. But of course, Vladimir and Strannik simply didn't care. As far as they were concerned, the roots of what caused everything wrong in their world were revealed to them, and all it would take to make things right, was to grow strong enough to yank that infestation out.
So, that's what they did.
Over the course of the next few years, Vlad and Strannik grew to become close friends, sneaking out of their respective castes in the blanket of darkness, and privately training together to build themselves into greater warriors. Unlike the healing caste, the scouting caste were actually allowed to mingle and interact often with the soldiers of the warfare caste, since the two factions worked closely together, thus through careful stealth and deception, Strannik was able to teach Vlad almost everything there was to being a warrior. And to the scout's surprise, Vlad was ecstatic at the prospect, enough to keep expanding further into the art and knowledge of the brotherhood's methods of combat, completely without Strannik's aid.
This...this was it. Vlad had found a proper calling, a true passion to dedicate his life to, an actual way to be a hero. It went against everything his clan wished of him, but by his 15th year of life, Vlad had completely stopped caring about their opinion. He and Strannik were going to fix things, and fix it.. their way.

Uuuuuunfortunately....only he and Strannik were actually on board with their plans.
Any attempts to recruit additional members to their plot were met with either condescending mockery, disgusted disinterest, or even shrivelled terror at the prospect of defiance. In one dire case in fact, a higher rank sister from the warfare cast actually did agree to assist the duo, telling them that she would use her status to pry deep into the brotherhood, to learn more information.
Four days later...she was found dead by another scouting squad, her throat slit and removed entirely, with an explanation for how she perished, refused.
This of course only served to further enrage the two comrades, and the mere idea of how far their own family would go to keep everyone in line tipped them over the edge. That night, was to be the night Vlad and Strannik bit the bullet, and enacted upon the plan they spent their youth cultivating, allies be damned.

What was this plan, you ask?

Marching directly into the forests and hoping to find the home/ruler/heart of the Fae...to kill it.

....they were 15 years old, just as a reminder.

The trek was long and arduous. With only their legs to carry them, their clothes and camping supplies to shield them, and scouting cast training to guide them, the boys found themselves moving slow across the Scornvolkian woodland over the course of nearly a quarter of the year. Overtime, they ran into various situations: Fights with local monstrosities, trails of deadly landmasses, and all kinds of encounters with other Scorvolkian tribes that ranged from pleasant, indifferent, and quite a few aggressive. They even ran into agents of Jarldom at one point, and boy was that quite a harrowing adventure. Yet at no point, did anyone they come across even entertain the idea of joining them, at least when their intentions were made clear. For the general stigma of their objective, was that no-one would be stupid enough to challenge the Fae, assuming the abominations were even real, meaning that no matter how hard they tried to further build their ranks, Vlad and Strannik were stuck with only each other to rely on.
As such, throughout their crusade, the pair's bond was shifting, ever so slightly. The kinship had increased, to the point where they genuinely began to consider each other brothers, true family in its purest form. Yet at other times, the bond soured somewhat, as so much time spent together brought to light many of each other's flaws and biases and disagreements that the friendship would've otherwise given time to forgive. Eventually, in their most haggard and fatigued of moments, Vlad found himself stricken with doubt. Strannik cussed him out whenever questions arose about whether he had actually encountered real-life evidence of the Fae, but seeing as the only source of information Vlad had to work with was Strannik himself, and with so much laughter thrown at the pair whenever the myths of the traitor humans was brought up, Vlad was soon starting to think he had made a grave mistake. That in his frustration, his pubescent defiance, he had let himself question the motives of the people who raised him too much, and was now paying the price of what his ill-informed rebelliousness had driven him to.

However, to the duo's soon horror, it appeared that not everything Strannik had witnessed was falsehood and youthful confusion.
For the Fae were real, very real, and they were not pleased to see two Red Iron Brothers stumbling into their territory.

All the warning Vlad and Strannik received, was the sight of a far more otherworldly section of the woodlands, and a deep, alien laughter, before the Faerie garrison descended upon them. The boys, whilst talented in hemocraft, were simply no match for hardened soldiers older than their very civilisation, and in a terribly short amount of time, Strannik once again found himself mortally wounded by blades weaved of bone and wood, slicing his right arm clean off his elbow.
In that instance, with the only ally he had ever known clutching his bleeding stump, and horrifying, armoured figures leering over them, Vlad felt himself frozen in fear, all of his rage, all of his passion, all of his delusions of becoming a hero, crumbling to dust in favour of sheer, petrified terror.
In that instance, nothing Vlad could think of could ever hope to fix the wretchedness of the predicament he'd foolishly flung himself into.
In that instance, Vlad couldn't even think of anything, but survival. Or rather, himself.
In that instance....Vlad did something that would haunt and harrow him, for the rest of his days. A choice, that every fibre of his being regrets and strains every time it is reminded. An act, of pure, unfiltered cowardice, that went against every, single, thing, that Vladimir Laekinir stood for, believed in, that made him the man he was.

In that instance...

He ran.

The last he ever saw of Strannik, the one person he could truly call his brother, was the scout's bloodsoaked face, twisted into a scowl of rage and despair, before his body crumpled to the ground in defeat, as the treacherous monsters cackled into the night, amused by the folly of lesser humans. Did they follow him? Did they stalk their prey, to keep him silent? Or did they not care, and let Vlad's mindless panic craft illusions and nightmares on their behalf?
Vlad didn't know.
Vlad didn't care.
He just ran.
He ran, and ran, and ran, time melting into nothing, the woods a blur of patchy darkness, his body shedding any sense of normal functionality, all in favour of just...running.

To where? Well, that was the tricky part.
Obviously, there was no way he could go back to his clan. Even if he did somehow find his way back in a land notorious for being impossible to navigate, the brotherhood would have his head, if they were merciful.
No other clan would ever accept him either, that was made quite clear on his journey beforehand.
And he'd have to be the greatest, logic-defying optimist imaginable, to try and scale the peaks in search of the Jarldom.
So, when tiredness finally got him to rest, and despair collected its due in tears, Vlad...just continued to walk. For days, upon days, upon days, he marched in a single direction, living off the land, and carefully maintaining what little equipment he had. It was all he could do, all he could muster, all that was left of him. Just moving, going, trying to find....something, anything, that could fix what a ridiculous mess his life had become.

And then, one day, he found it. Slowly but surely, the air began to increase in warmth, and the dense forest thinned and frayed into vast plains, and then those plains petered further into soft, supple sands. Curiousity drove Vlad to continue forward, and soon, to his elation, he reached civilisation once again.

He, had entered Apathiria, the deserts of apathy, located directly south of Scornvolk.

Upon entering the first borders of Apatharian territory, Vlad's unusual appearance drew in much curiosity, and when the time came to find a place to stay, the questions about his identity finally caught up. At this point in his life, Vlad wasn't exactly in the mood to share much about his past, especially given his spite towards it, so he dodged most of the prying by saying he was just a traveller, looking to explore. When queries about his name cropped up, Vlad found himself pausing for longer than he -or the innkeeper- expected. He was a far cry from a measly healing caste medical worker by now, assuming he even counted as one before, and his irritation with his old home had grown so potent, that he felt like it didn't deserve the pride of granting him his name. Thus, glancing to his skin, and remembering some of his disobedient peering into texts outside his jurisdiction, the Scornvolkian answered, and declared himself:

"Duncan Armstrong."

From there, the newly re-named Duncan ploughed forward on many more adventures. Apitharia was a corrupt land, somehow more sleezy and bleak than even the deepest pits of Scornvolk, and that only motivated the man to train himself even better with what little practice he had in his homeland's art, so that he could truly claim himself as a helper of the people.
Over the course of the next 6 years, Duncan began to heal, albeit slowly. He netted himself decent work as a hired mercenary as he progressively moved further and further south, earning him training, experience, and even friends. He was still bitter, still grim from the flawed childhood he had fled, but time amongst the brighter spots of Apitharia opened his eyes to what could be a far better life.
Yet still, even on the best of days, Apitharia never felt like home. The life he abandoned wasn't done so out of hatred, but in a single moment of weakness, because no matter how much frustration it caused, Duncan couldn't convince himself that he never needed to return. In truth, he never wanted to ditch Scornvolk, but to fix it, to find the core of rot and hardship, and prevent it from causing any more pain, just like any "doctor" would, or at least that's what the Apatharians called it. But he simply just wasn't strong enough, in fact his time in the deserts made it clear that no man was, that was simply just not possible.
Or least....no un-aided man.

For, you see, Apatharia was a rather social nation, linked in deep with many other societies for trade and work, including that of Scornvolk, and far, far beyond. Here, from the stories his friends shared or overheard, Duncan learned of the world of Golus at large, how there was so much more than Scornvolk and Apatharia, unmapped and waiting to be explored. Many fellow adventurers and travellers shared the same wonder at the prospect, and giddily discussed all kinds of legends and myths and tales about what fractions of knowledge were out there, what secrets, discoveries, or even entire cultures lay across the hulking seas, shrouded in enticing mystery.
As an aspiring traveller himself, Duncan grew quite fond of hearing these stories, whether they be truth or bullshit, he loved the knowledge and fantasy, enough to even dream about seeing a wonder like that himself. It was a nice hobby to have, ample entertainment, and it gave the still young Scornvolkian a lot to think about, when the talks about what his life would amount to ever cropped up. His mind still rested on doing his part to heal the world at large, but the stories were a very nice reprieve to have, whenever he needed it.
Then, one night, a particular story quirked his interest.. quite a bit.

Far, far to the north and west, was one of the mystery nations that always drew the curiosity of many sailors and travellers...a large, large nation. Word travels slow on Golus, but people have reportedly ventured to and from this colossal region, and the details they share were nothing short of fascinating.

This nation served as the home to a society of craftsmen and blacksmiths, the likes of which are beyond the wildest of dreams. Instead of Scornvolk's traditional Arcana, or Apatharia's disturbing soul magic, the people of this land found their power from the tools and crafts they conducted. They were masters of construction, able to build ships and fortresses leagues more robust than anything the known nations could boast. Some say that their craft is so good, that their weapons had minds of their own, fighting alongside their masters, or even on their behalf.
Others of a more superstitious variety, mentioned that the dense forests surrounding this people felt almost....insulted, at the presence of such masters of civilisation. Those who believe in nature being a living being, with spirits and divine beasts to safeguard its borders, believed that the spirits there act either out of righteous retribution, jealousy, or even fear. Those who have stepped upon the soil personally meanwhile, shudder at the mention of the trees, claiming that there is something ...indescribably evil, within the darker, unmapped areas of that unnerving place, arguing that, if there were natural spirits residing there...they weren't the kind and benevolent types most would believe them to be.
The talk of living, malevolent nature, brought back flashes to Duncan, of those wretched Fae soldiers. The thought that it wasn't just Scornvolk that was haunted by them had sent many tremors through the blood mage, and the memories of what brought him to Apatharia in the first place rushed back as unwelcome as ever. And while initially, that would've been the end of it...one more rumour about this forest nation of metal workers, halted Duncan before he even thought to leave.

One of the travellers, a major enthusiast of ancient history, claimed that there was once a war upon that land. A war so old, it possibly predated the establishment of many of the known nations' societies. A war so devastating, that it completely reset the nation from scratch. A war...so gruesome...that all of the collective hatred and blood spilled onto that battlefield, was siphoned and pooled into vast, gargantuan lake, obscure and mythical even to that nation's own locals.

A lake...of pure, unageing blood.

Never, in his entire life, had Duncan ever heard of something of such...magnitude. Such malevolence. Such....magnificence.
For he was a blood mage, blood was how he gained power, it was the tool of his people, it was how they worked their miracles and horrors. A lake, a huge lake at that, filled to brim, entirely with blood? To Duncan, that almost sounded something akin to a religious foundation, something beyond even the most absurd of his homeland's stories.
The sheer amount of power something like that could bring to his people, to himself, it could... feasibly....
Fix everything wrong with them.

That night, after much internal debate, Duncan's choice was eventually made. If people were able to travel to this strange, unknown forest nation, and pass along knowledge no less, then that could only mean the trip, however long, was possible. So, after scrounging up every last scrap of money he could, and waving a goodbye to the few friends he made in his time amongst the sands, Duncan joined an ambitious expedition set to scour as much of the world as it could, with the forest nation high up on the docket, and set sail, northwest.

And Golus, well it was a large, large planet. Large enough, to make the journey from the known nations to Duncan's objective, albeit with many stops along the way, take even longer than Duncan had spent within the deserts of Apatharia.
8 years, to be exact.

8, entire years, of sailing, travelling, and adventuring across the hulking oceans of Golus. Duncan witnessed much on his voyage, more civilisations and cultures than anyone but his fellow travellers aboard could boast. Friends, enemies, and crewman alike, came and went, and the long, long, long journey gave Duncan more than enough time to think, and reflect. He learned much on his voyage, faced much, came to terms with even more, and as he crept all the way through his twenties, Duncan changed, healed, and matured. Slowly, the bitterness, naivety, and youthful uncertainty cooled and mellowed into something far more healthy, wise, and proud.
His enraged scowl curled into a charismatic grin.
His quiet stewing became boisterous laughter.
His frail weakness blossomed into mighty strength.
His panicked floundering was honed into elegant mastery.
And above all, his spiteful, vengeful rebelliousness, faded in favour of brave, ambitious determination.
Duncan's adventures granted him more than enough opportunities to showcase himself as the hero he always dreamed himself to be, saving victims of doomed ships, bringing down cruel tyrants, slaying nightmarish monsters, and being there, as someone to rely and depend upon, no matter how dire things looked. It was the therapeutic experience he needed, the cathartic confirmation that he was truly good enough to call himself a hero.

The pain of his old cowardice still hurt, and it was still a broad effort to even get him to admit it, but now not only was he more determined than ever to make things right, he was even confident enough to believe he could do it.

Thus, when his fellows finally reached the borders of the legendary forest nation, and they all shared a tearful goodbye, Duncan was more ready than ever.

To face Engrievion.

And as for Engrievion itself, the motherland made quite a.... rude, first impression.

For the dinghy Duncan used to make landfall was shattered against the jagged beach the instant the two touched, nearly killing the man before he even stepped foot in the place. From there, he travelled from the shoreline, and deep into the regions of the forests, trying his best to find any sign of this supposed "masterful civilisation"
Eventually, he did come across a local wagon driver, one who sported an example of what Duncan could only assume was the master craftsmanship of whispered myth. The man was intently curious as to Duncan's body and intentions, but by then Duncan was well versed enough in social pleasantries, that the pair were on wonderfully friendly terms within an hour, letting Duncan learn the name and nature of the place. Engrievion was the country's name, whilst the "province" he entered was titled "Mixholme", a place that funnily enough welcomed travellers and foreigners just like him, or "Outlanders", as the term was here. Duncan kinda liked that phrase, so he let it stick.
And then, in the next hour, the pair were immediately assailed by local bandits, sporting a wide variety of the land's borderline bizarre technology, once again nearly killing the flabbergasted Duncan.
Eventually, after reaching town, and spending a handful of hectic days getting both accustomed and accosted by mercenaries hired by agents of "Organised Crime", a faction of sorts that for some reason didn't like the idea of civilians not being robbed and murdered, Duncan realized that finding the lake of blood was going to be a....A bit of a kerfuffle.
So, he needed to rethink his strategy, and after asking around, some of the locals suggested that he visit Mixholme's capital city, as the rulers of this piece of the nation resided there, and would possibly be happy to help him out.

Thus, as he always did, Duncan travelled...not exactly understanding the concept of "Public transportation" enough to notice that he didn't actually have to do it on foot. And, in hindsight, Duncan would admit that the knowledge might've helped a bit, because during his trek to where the locals had pointed him, Duncan ran into even more trouble. But not with the people, no. Turns out even the wildlife of this place was fucked up, and not just in a "Ooo big ogre thing" way, I mean that Duncan literally came across a bunch of wolf-squirrel hybrids, and the fight was about as chaotic as you would expect.

Eventually, after a lot more nonsense, Duncan finally reached civilisation again. Still not the capital, sadly, but a village cosy and warm enough brighten the outlander's spirits more than needed. The town in question was named "Stone Step", after the comically large sets of stairs thrown all over the place. An odd quirk, but Duncan was still settling in, and he was just happy to find another place of reprieve. His plan altered upon arrival in the place, since a beeline straight to the capital was evidently a poor idea. Instead, he decided to take his time, spending a couple nights within Stone Step's inns, and helping out whenever he could, in exchange for crucial knowledge of this strange environment.

However, one pivotal night during this stay, the true scope of just what kind of land Engrievion boasted itself as, was made crystal clear to the further dumbstruck Duncan.

By this point, the blood mage was no stranger to Engrievion sporting monsters, but he had yet to figure out just how such creatures were coming into existence. That changed when screams and sounds of dread echoed across Stone Step, jolting the compassionate Duncan out of his meal, before he quickly sprang into action.
No matter how hard he tried, Duncan couldn't pinpoint where exactly the threats were coming from, however his priorities shifted upon noticing one of the survivors limping into town, and his medical instincts drew him to help.
The man was small, middle aged, and seemingly quite wealthy, though his whinging at how much the claw mark on his hand hurt did test Duncan's patience more than he'd like to admit. Still, Duncan had hauled the poor guy into a nearby deserted clinic, and tried his best to heal however he could. Yet, when it came to inspecting the injury...Duncan paused.
Something about the wound....wasn't right. There was...energy, coming from it, a mage like Duncan could sense it. Magic...magic was spooling around the torn flesh. No...not just any magic. Wild magic. But...that didn't make any sense. The guy himself didn't have any magic within him, Duncan could sense that easil-

...No, wait, he did. The was...more wild magic. It was building up inside him, growing in power, strangely in perfect sync with the man's increasingly pained whines.

Questions began to rise in Duncan's mind, but before anything else could be done, two figures clad in spike-laden armour had suddenly burst into the clinic. Greetings were exchanged, questions asked, and then the figures-identifying themselves as Mixholme's own guardsmen,- inquired to what was wrong with Duncan's sudden patient. Duncan explained, and then the guards told him...that they had to kill the man immediately.

Duncan protested, loudly, but the guards wouldn't budge. If anything, they insisted even further, as if killing the poor rich man was time-sensitive priority. By this point, Duncan's tolerance for bullshit had run dry, and he made a move to try and throw the guards out himself....but a sudden, different noise behind him, the sound of stretching, ripping leather, and whimpering groans turning into foaming growls, snapped Duncan's attention back to the man....

As the man started to swell in size.

Dazzling, golden fur sprouted and danced across the bubbling skin until the body was coated in fluff. Fine-tailored shoes and socks splintered into ribbons across ballooning toes and pads. The expensive lavender coat tore against bulging, rippling muscles. Quivering lips broadened into hackles that peeled back to splay out huge, sharpening fangs. As the transforming little man continued to swell, and swell, and swell.

Next thing Duncan knew, he was thrown straight through the clinic's window, before staring wide-eyed into face of a towering, swollen, bipedal lion creature, that was a small man in really nice clothes just a few seconds before.

To give credit where it was due....Duncan certainly wasn't expecting that.

One brief, yet chaotic fight later, and the guards were quick to divulge just what exactly was happening to Stone Step. As far as Duncan could ascertain from the clumsy explanation and the fragments of context he gathered, the whole town was under siege by some sort of infectious curse, borne of a very vicious strain of wild magic.
It was something almost similar to the craft used by Scorvolkian beastwalkers, however instead of a careful, intricate bonding of physical capabilities, here the writhing, almost malevolent tendrils of magic, were worming their way into human bodies, warping and transforming them into savage, abhorrent hybrids of both human and animal, doing so through something so deceptively mundane as a bite or scratch, evidenced by one of the guards getting dangerously close to falling to the curse himself, after having his leg mauled by a cackling hyena, only to be saved by having the infected limb blown off by his comrade's shotgun blast, serving as an....interesting way, for Duncan to learn that information.

But with the reassurance that his little buddies would be getting medical attention no problem, Duncan's focus shifted back to the town at large, and wasted not a second more before he charged further in, headfirst towards danger. His warpath through the swelling ranks of human-beast hybrids taught Duncan that there were plenty more variants of the monster his unlucky patient had transformed into, most of them in a more reasonable size, but just as, if not more of a trial to bring down, as he fought tooth and nail to rescue as many civilian lives as he could, assisted on occasion by the local security forces. Once he was certain that the townsfolk were safely secured in what he later came to know as a "bunker", Duncan continued to sweep through the besieged town, scanning to his utmost ability for any remaining survivors, or beasts still posing a grave threat to Stone Step. And soon enough, after his search petered into more quick and brutal scuffles, Duncan at last stumbled across the main culprit of the attack, the spearhead of which these infectious monsters flocked to.

Stand above a stairwell laden with the bodies of beast and human alike, was a tall, hulking fox woman, clad in the stretched and torn rags of what might've been a different design of this nation's military fatigues, and locked in a fierce duel with another one of local defenders. A duel...that she appeared to be winning.

Curiously, her opponent didn't seem to look like Mixholme's own militia, instead the young man was clad in a dense, angular suit of plate armour far more intricate and advanced than Duncan had ever seen. But more interestingly, his left arm wasn't made of flesh or blood, but rather carefully crafted cogs and steel, that regularly detached and swapped around with a plethora of completely bizarre weapons and tools, to assist him in his fight. Duncan was shocked, he knew that this land boasted craftsmen and artificers leagues beyond the known nations, but to think that the technology was so sophisticated that it could be melded into a human's own body? Duncan's interest was definitely peaked, though that quickly took a backseat to his protective nature, as he realized that the soldier had been mortally wounded, stabbed by a sneaky strike from the inhumanly dextrous monster, before being pinned to the ground by her heaving, snickering form. By this point, Duncan was fatigued. He managed to avoid getting scratched or bitten himself, but at the cost of his armour's integrity, meaning that one lucky blow from a creature strong enough to pin down someone in so much metal, could effortlessly end him in an instant. Plus, though the soldier impressed Duncan with his defiant, spiteful glare into the face of death, he was still a total stranger, and Duncan would be risking his life for someone he didn't even know existed before stumbling across the scene.

But, did Duncan Armstrong care?

Hell the fuck no.

The very nanosecond Duncan saw the fox beast raising up her blade, the outlander sprinted with all his might, and swatted the demandable thing right out of her moment of victory, before directly squaring up to face a creature that easily dwarfed his already impressive size.

Despite her mind being broken, the fox monster was deceptively cunning and skilled in combat, way more so than any of the beasts he had come across so far, and though Duncan delivered some devastating blows to her body, even after his hand-axes were crunched and shattered in the vixen's retaliating fury, the beast proved just skilled enough to overpower him, pinning Duncan to the ground and rearing back to bite his head clean off....

...only for a salvo of gunshots to tear into her back, wrenching her from another kill. For the soldier wasn't going to let a hole in his abdomen extinguish his own righteous spirit.
Together, with the stranger's experience and technology, and Duncan's skill and strength, the monster fox was no match, and the two comrades soon put an end to her scourge, the halting of her heart seemingly sending out an empathic wave, that sent the rest of her mangy packs scurrying and scattering into the night, quite literally with their tails between their legs.

As victorious cheers erupted across Stone Step, Duncan and his ally heaved and wheezed long sighs of relief, before the stranger just barely managed to mutter out a thank you....as he collapsed against a "lamppost".

Duncan hurried over, and finally took note of just how bad the soldier's injury was. He wasn't infected, but the stranger knew full well that he wasn't going to make it, people perished from far lesser wounds. His life was fading, but he held himself together just enough to share his gratitude with Duncan as much as he could, saying that he was glad to have passed on by the side of such a strange, yet valiant man. With that, the soldier tried his best to come to terms with his oncoming death, feeling deep regret in his heart, that he couldn't do more before his time came...

Yet, in his haze of flittering consciousness, the soldier, understandably, failed to recognize just what kind of man Duncan Armstrong was.

For with a sudden jolt of pain, a shock of alertness, and then a deep, soothing warmth in the numb cold of his previously fatal injury, the soldier sprang back to life, and stared down at the murmuring Duncan....as he witnessed his wound gracefully sealing itself shut.
For to Duncan, a stab would directed into the lower arteries of the abdomen, was about as trivial of a medical test as any other.

After the stranger spluttered and went bug-eyed at the shock of having his life saved twice, Duncan simply joked that he was owed two drinks now, before proudly introducing himself, and extending out a hand. In return, the soldier smiled, introduced himself as Lt. Brian Smith, and happily accepted the help up.

And Brian was quite keen to showcase his full gratitude, because not only did he order two fine pints of ale on Duncan's behalf, but did so in the highest ranking tavern in Mixholme's capital, after he and his fellow "rangers" personally helped Duncan to reach his destination...aaafter teaching him the full concept of how horseless vehicles worked.

From the conversations that followed, Duncan soon confessed that, yes, there was a lot to this land he didn't understand in the slightest, least of all how to make a life there. However, he was as keen as ever to learn, because if Duncan wanted to find the lake of blood, then he'd have to grow accustomed to the land it sat within. Travelling was nothing to the outlander by this point, but from he had gathered so far of Engrievion, the forests weren't kind to rushed ventures into their lands, and Duncan certainly wasn't going to test a theory like that, not after the last time he did. Besides, in the days he spent here up to that point, mingling with the locals and trying to find his path...he started to quite like it here. It wasn't a perfect place, but nowhere really was, and the locals here somehow proved to be more accepting of his presence that either Apatharia, or his homeland.

So yeah, Duncan figured that he might like to settle in a bit better, to properly learn the ways of the modern day, and perhaps even find a place he could genuinely call home, if it came to that. And to his delight, Brian was more than happy to help, for he too was someone who grew restless, when the opportunities to do good, proper good, passed him by. A kindred spirit, if ever was one.

And in response, Duncan simply cackled, and made a toast.

To the forming of a new life...and the beginnings of a grand, ironclad friendship.....

Personality: Upon first glance, you'd have no idea what to expect from a man as imposing as Duncan, and likely him being the guy to always lift your spirits, would not be high on the list of guesses.

For the long years of travel in his past had humbled Duncan, and allowed him to fully internalize and heal from the hardships of his youth, venting old frustrations through grand acts of fierce determination, in the face of seemingly ludicrous danger. As such, with much of his emotional baggage having already been conquered, Duncan has possibly become one of the merriest and jolliest of men upon the surface of Golus, simply because he had previously recovered from many, far more gruelling tribulations then most things he'd come across nowadays. The sheer, ridiculous amount of stone cold bravery the outlander had gained from his experience meant he could stare down horrifying monstrosities, sadistic bullies, and even entire battalions, and not even flinch at even the greatest of threats hurled at him. And in the same breath, he could glance back to his comrades, and shirk away any of their built-up terror through his trademark smirk. He is essentially a man of extremes, for he will either call any kind of dark bluff thrown his way, cave in the threatener's face, and never budge no matter the odds. Or, he could be the most kind, gentle soul to those trapped in endless pain, metaphorical or literal, and do his damndest to sooth that agony without a single hint of hesitation or judgement.

Of course, to be completely truthful, his level-headedness wasn't invincible. In fact, one of the biggest hurdles currently in the outlander's life is just...being an outsider completely blindsided by the sheer absurdity of his newfound home. Should a monster, of the mutated, automated, or even undead varieties, lunge fourth towards Duncan, more often than not his first reaction would be to shriek in panic. His determination and quick-thinking normally keeps him from being a liability, though oftentimes his endless questions about just what the fuck he had come across this time, may on occasion get....a little tiresome.

More comedically still, place any point of Engrievion technology in front of Duncan, without any context and information regarding it, and the poor sod would just be a clueless moron. The forest nation's industrial advancement is often so far beyond anything else Duncan had ever seen, despite his experience, that calling him a fish out of water, somehow, feels like an understatement.
But bless the guy, truly, because he always tries his best to understand no matter how far out of his comprehension things get. Sometimes his clever mind helps him catch on. Other times....he's walking strait into an electrified fence, thinking he could cut through it with his metal axes.

At least he's a good sport about it...mostly.

In fact, Duncan, as a whole, is a complete master of his emotions, and is almost always willing to express them wherever needed. Rage was meant for fighting and survival, so upon the battlefield, he becomes a living, furious terror, unyielding in his rampage against unclouded evil. Joy was the inverse, for indulgence and reprieve, so bar stays, parties, and victories become some of the most uproarious nights folk would have whenever he's present. And, though many would argue otherwise, even sorrow was important to Duncan, more so than any other emotion in fact. Sorrow was the recognition of pain, and as someone raised upon the creeds of healing, Armstrong would certainly consider the expression of pain, no matter how small or devastating, to be a crucial task for humans to undergo, even if it was the hardest thing imaginable.

Because Duncan's proud heart bled not for himself, but for those around him. Engrievion, he found, was a culture that didn't consider emotional vulnerability to be a good idea, and thus cold, factual logic was always prioritized over one's own mind. It's nothing compared to the Brotherhood, but Duncan knew bottled-up pain when he saw it, and nowhere was it more notable then in the people he surrounded himself by. Brian for instance, the first true friend he's had in decades, holds so much trauma that he often teeters on the edge of madness. And while his shy politeness always tries to reassure his comrades that everything was okay, Duncan has made it a quiet goal for himself, to do whatever he can to free the poor lad out of such a dark spiral, or at least be there when Smith would eventually break entirely.

This compassion though, might seem like a double-edged sword at times. For while Duncan could swat away manipulation and wrench the taint of rotting evil in any situation, where true wretchedness lay, should the circumstances end up far more complex than black and white, and Duncan might find himself in a bit of a pickle. Above all else, Duncan wishes only to do the right thing, yet even in his brightened, current mindset, what the genuinely righteous path to tread upon might be, is often muddled, and buried under layers and layers of problems. As such, in the conflict against Minerva Talos and her slowly growing horde, the sympathetic motivations clashing with the grisly, questionable methods, of either side of the private war, would leave Duncan torn, unsure of how justified his allegiance may be, as his heart bleeds for a wide many of those involved, especially the few he shared connections with. He only remains on the side of his friends, because so far, it's been the most righteous option, in spite of its flaws.
Because what heroes did, wasn't it?
Fighting with every scrap of one's strength, no matter how much doubt, turmoil, and difficulty is thrown their way.
A hero was someone who was always there to help.

A true hero, was someone who would always, always, do the right thing.

And so far, well, Duncan's not going to lose that title any time soon.

---

Hoooogh, well this one is really, really fuckin' late. I've been sifting through a lot of stuff during this year that I'm not going to get into, but I've noticed just how infuriatingly slow progress has been, and I've not been very happy to see it. This was supposed to be Brian's year, Duncan's year, the year of the machine side of the big mutant vs machine battle that serves as the founding block of this whole setting, but I just kept procrastinating and getting pushed back. Bullshit, of the highest regard.

Well, at the very least, I got this done at dusted at last. It was supposed to come out in June, and now it's October, the month where you're supposed to do spooky dooky fooky shit.

.....

....I mean he's a Slavic, Viking, Blood Mage. That's....gotta account for something, right?

Ah whatever, I love this thing anyways. Enjoy.


Artwork by:  catmonkshiro