Sigrath, Herald of Silver
Dave's dwarven Inquisitor
Don’t be fooled by Sigrath’s short stature. She’s a killer, tiny but fierce. Her pretty face is marred by a network of scars. Her fiery red hair has been shorn close to the scalp. Her compact body is covered in thick hides and furs. A battered shield hangs on her back and a heavy bronze blade swings from her hip.
Sigrath was born in a small dwarven mountain village known as Valeheim. Of middling importance, it is located in a forested valley high in the mountains. It served as an unimportant but well traveled trade route for dwarven goods. The locals spend most of their time either cutting timber from the massive pines that covered the vale or mining coal and the occasional vein of iron from the mountain slopes.
The woods were treacherous, and it wasn’t unheard of for caravans to fall prey to the local predators or the occasional yeti. Still, the time saved over longer routes made the dangers worth the risk.
Everything is not as it seems, however. Unbeknownst to the dwarven authorities, the elders of Valeheim worship an ancient and powerful wendigo that dwells high up in the mountains. Legend tells that in days long past there was an old and powerful witch who lived in the area. He sacrificed the children of the village to his dark god. When he was discovered the counsel of elders had him burned at the stake. As the flames turned his silvery hair to crimson, he called down her magics to place a curse on the townsfolk. Slowly over the course of several years, the children of the village began to die in their sleep. Their eyes were burned to ash, their bodies locked in wracking torture.
In desperation the village made a pact with the spirit of the Wendigo. He would keep the curse at bay, but required sacrifices of his own, and his hunger would not be sated by the occasional caravan. Every decade they must renew the pact by sacrificing a maiden upon an alter of icy stone and feasting on her still living flesh.
Half a millennia later, a young Sigrath is to be their next sacrifice. Drugged and chained to the stone, the Wendigo dances around the circle of elders, chanting in a strange tongue. Sigrath feels a fire boiling up within her as the sacrificial blade slices into her face, over and over. Bits of her are cut away and passed to the elders of Valeheim. She watches as they begin to devour her flesh. The hatred burns away the drugs numbing her and she strains against her bonds.
Suddenly she sees streams of silver light flow down from the cloudless sky. She sees a figure atop a mountain of pure silver. The figure urges her to fight. His presence fills her with the silver light. A song of rage and death filled pounded in her brain. With a burst of strength the chains holding her snap. She whips the broken length of chain into the elder’s startled face. He falls back clutching the ruins of his eye. Snatching up the ceremonial blade she turns and plunges through the Wendigo’s back.
Instantly she feels herself yanked from her feet. The elk-headed horror lets out a piercing screech as it soars into the sky, one angry bleeding dwarf along for the ride. Faster and higher they flew, past the moonlit peaks and out over the ocean. The beast shrieked in horror, spinning this way and that, trying to dislodge it’s attacker.
After what felt like hours the rage faded, and with it her strength. Darkness closed in on her and she felt herself falling.
She awoke in a small cabin of a ship traveling to Katagia. Though her wounds pained her, she felt stronger than she had in her entire life. Deep inside she could feel the song, feel the presence of the man on the silver mountain, urging her to loose her wrath upon the world.
She would start here, on the far side of the world. She would learn to control this power. She would become stronger, and when the time was right, she would return home and have her revenge.
Sigrath’s public loyalties are to herself, the concept of honor, and knowledge.