Description
Wastewalkers are the bridges that connect the scattered tribes of Oldavor. These nomadic clans traverse the frozen wastes, enacting courier, caravan and escort jobs for the settled Oldavori. Oovur was a folk-hero and leader of one such clan, the Vididar Clan who roamed the wastes around the Vididar Mountains, from where they derive their namesake. Many of their encounters with settled Colossals were concerning Seto, the largest city of Oldavor and the centre of trade for many smaller villages. Though the Vididar Clan were not the sole Wastewalkers of the region, they were the most prolific.
So it came as a great shame to Oovur when he failed to control his kin during a routine escort of artisans travelling to Seto. Their caravan was beset by an abnormal blizzard, and with it came the disquieting howls, screams and clicks of Shapeshifters, though their voices felt like they were carried from miles away. Yet it was only minutes until they were at the edge of the caravan. Oovur’s reputation was as a slayer of Shapeshifters. He coated his blade in oil and set it ablaze, a roaring inferno casting its bane to the Shapeshifters veiled by the wicked winds and snow. They chattered in fear, yet were undeterred by the flames, still seeming to grow closer in their horrific sounds. Oovur thus charged at them, into the blinding blizzard. Yet only empty snow lay out before him, and the torches of his clan behind him were swiftly snuffed out, as anguished screams fluttered in the biting wind.
Oovur hastily retreated, and his heart was cleaved in two when he returned. Blood stained snow lay before him as far as he could see in the dire blizzard. Scattered limbs and tattered clothing, tents and packs were all that remained. He watched in horror as Shapeshifters in the form of deer still devoured his kin. In unbridled rage he threw himself upon them, mangling their rotten limbs and burning them to cinders. Hours after, he searched for survivors, yet not a single humanoid footprint left the bloody plain of snow. So he wandered, directionless and lost for days, hoping that something might take him and end his suffering. As he collapsed from exhaustion, his last thoughts were of his people, and his wish to see his sons again.
Though where he awoke was not the glorious afterlife in Syelden he was promised. Instead, an icy tomb encapsulated him. Oovur thought this might be a stronghold of the Shapeshifters, or remaining Psyflayers that held nefarious plans for him. Though he was unbound, and still held everything that was strapped to him when he collapsed. The more he explored the icy labyrinth, the quicker he came to conclude that no Shapeshifters roamed these halls. Only ancient giants of legends, and others like him were here. But minds in the citadel of Khandara are malleable, easy to bend but hard to break entirely. Oovur’s is far warped and twisted now from what it once was, and memories of his failures constantly haunt him – yet he is not so far gone as to not recognise friend from foe.
