"That no wight have my name in honde."
41 at time of death
Abraxas is a Wight that is suspected to have been created by the necromancer Anyanka at the end of the Fourth Age, shortly after he was slain in battle. He has been nicknamed the "Millenium Soldier" for his thousand years of service. He was once a devout follower of Het and Tumeken.
Standing at the same 6'5" that he did in life, Abraxas is broad in shoulder and boasts a soldier's powerful frame. He has a naturally warm, sepia-toned skin color that betrays his origins. Unmistakably Menaphite, he has a heavy accent that he can't rid himself of.
The would-be hole from when his heart was removed and missing cavity in his chest where his rib-cage was destroyed has since been patched with heavy wire and a metal plate, though a tell-tale green light still peeks out from all of the places the metal plate doesn't cover. This portion of himself does not seem to regenerate to its original form, as opposed to the rest of him.
A number of silvered scars adorn his figure, many of them puckered and green. Veiny lines adorn his chest, pulsing with magical potency. Their point of origin seems to be his heart.
Clothing and equipment
While his armor is ceremonial in appearance, it remains nonetheless functional, having been designed to be worn into battle. He wears a shendyt with elaborate side-pleating and pretty framing decorations over his legplates.
Out of armor, the Menaphite favors a traditional attire consisting of linen clothing, a pair of woolen slacks with a sash and the accessories that go along with it. He is noted to wear what most non-Menaphites and non-Kharidians would consider an obscene amount of jewelry, much of which is cast in either bronze or gold and worked with fine filigrees. His ears are pierced and adorned with simple turquoise earrings. To compensate, his wesekh collar is impressive and composed of gold and vibrantly colored beads, decorated with pink quartz, turquoise and lapis lazuli.
Boasting high cheekbones and angular features, his features are best described as hawkish and stern, marked with a number of small, silvered scars that the Menaphite has seen fit to cover with a beard. His weathered, wisened features command respect and do not inspire friendliness or compassion.
His formerly jet black hair has since become tainted with streaks of grey due to a highly stressful lifestyle.
His overall looks are suspected to be either the product of illusion magic due to featuring his original appearance. It is also theorized that regeneration returns him to his original appearance, though his missing heart and the magical marks caused by the Wight-turning spell remain a constant.
Largely silent, Abraxas seldom speaks unless he is directly addressed.
Suspicious and paranoid by nature, he is wary of strangers, though not particularly distant with those he knows, he remains a rather withdrawn creature that largely keeps to himself. He expresses a certain measure of confusion when he is questioned about his past or his person and flat-out refuses to respond if the person questioning him is not a close friend or ally of his creator's.
Should he be lured into actual conversation, he expresses that even in the stasis of un-death, he takes a certain measure of pride and enjoyment in combat as it's one of the few things of his past that he can enjoy. He dabbles heavily in what he considers to be 'graveyard humor'.
He has been known to try to shock himself into feeling something by committing a series of what can only be called war crimes and abhorrent acts. The General is prone to living vicariously and attempting to feel something through the lives of others, be it positive or negative.
Unlike most Wights, he possesses higher cognitive functions so that he can properly develop strategies and while he states that he leaves things like manipulation "to his betters" (a group composed of most non-undead). Even so, Abraxas has been known to manipulate conversations and purposefully feed others false information, though never for his personal amusement or gain.
Out of armor and on his own time, he plays it off with civilians that he meets as though he had never died and conducts himself as a normal human being very passably, enough so to be flirted with while he's off duty and out of 'uniform', much to his amusement. As a reflex of his old mortal life, he oft responds to it positively.
In life, Abraxas was supposedly a professional gladiator that was employed by Zarco Industries. Scoped out by the Mahjarrat Exenstrandros, more commonly known as Xandres Zarco, in the arena due to his prowess in combat, he was kept under close study by Exenstrandros and his lifepartner, Anyanka.
Rumor would have it that he was taken down in combat by a man by the name of Cade armed with a poisoned blade. Abraxas succumbed to the infection of his wounds and to the poison some few days after being pulled from the arena.
On his death-bed, he seethed, raged and prayed for an opportunity to get revenge against those that had wronged him, that had ended his win-streak, finished his career and ended his life.
Not wishing to squander the talent of one of the best swordsmen they had ever hired, he was brought back to life as a servant and wight to Anyanka and, to an extent, Exenstrandros.
Driven by blood-lust, revenge and a desire to become the best weapon-master in the world, he was given a measure of free-will to perform his duties and be able to fight as effectively as he can. His measure of free-will allows him a free range of thought that he applies mostly for tactical purposes. As his primary function while not on the field is to guard his creator, he has been known to disobey direct orders from her to stand down if he believed that she was not in a position to properly make that call or if she was in true danger. Though he obeys and is subject to her direct magical control, it is in his 'programming' to use his judgement to make calls.
He served as a guardian for Prince Varis II up until the time of his death and spent several months in the Asgarnian military as an officer, serving as the second of Field Marshall Ajax.
Born in the Menaphite city of Uzer during the Second Age, Abraxas Khaldun is the son of a well-known Menaphite courtesan and of a prestigious military commander. Much of his early life was spent in training and he was largely educated by scholars and blademasters so that he could eventually come to follow in his father's footsteps. As an only child, he was often smothered and spoiled by his mother for even his most insignificant achievements whereas his father was somewhat more distant, which only drove him to better himself.
Introduced to combat for the first time in his early teens, he went on to marry a woman by the name of Samia shortly after he reached majority. His wife later gave him two sons and a daughter, whose fates are still unknown to him.
Keeping to his strong points, he became a prolific commander in his own right, going on to command a large force. He was attributed two dozen significant victories during the Zarosian-Kharidian war and was particularly skilled in developing strategies meant for small-scale, covert and intelligence operations. Eventually, his position and duties shifted. Second to none in knowing how to best utilize all of the resources at his disposal, both in terms of artillery and human resources, he worked closely with their Mahjarrat allies of the time.
Shortly after the Mahjarrat changed sides and rallied under the Zarosian banner, Abraxas was on a routine check-up in a small encampment charged with defending an important border pass. During his visit, they were attacked early on in the day. Their force pused back the small, pittance group of Mahjarrat and demons impressively for some time due to the tactical advantage of their position until the tides shifted with Abraxas' death.
Their main tactician and strategist murdered brutally by their enemies, the Kharidian force was briefly destabilized. When they regained their bearings, one of the Mahjarrat raised Abraxas as an undead Wight and used him against his former allies. Unable to resist the magical compulsion that compelled him to act, the commander watched helplessly as he became a passenger in his own body without control of his actions.
The Kharidians eventually stood down, only for most of them to be slaughtered and be raised as either mindless undead thralls or Wights themselves.
While Abraxas was used as a weapon in most of the major conflicts following the Kharidian-Zarosian war, he was not used in the God Wars, presumably because his master did not participate. He was first given a measure of independence after the assault on Uzer so that he could defend his former home. Shortly after that event, he developed a measure of loyalty for the necromancer that had created him.
When the weapon-master came to fully terms with his undeath and new (un)life millennia later during the Fourth Age, he was granted free-reign. Unlike many other long-lived creatures, Abraxas retains a nearly impeccable memory of the events that have occurred in his very long life. Much of the Age of Mortals was spent with the Mahjarrat Anyanka, guarding her as she slept and dreamed until she woke and finally mistook him as her own creation.
He has chosen to simply allow his family name to fall into disuse. Despite being suspected of being the thrall of one of the first generations of Amaranth which are considered to be siblings of Lorelei's, he has refused to take up the name for himself.
When he is addressed formally, he is generally only referred to as "General Abraxas".
Shortly after James Grey seized Asgarnia, Abraxas was roped in to become Prince Varis II's personal guard. He also served as a Kommandant and tactical adviser to Field Marshal Ajax.
The air tastes of stale sweat, the coppery tang of blood, feces and piss.
My mood worsens for being downwind from it. The wet hrrk hrrk hrrk hrrk hrrk' emitted by the Zarosian soldier before me berays that he is having a worse day than I. Lung wound. He's scrambling, eyes wide, looking up at me as though we had an understanding that we would fight, and that he would win.
Northerners. If nothing else, it takes them forever to die.
The ground we gain on them – the pittance – doesn't matter, but I can drag it out. Ever since Tumeken's stunt at the final stand. Well, it's not worth it to fight anymore, but I'll be damned if I'll settle into comfortable failure.
But no, I know why we're still here. It's because of my pride.
A life-time of work, wasted. The desert at my back is more wasteland than it should be. Stark. Forbidding. Foreign. A large cloud covers our homeland. Maybe the Lord of Light took it all along with him when he died, too.
Something golden glints in the distance and I find myself squinting into the distance. I remember that there's no sun too late – the sky erupts viridian and azure. When it turns carmine, it then gives way to incarnadine in a sunburst of color. The light from my burning, dying friends and soldiers grants me enough light with which to see her.
There. That one – her face carved from pale, grey ice, eyes sightless and far away. I should move but the eyes have me glued in place. Slowly, her eyes come back into focus. The Faceless One's gaze is set on mine. Lower.
Looking at the military decorations from a prestigious career. The shiver starts at the base of my spine makes it all the way up.
“REFORM RANKS!” I'm yelling before I'm even consciously aware of what I'm doing. One. Gods save us. That was just from one of them. They must have been hiding, waiting, biding their time until we started looting and searching for our wounded and putting down theirs.
Het will give us strength, I keep telling myself. I wish I believed it still.
The men scramble, trying to get their bearings back but the spellflame doesn't go out and the entire first line has gone from friends to meat in the span of seconds.
I thought I was ruthless. I thought that I was hard. Now, I realize that I didn't even know what it looks like.
I'm shouting, fighting. Fucking war. Their line skirmishers hit us at a flat sprint, trying to keep us destabilized.
An absurd memory from months ago hits me as an eight foot javelin of ice spears me through the heart.
“I'm destined to win.”
(Gore and disturbing content warning. Very fucked up.)
I must not have died. Being dead couldn't possibly hurt or terrify me this much. The hrrk hrrk hrrk hrrk hrrk is coming from me, now. Well, not me. The Other. The demon that wears my face.
The vision of me is coughing up black blood. Coughing, hacking, wheezing, trying to get the thing in its throat free. There's an impersonal malice in its eyes - cold, remote. The fetch walks to me, skin greyed out, dressed in a copy of my ceremonial attire. Hrrk, hrrk, hrrk. The wheezing, coughing and hacking gives way to a stutter. Stutter becomes clatter. Finally, when it speaks, the voice is flat, passionless. Dead.
"Where is my wiiiiiife?"
I can't look away. Its dead chest fills with air, trying to breathe, but it can't make it past all the wheezing - it just arcs its back and the demon starts up the hill that I was sure I died on at a flat sprint. He's fast, and I can't move. When I try to cough, I taste blood.
The creature knows no pause, no exhaustion. When my eyes snap back into proper focus, they find the eight foot long javelin of ice planted in my chest - it doesn't mist around his grip like it did the Faceless One's. His hands are cold. The battle that had been raging on on either side of me seems to have come to an end.
When it reaches me, it smiles, all broken teeth. When it opens its mouth, what I can only assume is its breath cools my face. It smells distinctly chemical. Embalming fluid. "Heyyyyyyy." The voice is calm, lazy. "Liiiiiie downnn." And for some reason, I do. Stupid, stupid body. Stupid limbs. Its all betrayed me. The demon grips the javelin with both hands and drives it straight downward, like it's trying to plant a fencepost in my guts.
The point embeds itself into my liver, not too far off its intended mark - my heart. The blood that spurts is dark, creating a sharp contrast against the pale linen of my shirt. Definitely my liver, the blow is too high for him to have slammed it into my intestines. Intestinal blood isn't this light. His hands are shaking and I can tell it's the only reason why he missed. I can feel the magical weapon scrape against my ribs and my lungs. The creature elbows it carelessly, making me feel it all the way in my teeth.
It seems happy, for some reason. Excited.
The demon leaves the weapon there and straightens briefly, makes his hand into a spear and drives it straight down to my stomach, piercing through the abdominal wall. My body jerks against him in protest, the gesture is reflexive and out of my control. Its hand roots around, passing over my ruined stomach, pushing my liver out of the way. The spear shifts when his hand slithers around in my innards, angling to my right.
Maybe this is shock. Maybe this really is what it feels like. I must be hallucinating. Its hand closes over my heart as I start to die and it starts to work it, clenching and releasing his hand around my heart, manually pumping it in some mock, horrifying parody of a cardiac massage. Clench, release. Clench, release. Trying to draw out my death. Trying to keep me alive. Through all this, I'm perfectly, terrifyingly lucid and I can feel everything - the hand on my heart, the blood spurting from my wound. The warmth of my slacks from when I pissed myself, though I can't remember when I did, but I must have.
The look that crosses its features is almost sexual; languorous and taking an obvious deep, deep satisfaction in its ministrations.
It leans in close, enveloping me with the scent of embalming fluid and draws its long, dry tongue along my cheek. Licking my tears, drinking in my terror and pain.
Shards of his javelin detach from the rest, presumably because of the warmth of my innards but the magic it was created by entire it doesn't just melt. I can feel them scraping around in my inside of lung.
Finally, I understand. It's all over for me. Stupidly, reflexively, I try to clear my throat and my lungs.
Hrrk, hrrk, hrrk.
- The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung wrote a short Gnostic treatise in 1916 called The Seven Sermons to the Dead, which called Abraxas a god higher than the Christian God and devil that combines all opposites into one being. Abraxas is also mentioned to be the supreme deity by the scholar Tertullian and is attributed the creation of Mind, Providence, Virtue and Wisdom from which principalities, powers and angels were made. He created the material world and has demonic qualities. He is said to generate truth and falsehood, good and evil, light and darkness with every word and action and rules all 365 heavens.
- The name is also said to come from the Egyptian "Abrak" which means "bow down" or "adore".
- In D&D, Abraxas is the Demon Lord of magic words, arcane secrets, and talismans.
- Khaldun's Arabic meaning is "Eternal". Similarly, it is considered to mean "Immortal" in Egyptian.