Vic Splosiv Origins

A Dungeons & Dragons character backstory exercise, 2019

The sun was high in the cloudless sky, radiating the perfect degree of warmth. The landscape was vast and green, rolling hills and sprawling forests for as far as the eye could see, the joyous sounds of life in the air. Trundling up a dry dirt road on a brown horse with a big gleeful grin on his face and innocent excitement in his eyes, was Victor. A fairly tall fellow with an air of sophistication and ambition about him, his smart blonde hair, clinical white clothes and gold rimmed circular spectacles conveyed an origin of wealth and influence, while his handsome pale features, yellow eyes and long pointed ears revealed an Elvish bloodline. 

Casually grabbing the crunchiest, reddest apple off a passing tree and taking a big, juicy bite, he looked back over his shoulder at where he’d come from and breathed a sigh of relief. Barely a spot on the horizon was the drab, white and grey towers and walls of Sif’relan City, ominous grey skies and fog rolling in around it.

A shiver went down Victors spine. Something in the air had shifted. Suddenly the taste in his mouth turned sour, forcing him to choke and spit it out. Looking down at the apple, it had suddenly decayed in his hand, maggots spilling out of it onto his forearm. With a yelp of fear, he threw the apple, and then noticed where he was headed. Gone was the rolling green landscape, replaced with the looming iron gates of Sif’relan, barely fifty feet ahead. Guards called out, “Open the gates! Make way for the young lord Vicerpent!”

As the gates reeled open and Victor sped through, he wrenched the horses reins back and begged for it to stop, but the horse, now black fur and red eyes, kept galloping on through the misty cobblestone streets at a supernatural pace. It was getting to the point where the movement was too fast for Victor to register his surroundings. He thought he caught a glimpse of the front entrance to his family palace, a snapshot of a spiral staircase up to the highest floor, and all of a sudden the horse vanished underneath him, and he was thrown to his knees before the silhouette of his father.

Lord Cyrus Vicerpent was, as always, a very imposing figure. Dressed in heavy, flowing white robes, straight black hair that ran down his back, the slitted yellow eyes and red scales lining the ridges of his cheekbones revealed not only an Elvish bloodline, but one blessed with ancient magic, passed on from a pact with a dragon made aeons ago. His smug growl of a voice cut through the silence.

“Victor Benson Honeydew Von Galileo Vicerpent the Third. Your mother and I are very disappointed in you.”

Still breathing hard, Victor tries to speak. “How am I -”

“Don’t interrupt me. You tried to run away. I did not raise you to be so selfish as to abandon your responsibilities to our family name. Did you really think me so foolish as to never uncover your little runaway scheme? I’m the greatest mage in the kingdom for heaven's sake. Not to mention I already have people following you around, documenting you and your siblings achievements for my next charity gala’s smalltalk script. You don’t think they also tell me when you’re up to no good?”

He raises his voice.

“What were you even going to do out there? No money to survive, no family to bail you out of trouble, no servants to cook and clean? You are a lord my son, I created you to be something great! I’ve set you up for an easy path to power in this city, for that is your right and your obligation as a Vicerpent! And this is how you repay me?!” 

Victor, gaze still cast downwards but regaining composure, retorts:

“I never asked for power. I never asked to be a Vicerpent. The only thing I have ever asked for is my freedom. To venture to new lands, meet people who won’t treat me any differently because of where I come from, and to not be tied down.”

His eyes finally meet his fathers.

“And to do it all because its my choice, my agenda, not because someone else views me as an accessory to their political reputation.”

Cyrus’s eyes flare up with anger.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

“That’s not a very nice way to speak to father, Victor.”

The older brother, Vincent, stepped out from behind Cyrus, the spitting image of his father if it weren’t for his golden locks and his shorter, more slender frame, the look in his eyes the very definition of deviously triumphant.

“Vincent, have you dealt with the conspirators?”

“Of course father. Our little sister Vivian is in her room… reflecting... on recent decisions.”

Victor’s heart skips a beat.

“And the butler?”

“Sadly Mr Munsprit’s contract with us had to be, well, terminated, and we’ve made certain he’s not going to be speaking of this matter to anyone else. On a related note, how does ‘Vicerpent Butler disappears after embezzlement scheme discovered’ sound for tomorrow's headline?”

“I think it sounds… perfect. Get one of the other servants to find his profile in the workers archive, and note down everything that made him sympathetic, a treasured family friend, anything that would make his betrayal all the more unforeseen and devastating, but not entirely out of character.”

Victor unsteadily begins to stand, his fingertips crackling with energy behind his back. His words come through gritted teeth.

“You… monsters… all of you! This is why I don’t belong here, I can’t stand this backwards society that puts the illusion of virtue before the real thing, and to what end I ask?! Munsprit was more of a father to me than you ever could be, you empty old man!”

Lunging forward, a stream of cold fire springs from Victors outstretched palm, lighting up the room for a moment, but Cyrus lazily bats the blast away with a swift gesture, and it dissipates as quickly as it began. Cyrus’s eyes flash and Victor’s muscles tense with paralysis before he can make another move. Vincent is taken aback by this split-second exchange, but Cyrus is stepping in closer, cupping Victors chin with his hand, a prideful grin on his lips that Victor has never seen before.

Cyrus chuckles to himself.

“...So, you do have magical potential after all. Is this something else you’ve been hiding from me? Do you not know what I could make of you with these abilities? All the more reason to keep you here, so I can show you the path to becoming the world's greatest sorcerer -“

He leans in close enough for Victor to see his own petrified reflection in his eyes.

“Just. Like. Me.”

Everything goes black.

Victor bolts upright with a pained exhalation of breath, rattling the bones of an old, crooked bed, cold sweat dripping off his brow. He looks around the dull, empty room, remembering where he is and how he got here. It’s much too cramped and neglected for his tastes, but he appreciates that it's the best nights stay this small countryside town has to offer. No curtains on the window - sunrise is beginning to illuminate the thatched roofs, mud roads and tall fields outside. He thinks of his dream, and spends several minutes separating the facts from his personal fears. He looks to the small collection of possessions neatly ordered on the wooden floor beside him, picks up his glasses, and rummages in his satchel full of clothes and books. He retrieves a leather-bound notebook, a bird-like symbol sewn into its cover, goes through page after page of drawings and messages until he sees a blank one. With a piece of graphite he found on the road a few days ago, he etches with perfect calligraphy, a message that reads:

“Greetings from across the border, Viv. I had the same nightmare again. Please let me know you’re okay.”

He sets the notebook down on top of his satchel, and lays down. He attempts to close his eyes, but they stay glued to the notebook.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then thirty. 

By the time the sky has turned from dull red to a light purple, the symbol on the notebooks cover turns green. Victor grabs the book and opens it up to his message. In the line underneath it, another message appears in green ink, and smaller, more timid handwriting:

“Good morning brother. Don’t worry, father still doesn’t suspect Mr Munsprit or I. He’s too busy firing half his staff to pay attention to us, as public relations are scrambling to spin your disappearance and no diviner can get a read on your location.”

Victor spends an hour with his nose in his notebook, scribbling and reading little messages, a warm smile creeping across his face as thoughts of his tormented sleep fade away into the background. Eventually he gets up, casts a small succession of cleansing spells on his body and any belongings that have touched the floor. He throws on a shirt, grey waistcoat, and a long white leather coat. He picks up his satchel, and fixes his sheathed rapier at his side.

Carefully navigating the weathered steps down to the quiet tavern area, he notices the room half-filled with working class humans, dwarves and gnomes, not a lot of conversation going on as people keep to themselves and lap up the cold stew that seems to pass for breakfast here. Not relishing the thought but hearing his stomach growling, he flips a barmaid a few silver coins to have what they’re having. 

No sooner than he has sat down at a table, the room seems to shake as the door is thrown open by an ashy gray skinned muscular figure in tribalistic leathers, who has to hunch down to enter the eight foot room. Tentatively following him in with a heavy sigh, a green cloaked woman with red skin, ram-like curled horns and an arrow-headed tail surveys the faces that have turned in her direction, her hand resting on a crossbow at her hip. The attention they draw from the room is oddly brief for their entrance and the way they stand out, Victor thinks to himself before realising that he probably stands out just as much. A ginger bearded dwarf seems to call them over from the corner.

“Ay-up. How’d it go then? Judgin’ by your sorry lookin’ mugs, I’m guessin’ you didn’t find nothing.”

The woman signals the bar for two drinks as she and the large man sidle between several tables and take a seat, making sure to lean in close before they start talking.

“Oh, we found something alright. Right where the old man said, in the marshland to the south. Think it’s hidden by some old magic, Throk walked into an invisible wall three times. We spent four hours figuring out the perimeter of the place, but no way in. In the end we had to call it a night because we just kept making some damned marsh beasts angry. Alligators should not be allowed to grow that big.”

“Aw, that’s too bad, love. Well, nothin’ left for it but to leave this stinkhole of a town -”

“Darius, as long as you’re on my payroll, you’re not getting off that easy. We’re finding a way into that thousand year old temple. We just need some extra help, that’s all.”

Victor steels himself with one last gulp of something that certainly isn’t stew now that he’s tasted it, before walking up and tapping the woman on the shoulder.

“Terribly sorry, I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping, but it caught my ear that you’re having a bit of an issue with magic and monsters. Two things that are very much within my realm of expertise. Allow me to introduce myself, you may call me Vic Splosiv - arcane artist extraordinaire!”

The dwarf groans, obviously unimpressed.

“Oi, buzz off ya pompous, pointy eared pri-”

He’s interrupted however, by a red hand clasped over his mouth. The woman's crystalline green eyes fixate on Victor.

“You don’t mean THE Vic Splosiv? Who performed that illusion show at Saint Crawfords Theatre last week? The way you brought those murals to life straight off the wall was incredible! I’ve heard illusion magic can do some crazy looking stuff, but how do you even plan half of that? Not to mention keeping track of how many different characters and environments are all on the same stage together?”

Victor clasps his fingers together excitedly.

“Oh I’m so glad you enjoyed it! I’ve been practicing with bringing my own drawings to life for years. Not to mention combining it with some more tangible pyrotechnic effects. Which, to get back on track, is why I think I could aid you in your apparent adventuring. I am well versed in many aspects of arcana, and I think the things I know could make your expedition a whole lot easier.”

“Alright, Vic. You’ve got my attention. One things bugging me though. What do you want out of this? From what I’ve seen your talents were made for the stage, and the theatres a pretty good gig in some parts. What makes you want to…”

She trails off, and her face sours. She wrenches her hand from the dwarfs face in disgust.

“Darius, I swear to god, you better not have licked me. You do that again and I give half your pay to Throk.”

The dwarf chuckles to himself.

“Worth it.”

He squirms as she ruffles his hair with the same hand. Trying his best not to look as horrified as he feels, Victor finally pulls up a chair as he interjects.

“Well… you’re right, the theatre’s fun, and it’s pretty good coin, but honestly? Exploration of long-forgotten places? The risk, the prize of unspoken knowledge… this is the task I was born for. All I ask in return is the privilege of documenting our quest and a cut of any interesting tomes or artefacts we may find. I’m in it to learn more about this world that we call home, with the most hands-on approach possible.”

The woman’s face lights up hearing this.

“Alright, Mr arcane artist extraordinaire. I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine. My name is Talrah. The gross pig is Darius. The big silent guy is Throk. Welcome to our little faction of the Silvertons Adventurers Guild.”