Once a humble lizardfolk forced into circumstance-- or perhaps tricked-- to don a horribly cursed skull, Verrant went from the halcyon gatherer to an unwilling butcher of whatever he could get. The mask has made him strong, smart, a keen sense of his surroundings and a terrifying power in his tired hands.

The mask has fused with him quite rapidly, it can't come off without it snapping back on with great force and physical pain inflicted, but he can at least eat as the corrupting essence hasn't sealed his mouth shut, just yet.
A sickeningly cold ooze seems to leak from his mouth area when he speaks, especially when driven into a frenzy by the cursed mask's need for sapient blood. Harmless-- maybe-- to Verrant himself, but the strange substance feels like your very soul is being set ablaze in icy cold flame when others touch it.

He's not sure if it'll let him die, the mask has proven itself to be quite the motivator when overwhelmed. After all, Verrant was never a fighter to begin with. His style self-taught, to be swift and try to deliver a painless end, apologizing in some cases as he does it. He has fallen in combat many a time, only for the mask to jolt him back and spread the corruption a little more in his body. More and more it takes from him, but the more he comes to understand it.

For a time, he traveled with a particular band of misfits of their own caliber, they even accepted him over time despite his brutal manner in dialogue or social faux-pas in larger settlements and cities due to being brought up as a nomad. They loved his party trick of being able to eat some dirt from a track and pinpoint the exact time it had been made and to what direction they would have headed. Once they learned of his 'condition' they made it something of a fair agreement to help him as he had loaned his own might to theirs. One particular excursion however resulted in Verrant's composure to crack, that horrible mask had taken on Verrant's desire to slay the one who had did this to him, and his proximity caused him to lose control.
Despite a good solution to this situation... They parted ways suddenly, Verrant likely trying to prevent himself from attacking them again, out of fear and regret that he could no longer entrust himself to stop the corrupting ichor in him again.

Nobody really knew where Verrant went after that. Rumors of an efficient-- but strange-- huntsman scouring the lands cropped up from time to time. Was it him? Nobody could confirm it. He's out there though. Somewhere. He'll bump into another group of adventurers one day. Somewhere. After all, the mask won't let him die. Not yet.
Verrant just wants to rest, he's going to get it one day.



A piece from a long way back of a more DnD-esque Pyrodrgn.
By Hydroxian of course.

Our DnD group broke up suddenly for reasons you won't get to know, but I liked this design too much. So it'll be used again. Somewhere, some place.