Curwen

Information

Appearance

Curwen is an oddity among people. He is quite old by human terms, yet he looks to be naught but a day over forty. The man dresses rather drably, often forsaking bright, warm colors for those of the demure, cold darks present in the forbidden places of the world. He wears now a heavily-padded jacket-and-pants combination, with a vest worn beneath, which matches the same dark colors he enjoys more than anything. The clothing he wears is baggy enough that, when he transforms, it is not completely ripped to shreds any longer. Sitting precariously atop his head, when outdoors, is a rather old-looking hat, drab and demure as his suit is. There is, atop his left brow, a pitted mark, something of a scar, the origin of which is entirely unknown to all but him. Curwen’s body is covered with the remnants of scars which came from the sealing of his wounds from the Worgen attacker that night in Duskwood. The man keeps his beard cut short at all times, and oft holds a very clean, professional, if not unplaceably horrid air about himself.

Curwen’s Worgen form is no better. His fur is a deep black color, matching the majority of his clothing. His teeth are razor-sharp, and his claws like daggers. The beast’s eyes are a deep, piercing purple with a glint of rage buried inside. He stands taller than Curwen normally does, and weighs much more. At this point, however, his fur is very matted and untamed, as he has yet to truly regain control of his Worgen half, despite his best efforts. There is an inescapable – at least for Curwen – air of wildness to the man in this state. His clothing, in this form, is bulging over his body, with little room left over in case of tearing.

Other: Curwen’s former physical problems have been relatively fixed by his transformation into a Worgen. He no longer walks with a limp, nor does he suffer his former palsy. He no longer requires his eyeglasses, though he keeps them around for his own sentimental value. His problems are not completely solved at this point, however if he ever begins to accept his other half, his physical problems will begin to fix themselves completely, due to his new Worgen "DNA." Also, while the appearance of a greatly increased lifespan is very tangible, it has no actual effects; meaning that his lifespan is no further increased, but his body looks and feels younger. The only thing allowing him to perform tasks which would otherwise be beyond a man of his age is his transformation into a Worgen, which restored some of the physical strength of his younger years.

Personality

Curwen is quite the odd duck, so to speak. He is coldly logical, almost to the extent of being considered insane by those he meets. In fact, it is entirely likely he is very mad. Or is he? Few ever get close enough any longer to tell for sure, but those who knew him from his younger years would swear that he is very much an insane man. He holds no regard for politics, only holding out for his own well-being. In public, he holds to be a gentleman and a scholar, often engaging in philanthropic acts, such as the building and reparation of roads and public buildings. He holds about him an air that most cannot place, although it is something that is deeply disturbing to the same most of people. His uncannily cheerful demeanor among polite company, combined with a slightly sinister air, makes many uncomfortable around him.

In private, or when forced into an unpleasant situation, Curwen turns cruel, vindictive and hateful. He would never think twice about having to stoop to murder, blackmail, torture or bribery to get what he wants. His arrogance – nor his cruelty – knows no bounds in such a state. His two main passions in life are Inscription and Alchemy, both taking up large swaths of the man’s time. He finds himself most often able to talk about either subject in great detail, yet often prefers to avoid straight-up discussion on his specific alchemical experiments.

Times of great stress bring out the worst in Curwen now-a-days – literally. His Worgen side, something which is very new to him and he has little control over, forces itself to the surface during times of suffering and distress. Were it to get bad enough, he completely loses control and becomes the beast he so desperately tries to suppress inside himself. As such, he now does the best he can to avoid situations of pain and stress, but it cannot always be done.

The new Worgen’s psyche is something which is, at this point, hardly in-tact. For some time, he will be quite the nervous wreck. He finds himself experiencing moments of deep depression followed by sheer rage, mostly directed at himself. Every now and again, he takes out his anger on his own person, be it by throwing himself into the wilderness for days on end with nothing but the clothes on his back, or through sheer physical abuse. There is little point to this, except that perhaps he believes such things might redeem his shattered pride. He considers himself sub-human at this point, barely worthy of being called a man. As such, he treats himself this way on occasion, though it is largely out of a passive, subconscious treatment of those who he is now like.

Curwen also suffers the problem of attempting to re-adapt to a life without the physical problems he once suffered. His physical condition might be better, but it is still not perfect. As one who could hardly undergo much physical exercise in the time prior to his turning, he now must attempt to force himself to realize he is now different enough to undergo strenuous activity to rebuild his body. He is attempting now to force himself out of the mindset that he cannot physically manage the work required to survive, and rebuild his psyche in a way that is conducive to living with his new conditions.

Somewhat of a loner, Curwen most often hoofs it by himself. This is a personal problem of his only now exacerbated by his transformation into a Worgen, which pushed him further away from the vast majority of people. He is plenty willing to occasionally set up shop with like-minded individuals, but such are fairly few and far-between. Curwen’s favorite thing to do is shove his nose in a good, occult book and read the day away, studying new and varied Alchemical recipes. He has very little concept of faction and, as such, disassociates himself with most groups on the principle that they are not in the best interest of their members.

History

Joseph Curwen was born in a small village in rural Lordaeron Kingdom to Betty and Jedediah Curwen, years before the dawn of the current age. The people of his village were almost all farmers, and Joseph's family was no different. Betty sought to impress upon Joseph the need to treat others well and with the utmost respect. Jedediah, on the other hand, taught Joseph that the only way to ever get ahead in the world was through hard work and determination, even if at the expense of others. While Jedediah was against blatant abuse of others to achieve one’s goals, he impressed well upon the boy that there are situations in which a man must put himself above others, even if it means hurting those around him in the process. The man’s teachings in Joseph’s younger, formative years have held a sway over his thinking for the vast majority of his life.

The thoughts of Betty have also had their sway, as whilst he may act with impunity on many an occasion, his acts of sheer disregard for other’s well-being are often tempered by civil duty, even in these younger years of Joseph’s life. Joseph spent most of his time, from about the age of eight, working on the family farm. In times of good, Betty’s influence on the child could be seen, much to Jedediah’s chagrin. Joseph would often give surplus crops to the local villagers who had a less successful harvest, in order to help them make it through until the next harvest. In times of bad, much to Betty’s distaste, Jedediah’s preachings shone through. When the family’s harvests would fail, Joseph would steal from others’ harvests in order to substitute the lack of food from the Curwen farm.

Joseph grew up as a respectable man, often active in society, until the deaths of both of his parents of mysterious conditions when the lad was barely sixteen. He mourned for some weeks, but found himself quickly back at work on the farm to provide for his younger brother and two sisters. The people of the village thought his sudden return to be an oddity, and thought suspiciously of the young man Joseph was swiftly growing into. Rumors abounded in the darker circles of the village about the circumstances of the parents’ deaths, although none often reached the public, as the man’s reputation was strong enough that his respectable nature could repel any outlandish tale from being widely believed.

This public position on Joseph began to change after the man turned twenty. Within weeks of his birthday, the same mysterious circumstances that befell his parents on their deathbeds hit the family a second time, this time taking out Joseph’s youngest sister, Mary, and his brother, Jonathan. Slowly, Joseph faded from public life by the time he hit his early twenties. Many sympathized with the sudden, will-shattering loss of the majority of his family, but the dark circles and gossips began to again talk about Joseph’s involvement in the deaths, and develop deeply sinister rumors that they circulated amongst the shadows of the village society.

It was not long after this that Joseph disappeared almost altogether from public life. The young man slowly became a recluse, sending out his only surviving sibling, Anne, to gather supplies when necessary. Through several years of very strong harvests, Joseph was able to acquire the money to further expand his ventures, and his orders via his sister began to change dramatically. The man found one book of interest, and from it stemmed a seemingly never-ending supply of herbs, chemicals, ink, and paper. When questioned about his delvings, he often referred to the book he found as the Book of Communion, but for the few who ever saw the pages beneath the cover, its title held a much darker meaning.

Few ever saw coming the change that would occur in the coming months, sans the town gossips and the inhabitants of the dark circles that spread such sinister rumors about the Curwen farm. Strange noises of an unnatural and unexplainable nature could be heard from the farm at night, and often during the day droning chants could be heard coming from various rooms in the farmhouse’s many rooms. Day by day, things grew more ominous in the Curwen household, although many sought to ignore the maddening effects that seemed to flow freely from the land. As time went on, the nearby farmers began to hear rumblings from deep within the earth. The maddening sounds at night only grew, until one sudden day, it fell silent. Few knew what to make of this sudden change, but the farmers adjacent to the Curwen property, now mad, began babbling about the deeps and horrors contained within the depths of the earth beneath the farm.

Most of the villagers ignored the ravings of a few old farmers, believing their age to have gotten to them. The village carried on as usual, the nights eerily silent again, with only the occasional rumbling of the earth. By this time, Joseph was well into his mid-thirties, and none had seen him in nearly a decade. As well, the frequent visits of his sister to the village proper ceased, and the gossips began to spread their dark word once again. They told of how the sister was murdered by her brother for knowing too much, and of how he had stabbed her in the back while she slept, so that she might die silently, and none would know of her fall. They told of the strange package that left the Curwen farm one summer day, and how they absolutely knew that the contents thereof were the poor girl’s mutilated corpse, but none sought the truth of the package.

Of course, the truth was arguably far more wicked than fiction. Joseph had no part in his sibling’s death. She had fallen ill with the same mysterious circumstances that had plagued the rest of the Curwen household for many, many years, and was bedridden. Joseph fought to save the girl, if only to prove at this point that he could save himself if the disease struck him. After decades since the death of his parents, Joseph struck note on a cure for the disease, but not in time to save his dear sister Anne. The disease claimed the girl within a month of catching it. The package that the Curwen farm subsequently produced, as such, was the girl’s bed, which was taken into the woods and burned, far from civilization. The last remnant of Anne was contained in a jar: her ashes. These were taken to a local stream and dumped.

When the local gossips caught wind of the dumping of ashes, they immediately assumed the worst. They would say, to any that heard, that not only had the man murdered his own sister, but that he had burned her corpse and scattered the ashes in an attempt to destroy any trace of his horrible deeds. The village mayor, Jean Smith, paid a visit to the Curwen farm to determine for himself what happened. Upon Joseph answering the door, the mayor found an ashen-colored man, who seemed haggard beyond his years. After speaking with Joseph for more than an hour, the mayor determined that this sick man was incapable of the actions that the gossips accused him of. However, of the sounds coming from the earth beneath the farmstead, Joseph would say nothing, and repeatedly redirected attempts to discover what his experiments were, or what they yielded. The mayor left as quickly as he had come, overcome with fear and distaste at the appearance of Joseph, and at the overall stench of the home; one of unplaceable, sheer horror.

It took very little for the mayor to notice that Joseph was very ill, and even less for Joseph himself to note the similarity of the symptoms to that of his deceased kin. Thankfully, by this point the young man had produced a cure, and set to taking it religiously. Over the course of a week he found the disease fade, and his color return, but at a high cost. The loss of Joseph’s voice, beginning under the disease, became much more obvious after this point. What was once a strong, deep voice had now faded into a weakened, deadened voice under the best of circumstances. For long hours he would refrain from speech, as to save his voice for the incantations he used in his alchemical experiments. To doubly damage the man, he found himself afflicted by a terrible palsy, wherein he lost the vast majority of feeling in his left arm, the one used for writing, and a fair amount in his right arm. It was about this time that Joseph discovered the darker side of the dark Book of Communion whilst studying in his home one winter evening.

The book contained many varied alchemical recipes when read one way, as Joseph well knew. On that winter evening, he dropped the book by accident, and immediately went to it, frightful of the potential damage that could have been done to it. He lamented when the leather that bound the front cover tore loose, but swiftly found the damage to be highly beneficial. The book, which until then had seemed very modern and moderately benign, the eerie feelings that individuals felt after reading it aside, suddenly became a very real book of horror with the discovery of a cipher buried within the front cover. It was about this time that the Curwen homestead went dark for nearly a year, as Joseph set down in the recesses of the home to study and decipher the book’s code. What he found was a dark, twisted madness, the likes of which he had never seen.

Within the pages of the book he discovered maddening, archaic rituals, which he had never before seen or heard of. The rituals and recipes found within proved to create vile concoctions that would swiftly kill the imbiber with little remorse. He discovered a manner in which he could cause deadly diseases to spread amongst populations at lightning speed; diseases which had not been seen by the village in generations, and of which only dark whisperings remained. His blood ran with the very deadly substances with which he made his potions, and he swiftly discovered that it could be used to make a doubly-strong potion. Deeper within its depths Joseph discovered monstrous things, the likes of which he still will not attempt to this day.

But there was yet another side to this dark book. Within its pages, if the cipher that was found were applied backwards, the reader would find even more mind-shattering results. Unfortunately, or even fortunately depending upon how one looks at it, Joseph applied the cipher backwards on a whim and discovered the archaic runes that the pages revealed. Each page created a rune and descriptions of its uses, and each was more sinister than the last. The book explained how one can apply Arcane in its purest, runic form to horrid, unbelievably evil results, such as the warping of flesh and the raising of one’s enemies as mindless, flesh-hungry beasts to set upon the beast’s own former allies with reckless abandon and ravenous hunger. The further Joseph read, the worse the man became, until he reached a point where he simply had to quit, in order to save the shards of humanity and sanity he had left from the dark pages.

It was within a week of this discovery that the house came alive again. The locals believed that some sort of ghastly individuals had moved in, as the gossips told that Joseph had died in his sleep over a year prior to the date. Regardless of who had moved in of late, the sounds coming from beneath the land had picked up again, and it was no longer disputable that the house was inhabited. The lights came on at night once a week or so and, if one were lucky, a small party of men could be seen coming and going on a weekly basis that coincided with the lights in the main house. The town gossips were quick to pick up on this and run with it, telling wild tales about the monsters these new inhabitants kept beneath the land. The general populace, however, still believed that the mad farmers who told these tales to the gossips were far from trustworthy in their fragile mental state. Still, none opted to visit the farm for nearly three years following the return of the lights and sounds.

Mayor Smith paid the home another visit on a hot summer day, at the close of a three-year period since the return. The mayor, now aged physically beyond his moderate fifty-five years, found Joseph answer the door. Shocked as both were, the mayor was let in, and a lengthy conversation ensued. Jacob’s heavily weakened voice struck the mayor as off putting, but the conversation continued on just as it had years before. The mayor questioned the man’s work and Joseph gave eerily little information. Whereas before he had allowed Smith to read the Book of Communion, he now clutched it close to himself as though its closeness were entirely essential to his own survival. This struck Smith as entirely odd, yet he avoided questioning it, as if to not anger or upset the man any more than was necessary.

The mayor left, little more information given to satisfy his curiosity on the matter. In fact, he left with more questions than he did answers. Where had Joseph been for the past few years? Where had he gone during the year of darkness? Why had he suddenly shown back up after so much time seemingly absent? These and more circulated through the town, and it was during this period that the gossips reigned yet again. The townsfolk became highly disgruntled with the perceived incomprehensible differences between the truth and what was implied as such. The Curwen farm seemed much more lively for the next few years, as though Joseph hadn’t but a care in the world for how the locals perceived his work. During this time, he made many public appearances, his features gaunt and very pale from years tucked away in the darkness of the farmstead. The man walked with a deadman’s gait, shambling along as he moved, and no one who saw him thought it a savory sight. None seemed to comprehend how this once-respected man could undergo such a seemingly sinister transformation in such a short time.

The beliefs of the villagers proved swiftly to be hardly unfounded, as the Curwen farmstead quickly garnered an even more dark and sinister air about it. Joseph’s years of study of the occult had warped his once-pristine mind, leaving behind a monstrous and indelible mark on the poor farmer’s son. Few in the village could sympathize with and comprehend the unnatural progression the man had gone under, hardly of his own intention, and even fewer were any less than terrified by their lack of understanding. Terrible rumors about this once-proud man began to circulate through the village, based entirely on the people’s own perception of the new individual they saw in Joseph. None were entirely wrong, yet none still were entirely right, as there was always something unknowable about him, something that the farm folk detested and feared at the same time.

During the coming months, the man fell ill with another sickness, one much more common and much less mysterious than the last. The man fell ill with a case of severe, chronic bronchitis, something not wholly uncommon when living on a farm in the region. The disease did in what was left of the man’s already severely weakened and fragile voice, destroying it as though it were but a pane of glass smashed to pieces with a rock. Fully gone for years to come was the man’s voice, leaving him with only pen and paper as viable means of communication. Mayor Smith, who had been making weekly visits in the past few months, had fully stopped visiting the farmhouse when he discovered that the man’s voice had fallen, once and for all. It was this incident that led to the seeming growing cycle of abandonment of all relations with the outside world for long periods of time.

Within a year, Joseph believed that he had stumbled across what was his ultimate goal: a concoction that stopped, or at the very least, slowed his aging significantly. He immediately began a regimented consumption of the brew, and it showed marked effects with the utmost haste; though as he found out by the spring of the next year, it would have drastic side effects. The new, younger-looking Joseph was seen, for the first time in years, strolling through the village market, as confident as he had been as a young lad, an occurrence which deeply disturbed the populace. They attributed his sudden change to some sort of evil pact, which set in motion the gears leading to Joseph’s eventual downfall.

Cut off in rural East Lordamere, news traveled slowly, as it was at nearly this time that the village learned of the Orcs’ invasion of Lordaeron through Alterac, and the acts of the treacherous humans who allowed the Horde to slip through. The villagers immediately associated the hideous acts of Joseph, as well as his unnatural change of late, with the same dark magic that they had heard the Alteraci learned from the Orcs. The blame swiftly fell on that singular man, and with it so too did the village’s growing discomfort, turned to hate. They feared that his actions would somehow incite the arrival of those cursed beasts from the south, and many of the village’s important figures believed that the only way to avert such a crisis was to eliminate the possible source.

Mayor Smith, the village doctor, Dr. Johnston, and several other prominent villagers, including Father Harov, met in secret one spring evening, within the village’s makeshift church. Mayor Smith proposed a simple plan to root out Joseph by the end of the month. The villagers were to split into two equally large groups, one to remain back in case the first to enter needed assistance. The group planned to bring in some of the young farmhands to assist them in the extraction of any dead or wounded that may require swift attention. The village blacksmith was petitioned for weaponry to be used as well as the utmost secrecy taken into account, and produced a dozen crudely-made swords as quickly as he could do so, and still forge a usable weapon. As fate would have it, the young farmhands would be relied upon greatly on the eve of the strike.

The strike took place on the last eve of March, when the sun reached its lowest point in the sky. In that time of twilight, where just enough light was present for the first group to approach the house and see, but not be seen. They prepared themselves as Doctor Johnston readied a woodcutter’s axe in his hands. With a few mighty swings, he shattered the front door, the men pouring in. The entry went fairly well as planned, but what was not expected was the sudden group of men in the middle of the main room of the house. It seemed as though the strange, hooded men had been waiting for Smith and his men, but they did not understand how. The ensuing bloodbath is disputed by those who survived, but suffice it to say that there were heavy casualties on either side. The entire group of hooded men were killed, but under very mysterious circumstances, so was the whole of the first group, and then half of the backup group. Both the Mayor and Father Harov were among the dead that evening.

As the farmhouse was cleared of corpses, the non-hooded men were committed to burial in a very respectful and ceremonious manner. The hooded men were burned in a heap, but curiously enough, among them was not the body of Joseph. No one seemed to know where the man was, or how he had escaped, but it was amazingly clear that he was no longer present in the farmhouse. In fact, by this point, Joseph was already passing Caer Darrow on his way down south. As he was fleeing, the survivors were tearing apart the Curwen farmstead, as though looking for assorted incriminating documents, or even hints as to where he went. The only odd thing they found, aside from alchemical supplies scattered throughout the house, was a complete lack of remotely occult things. It seemed as though Joseph had sterilized the farmhouse of most incriminating documents and any trace of his whereabouts.

It was during this period of his fleeing that he discovered the curse he had unwittingly inflicted upon himself with his seeming miracle cure for the effects of aging. The potion, which he had not enough of to last indefinitely, began to wear away, and its unimaginably addicting properties began to shine through. Joseph fell terribly ill along his way, and was forced to conserve the liquid as much he could, to avoid running out completely, even if it did fill him with untold pain. He struggled, day after day, to come to grips with his condition, and more often than not failed at that. He felt as though he were slowly dying, which was easily not half false.

Joseph made his travels meandering southward, arriving within a year of extended camping visits in the now-crumbling kingdom of Strom, inhabiting the Arathi Highlands. It was here that he created his first alias, the good Doctor Allen. He found himself amidst heavy conflict between Syndicate and the Strom nobility and pseudo-nobility rather quickly. Joseph sided with the Strom men and women, and began a two-year job with the tradesmen and mining family House Blackstone. It was in the Blackstone care that he managed to gather the ingredients to sate his addiction yet again, reforging a more solid and lasting supply of the potion he had cursed himself with. Beyond this, little of note came from this experience, at least in Joseph’s eyes, though he did meet a young brat by the name of Aroes, whom he thought nothing of importance would come of. He still thinks that the man has amounted to nothing, even to this day.

By the end of his two years working with the Blackstones, the area had somewhat settled down, and Joseph was able to leave without being killed on the side of the road simply for being there. He slipped past the besieged and fought-over city of Stromgarde, and moved quickly over the Thandol Span, arriving in the Wetlands. His stay here was largely uneventful as well, avoiding the Dragonmaw Orcs to the best of his ability. In these Wetlands, he stole from an elderly Dwarf a small shack, which he lived out of for about a year and a half. In this place, he took the time to prepare himself for the coming journey southward and into the lands of Stormwind proper. It is worth note that, even though no real traces were found in or around the Curwen farmstead, the village sent out search parties in every direction within a few weeks of the event itself. They found, heading toward Caer Darrow, some tracks, which they pursued. While the party never found Joseph, it grouped up with its fellow searchers to expand their radius from the last known location, and continued to find clues. This group of no more than fifteen men has been tailing Joseph for the past few years as he moves south, never more than a few days’ journey away, yet never close enough to catch him. They still pursue him to this day.

Joseph left the shack in the spring, and continued his move southward, supply of potions increased from the reagents he had gathered while with the Blackstone family. He made it south that summer to the green forests of Elwynn, and crossed the Nazferiti River into what was then still Southern Elwynn Forest. He found that he did not like the forest, so instead he found himself moving eastward and into the beginnings of the Deadwind Pass, though he found that too harsh an environment in which to live. The happy medium came with the corruption of Southern Elwynn and the spreading of the darkness, along with the coming of the Worgen. This land, now Duskwood, became Joseph’s most ideal stomping ground, and he wandered through it for the coming years. Now, in more modern times, Joseph has set up shop in an abandoned home, as a way to make himself sedentary at last, after nearly two decades of constant travel. He makes frequent trips abroad for supplies for his alchemical studies, but beside that remains most often cooped up in the abandoned home, not far off the main road through Duskwood.

With the coming of the Cataclysm, Joseph retreated almost completely from Duskwood in an attempt to hide himself from the advancing Alliance. With the Worgen taking control of Raven Hill, one of his many old haunts, and Darkshire spreading out from their small town, he has been forced into increasingly and increasingly more rough positions in the region. In order to avoid the advancing Alliance from both sides, he initially moved into the then-abandoned Solidarity Row, home of yet another – as he sees it – failed attempt for anyone in the Kingdom of Azeroth to get anything useful done. He remained there for the first two months following the Cataclysm, until one dark evening.

Joseph stumbled upon a small, recently-inhabited shack in the middle of Solidarity Row, something he had never noticed, let alone taken interest in. As he was walking back from a nearby pond to his home, he found himself face-to-face with a woman trapping a Worgen. The beast’s ankle was broken, but when she lost control of it and it charged toward Curwen, it was still able to outpace the limping man. Curwen barely ducked into the tangle of roots beneath a tree before the hulking were-beast smashed into the tree, sending a shudder up its length. The beast began to dig through the dirt and root clumps.

Curwen did his best to duck out an opening in the back, leaving the beast occupied digging through the roots. The trapper-woman waved him over, a light glowing out of her hand mysteriously. Joseph didn’t bother to question what it was; he simply made his way as silently as possible toward her. She led him, quickly and quietly, to a cottage, where she introduced herself as Edith Eventhorpe.

It didn’t take long, however, for the beast to find the two again. It shattered out the small window in the cottage and leapt in, going straight for Curwen. It leapt on him and began clawing at his body, searching for a weak point. Despite the man’s best efforts, he couldn’t hold it off forever, though he managed to keep its snout away from him. Ripped up rather badly, Curwen lay bleeding and dying. At this point, a second Worgen – Edith – grabbed the feral beast and pinned it down, her Fel Hunter helping. While it was pinned, Edith removed herself from it and lit it on fire, burning the feral one to death. She gathered up the badly-beaten Curwen and laid him on her table.

The fateful decision came not a moment later, as Edith slit her hand open with a shard of glass and fed the blood that dripped – a large amount – to the dying man, in the hopes of doing something to benefit his survival, even if it meant turning him into a Worgen in the end. She poured what she felt was enough of her blood down his throat then sealed the wound on her hand with flame and set to repairing Curwen’s body, stitching the wounds and sealing them with Felfire. During this, Joseph fell unconscious.

The dreams – rather, nightmares – of Curwen during that time were horrendous. He dreamt of monstrosities invading his home and tearing him to pieces, of bloody heaps of rent-apart corpses scattered across the kingdoms, of blood dripping from his mouth, and of the fullness from devouring the flesh of his fellow humans. And at the end, he stood atop the mountain of bones, no less a monster than the thing that nearly killed him. He looked down into the blood below him and saw his reflection: his body was beastial and horrific, just like the monster that had attacked him. His mouth had grown into a snarling snout, and drenched with blood. His shoulders had grown wide and muscled, with elongated, bloody arms, claws at the end. His eyes were sharp and could see a great distance. His ears had grown longer and could hear far away. His legs had grown longer and more sinewy, with clawed feet. And to top it off, his body was covered in thick, black fur, as black as night. He looked to the sky and howled…

Curwen's body began to shake, as he underwent his first transformation. The sight was something to behold, hideous as it was awe-inspiring. His body morphed and tore, rebuilding itself as its proportions elongated in horrifying ways, producing a man with a very lupine body. At this point, midway through the transformation, long black fur began to sprout from all over his body. As his snout elongated and his ears grew, so too did his eyesight grow sharper. Much of his clothing -- loose as it was -- began to tear, stretching beyond its limits. The writhing mass of muscle and fur growled at first, before letting out howl-like screams. The monstrosity that was now Curwen began to awake from his nightmarish slumber.

As he awoke, Edith began to back away from him, hiding herself in the corner with her ears laid back. Her Fel Hunter danced around the room like an excited or frightened puppy, making chittering sounds and waving its tentacles toward the beast. The beast inhabiting Curwen’s body rolled off the table it was on, shattering two of the legs under its weight in the process. It stumbled to its feet and stomped across the floor of the cottage. On the way toward Edith, a large clawed foot crushed the skull of the giddy Fel Hunter, giving a very unsatisfactory crunch. Curwen dug his claws into the wood of the walls on either side of the door where Edith was cowering, tearing huge gashes into the wood. However, it quickly became apparent to the woman that he was holding himself up more than anything. As his claws disengaged from the wood, the lumbering beast staggered back and fell on its haunches, whimpering faintly. It began to lick its healing wounds. Edith directed Curwen to a space in a small loft in the cottage, covered with sparse straw. The Worgen curled up in the space provided, spending the next two weeks in an almost constant restless sleep.

When Curwen awoke from the slumber, he found himself in his human state once again. After some rushed, shaky and slightly angered goodbyes, Curwen left, shabby robes wrapped around his body. He wanted away from that place; away from that woman, away from where it all happened, away from the nightmares. But he knew he never could truly escape it; it was part of him now, and there was no avoiding it. And it wasn’t his choice, either. He moved as quickly as he could to Darkshire and used what little coin he had on him to purchase new clothes: a rather drab, if not well-made, suit. From there, he finally chose to take up the offer his old acquaintance Aroes Blackstone had made him some time ago: stop by the tower where his gaggle of Shadow-users lived, and see what it was all about. Since then, the man has remained primarily in Deadwind Pass, near the eldritch Ivory Tower, living with the organization known as Penumbra.

Skills and Abilities

Curwen delves heavily in the Necromantic side of Inscription. Most of the Necromancer’s typical abilities he has access to in non-corrupting formats. Due to their use through runes of various kinds, he finds himself able to cast without the often deadly side-effects. However, in order for casting to work, his more complex runes must be pre-drawn. As such, he often carries around books of runes, and inscribes his most favorite runes in a black book. His simpler runes can be activated at will, drawn with a wand of sorts. Examples of such runes are, although are not limited to, the following:

Rune of Corpse Explosion, Rune of Summon/Store Undead, Rune of Control Undead, Rune of Death Coil.

Curwen is a man of many arts, delving into the dark, deadly side of alchemy. He crafts potent potions and vicious brews designed to kill or invoke other unfriendly side effects. The torturous effects of these dark rituals has been the transformation of his own blood into a deeply toxic substance, due to sheer exposure to a seemingly limitless supply of various toxins. For example, his potions cause virulent disease to take root in their victims, slowly killing them, or highly infective diseases to wreak havoc among populations with great speed. His potions can be made to explode, causing shards of glass and often destructive brews to scatter over his victims.

Curwen’s Worgen form provides him raw power at the expense of finesse, poise and any real sense of self-control. As such, he is very physically-strong – enough so to likely overpower any human his size – but it comes at the cost of losing most of his sense of self-control, leaving him with hardly a thought on when to stop a fight. He can easily move large objects and break things, but would have a difficult time with something requiring dexterity or even mild concentration, such as opening a door or not stabbing someone with his claws accidentally, for example.

Curwen

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