Once a snotty student of magic, with long greasy black hair, a shoddy moustache and watery eyes, with a continous case of bad hay fewer, nowadays Korrney stands seven feet tall, with radiant eyes of azure blue, two mighty polished horns protruding from his forehead. His locks are shoulder long and charcoal black, and moustache perfect. When he flashes a smile, he shows pearl-white teeth, the canines sharp as razors.
To sho off bulging muscle, he wears vests and tightly fitting trousers of exotic leather. To show off, he will wear jewelry of the rarest metals and gems.
Once, in times long gone now, there lived, in the proud city state of Ashar, a mage named Garrond, mighty and revered. Out of pity, he took in the child of his cousin who fell in battle, Korrney, and begun teaching him his trade.
Great was the dismay of Garrond, for the child showed little talent, and seemed to evoke the ire of the other apprentices on every opportunity. Korrney was spiteful, easy to anger, but due to lack of strength both physical and arcane was he left to weep out of anger in corners dark.
The apprentice tried to learn still, even though the anger at his master’s pity and dismay boiled and welled up deep within him.
The other students had long set out for prosperous careers on their own, while Korrney still struggled to reach at least a journeyman’s rank, while Garrond began to ignore this failure of his.
One day, Korrney might have been thirty, tall, lanky and with the look of a kicked dog on his face, Garrond lost his temper seeing as how little progress his apprentice had made, and shouted: “You will NEVER amount to anything, hear you?” and left his tower to calm down.
Korrney cried, angry tears running down his face, and thught: “All will see, all.”
He grabbed a few random tomes, packed some rations and left the city.
Days passed, and Korrney was lost in the wilds, his provisions eaten and sense of direction gone after he was forced to flee from a bandit band. Helpless in his anger and painfully hungry he stumbled through the badlands, until, exhausted, he leaned against a heap of stones to die (he hadn’t eaten for two days, mind you!) when those very stones gave in, and he found himself in a city long forgotten, buried by the snads of time. So well it was hidden that until then, noone had found it.
In fountains he found water, still bubbling up from some hidden spring, and conserved in magical jars he found foods, grown by hands now eons dead. As well as that he found arms, and jewels, and, most intriguing of all, a great clock standing in the largest temple. When he looked up at the runes covering it, he realized all the texts were written in one of the ancient languages his master had forced him to learn.
So Korrney made himself at home there, intent to discover all the treasures that were his then.
Most of all captured his imagination the clock, looming dark in the brooding shadows of the temple, it gnawed at his curiosity until he learnt the meaning of the writings, a sinister meaning, and a gleeful smile filled his face.
A few days later, a figure clad in gilded armor, clutching a sword the size of a man, approached a band of savages, and shouted “serve me, or be crushed!” and two rays of fire shot from its eyes… all while inside the armor, Korrney was struggling, though strengthened by potions, not to fall over, or drop dead from over-exertion. The barbarians fell down in fear, and Korrney smiled again.
Ashra saw a strange sight several weeks later - a caravan with wagons loaded with antique machinery passed the gates, guarded by a band of barbarians, while a mysterious cloaked stranger threw around fists of coins. The thieves of the city got ready to liberate him of his ‘burden’, when another strange occurrence came to pass - the stranger and his gadgets vanished, while the barbarians stayed an one of the most expensive inns, and wasted a fortune on drink and women.
Meanwhile, Korrney wasted no time and began reassembling the clock in a forgotten cellar, unbeknows to all.
When it was done, he wound up the huge spring, and sat down in a seat embedded in the very core of the machine ... and pulled a lever.
All of the sity was shaken by a single, deep tone, resonating within every skull and bone, and making vision milky. When it was gone, the people wondered ... and then, blood started to run fron their noses and mouths, bloody tears they wept, and slumped dead to the ground, mother and child, elder and youth…
But it did not stay this way for long, for soon, the fist one of them rose, stiff, but moving, and searched with his sightless eyes for someone ...
That someone came soon out of the cellar, no longer scrawny and weak, for within his chest pulsed the life of the three thousand slain, no longer theirs, but his to use as he sees fit, the magical talent and heartbeat of all inhabitants stolen. Korrney rejoiced and shouted out to the dead city: “Hear me, Ashar, for I am your lord now. Kneel and worship me, for I am your god, worship me for all times to come!” And they fell to their kness, and sung prayers to him in their hollow raspy voices.
A lot of time has passed since then. First, Korrney was content to improve himself to become his ideal - healthy and hideously strong, and handsome as to make any woman to gaze upon him pant with lust (he actually copied a masterwork he found in one of the houses, as he lacked the imagination himself). Then, he realized, that if he could re-create himself, why not create something else. Thus, he created his own pocket realm, connected to the real world by a gate inscribed by his sayings (he actually borrowed those of respected philosophers). There, the only law was his word. He created a palace with gardens abundant, a sea so blue it made you weep and women to whisper tender words into his ear. Yet none of it pleased him for long.
He was discontent with girls that, while created in the image of goddesses, still lacked the proverbial spark, he was bored by endless corridors of marble. Thus, he made great feathered wings sprout from his back, and flew forth.
In the outside world, he stole away beauties and sated himself on their innocence, he took wonders and delighted in hoarding them, he abducted talended craftsmen and made their ideas his own, all while Ashar was known as the Cursed City of Chanting Dead, and none dared to venture there.
And Korrney was pleased, replenishing his amusement on occasional raids.
So it was until the present day…
No longer it sufficed Korrney to steal, we wanted to recieve, no longer it sufficed him to be revered by the dead, he wanted the respect of the living - and thus he set out to conquer, dominate and enslave.
-The PCS can of course try thwarting Korrney
-They can be faithful (?) minions
-They could be villains trying to get to the clock and make it sound in a different city… with, say, two millions of people?
If you omit the last paragraph, there are further possibilities:
-One could be a captive trying to escape
-the PCS could be a band of Korrney’s creations that are set free when their master meets his fate - this gives the players to play weird characters, exploring a world with the wide eyes of a child.
Korrney is jovial and benevolent nowadays, and quite generous, but only until something wakes his anger. The, one will learn how intensely he reacts to the smallest slight - why, he did not labor so hard to have some scrawny filthy peasant (i.e. anyone) opening his big mouth on him, right? He will give gifts, just to show he can, and shamelessly flirt with any woman who catches his fancy - and woe to anyone trying to hinder him. As long as everything is going his way, he will be the most pleasant mass murderer around, but if anything provokes his ire, the old Korrney will surface, spiteful and angry.
He certainly is NOT immune to flattery (he revels in it), and it is possible to manipulate him through dares - while he has the might of two dozen wizards, his intelligence is still just above average.
If one wishes to fight him, one might: Korrney is hideosly strong, incredibly resilient, but with the fighting experience of ... yes, one who only fought his lunch. Still, it matters only little if he can tear your arms from their sockets, burn you with sorcerous fire, and shrug off the hit of a battering ram.