Personality: The Widowed Lord is a man of military discipline and intense paranoia. Never seen outside of his armor and with his crimson dripping blade at his side, the Dusk Caste general speaks with a resounding timbre that do not betray the age with which he had taken on his grim second birth. While imposing and seemingly of a firm rational when in the presence of his men and while on official busines for his Mistress, the Widowed Lord is anything but rational in the actions he takes of his own accord. If alone, he is often seen talking to shadows in hushed whispers, speaking to those only he can see and even lashing out at invisible specters. Often times, he will cut down a random soldier or dignitary in his employ, only for it to be revealed later that they were a secret agent sent to interfere with his operations. If asked whether he new of these deceptions, the Widowed Lord always says the same answer: "It matters not what they had done. Their sins stained them so, and I took action as was bid of me by my duties. Question me too intently, and your sins may end up staining my blade as well."
Background:
The Widowed Lord was once an honorable man. A leader of a North-eastern corner of the scavenger lands, he ruled through control of a First Age ruin that he had discovered as a scavenger lord in his youth, the labors of his lady [Wife], a god-blooded daughter of the Goddess of Spring, who defended their nation by manifesting briars of thorns and snapping vines along their borders through supplication of local elementals and the use of sorcerous incantation, and finally through a disciplined fighting force who had seen him through many battles to obtain their current positions. He was well loved by his people and, throughout his rule, he was seen as kind and just.
And yet, as the creeping fingers of age and dementia creeped their way into his mind, he soon found himself jumping at every shadow. HIs laws soon turned draconian, his officers into secret police that stomped out any hint of dissent or foul plots, and his love for his wife became toxic suspicion. All the while, a leafding voice played on these fears in his sleep, smothering any doubts and assuring him that his fears were justified, that his actions were noble, that he was not losing his very mind to this madness. And as his abuses crew more numerous, and his people turned to sedition and rebellion, his paranoia became self-fufilling prophecy.
In the end, it was his own wife who struck against him first, any love that had blossomed between them shed like the petals of a dyign rose and leaving behind only cruel thorns of hate. Against a god blooded as powerful as his wife, the elderly held little chance of victory yet even in the depths of his madness, a warrior's soul still resounded in him a desire to face against the dealy foe before him with all the vigor he'd once had in youth. And with a dark whisper, the power to best her came in a birth both dark and divine.
It is said that during that night, the moon became a dark blood red, and the kingdom felt a dark shiver flood through it. When morning finally came, only a single living figure walked out from the structure that served as his castle and home. What followed him was an unfeelign army of the dead, eager to inflict his rule of law against all that stood against him and, more importantly, his new MIstress.
When The Lover Clad in the Raiment of Tears came to his castle, he offered up his lands to her instantly, offering his life in service to his new dark Queen.
But the madness and dementia that had cradled him in hsi final moments did not leave his mind, however, instead joined by the whispers of the Neverborn with a great ferocity. Together, they lead him to enact great acts of violence and murder, seemingly at random to most. But to those also intune with the Whispers of the Dead Ancients, they see the canvas to which the Widowed Lord paints his bloody masterpiece upon, every massacre a new brushstroke to a dark ritual he barely understands.