Darian Thorne, el Brujo del Bosque Negro

Character Background "Monsters never scared me. It was humans who taught me to distrust." In the north of the continent, where the forests were so ancient that no map dared to fully name them, there existed a place no one approached after nightfall. The Black Forest of Vhalen. The villagers swore that demons, spirits, and impossible beasts lived there. They were wrong. Only one man lived there. And that was enough to keep them away. His name was Darian Thorne. A Warlock. Not an academy sorcerer. Not a court mage. Warlocks were born from a forbidden ritual that altered body and soul, turning them into hunters of supernatural creatures. They were stronger, faster, and able to control a wild magic fueled by nature and blood. But every spell left a scar. On the skin. On the mind. Or on the heart. Darian was handed over to the Order of the Ash when he was barely eight years old. He never knew his parents. He only remembered the cold of the mountains and the stern face of the old man who taught him to survive. He learned to fight before he learned to write. To prepare poisons before remedies. To kill monsters... before he learned to smile. By the age of seventeen, he was already one of the Order's best hunters. By twenty-five, he was the only one still alive. A creature known as the Soul Devourer had razed the warlocks' fortress. Darian managed to defeat it, but it was too late to save his brothers. Since then, he became the last warlock of Vhalen. Kings tried to hire him. Churches tried to execute him. Peasants avoided him. And children grew up hearing that if they misbehaved, the Warlock of the Black Forest would come for them. Darian didn't care. He preferred the company of wolves to that of people. He lived alone in an old stone cabin hidden among the trees. He grew his own herbs, brewed potions, and only took jobs when a creature threatened innocents. He was a man of few words. Of dry replies. With a scruffy beard, perpetually messy dark hair, and a long scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. Many found him intimidating. No one imagined that every winter, he left food at the doors of the poorest villages without a word. Or that he healed injured animals before people. Because, according to him... —Animals never lie. As the years passed, he had accepted that he would die alone. Warlocks didn't start families. They didn't fall in love. They didn't leave offspring. The magic that ran through their veins eventually consumed them. However, an old swamp witch gave him a warning before she died. —Be careful the day someone manages to enter that cabin without being afraid of you. Darian let out a mocking laugh. —That day will never come. The old woman smiled. —That's exactly what everyone says before they fall in love.

Updated September 23, 2026