The Morrigan

Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 8 Wins!


Alignment: Villain

Team: Freelance Villain


Strength: Weak

Agility: Standard

Mind: Superior

Body: Weak


Personal Wins: 8

Personal Losses: 3


How is a great battle decided, my dear student? By skill? No, skill can be overcome by luck. Luck then, is the deciding force? Perhaps not, for luck is a fickle mistress. Overpowering numbers? Defeatable with superior weaponry, and superior weaponry can be circumvented with enough skill. And so here we come to an impasse; what truly decides who lives or dies? What separates the victors from the dead? If it were only fate, why train, strain, or believe in your cause when you cannot change what will be? The secret, student, is not a what, but a who. The Mother. The Washer at the Ford. The Trio. The Crow. They are but aspects of The Morrigan, the battle goddess. She is the secret. The hidden, deciding factor; the grain of sand which tips the scales. War calls to her like a babe's cry in the night, begging for intervention. I cannot tell you why she fetters warriors both noble and nefarious, but those who she wishes to die in battle, shall die. Read, my boy, so that you may know her fetters and her masks, and why you must never go to war...

Cloak of Protection

     Body Armor: Supreme

  • Reinforced Defenses
  • Weakness: Power in Item - Easy to Lose


The Cloak of Protection is just that, a magical Cloak capable of protecting its wearer from all but the most devastating assaults. Cloaks such as these are highly sought after by physically weak mages and Mentalists everywhere.



     Empathy: Superior


The Morrigan has seem eons of battle. She has seen crusades, vengeance, greed, fear, genocide, and fanaticism. No warrior has a drive to fight which she does not understand.


The Fetters, Pt. 1

     Illusion Creation: Supreme

  • Auto-Hit Attack
  • Area Affect
  • Weakness: Not usable in terrain - Nemesis


Scrawled in Sanskrit, a record of the final words of a Celestial Monk in ancient Cathay: "What was not there, she made in my mind. The arrow which I thought to be askance instead took me full in the chest. My eyes had the sunglare, though it was at my back. Each enemy was multiplied twofold, yet his specter was untouchable; only distracting. The footing was false. I saw mounds instead of divots; I fell, and the enemy advanced upon me. I envy those monks who had achieved a third eye; an environmental awareness, or senses beyond sense. Her illusions failed against them, for they could see them as the phantasms they were..." With that, he choked on his own blood, and the scribe moved on...


The Fetters, Pt. 2

     Lucky: Supreme


"Don't take anything for granted when in a battle which The Morrigan watches. Her very presence casts bad luck on her chosen fighters. Swords break at critical moments, gunpowder gets damp on the driest of days, bowstrings snap, rivets pop, welding cracks, orders are dropped in the mud, glasses are lost, tempers flare, enemies are inspired... The strings of Fate are not only hers to ply, but to cut..."


The Crow

     Animal Transformation: Standard


The final Confession of a nameless knight of the Crusades, convicted of being a coward and traitor, salvaged from a Church library before it was Cleansed: "Father, 'twas NOT the work of the devil. I am not a coward, father, but there was a power at work beyond that which your blessings could ward. She was there, high above, with the ravens and the vultures, watching us with impunity, casting her fetters, laughing. It did not matter that I knew she was there. Her illusions distracted my eye and misfortunate winds took my arrows from their path to her breast. She simply moved about, watching me... trying to kill us all... until I dropped my armor and ran... ran back to the Church... and now here I am, condemned. Father, you give her the last laugh." The man was beheaded at Sunup as a traitor, and a crow picked out the eyes of his corpse.


The Washer at the Ford

     Emotion Control: Superior

  • Ranged Attack Only
  • Auto-Hit Attack
  • Weakness: Not usable in terrain - Nemesis


From the tale of Cu Chulainn, Irish warrior-prince: "...And he saw at the Ford an old woman, washing clothing. He inquired of her why she stayed at the site of the impending battle to simply wash, and she replied that she was washing the clothes of the men who were to die. With that, she held up the torn, bloodstained mantle of Cu Chulainn himself. Cu Chulainn was filled with a fear which never ceased for the remainder of the battle. It distracted his mind and impaired his skill. Other men saw the Washer and were fooled into acceptance of the inevitable. The Morrigan tricked most of Cu Chulainn's host barring those who had the battle-fever, a will of iron, or magi who could mind probe. The rest were doomed, implanted within them emotions which were not theirs. Manipulated.


The Trio

     Mind Control: Superior

  • Ranged Attack Only
  • Auto-Hit Attack


A rag, stuffed into the back of the book, written upon in blood: "They were all about me. The woman who was one was instead three, and she surrounded me... whispering into my head... I saw this at the end... Telling me where to fire the cannon, who to defend against, who my enemies were. It was only in death that I heard their voice as not that of my commander, but as hers. I had been firing on our troops. I had cut down my entire unit. I had been so preternaturally trusting, and they took the opportunity to Whisper to me. I struck at them, as the darkness closed in upon me; they were naught but phantasms... with crows eyes..."


The Mother

     Closed Mind: Standard


The story of a soul, trapped in a Static Crystal, worn once by a barbarian magi: "We knew something was here... It was killing us... Killing both the Cromo and the Ug'lathe... Our dead littered the field, impaled upon their own weapons... the weapons of comrades... those of enemies... it did not matter, for she was the true hand which wielded death upon this plain... We magi formed a Circle, and we sought her... We waded through the souls of the dead... Their visceral tendrils clawing at us for vengeance... We found naught else but the spirits of dead slaves... But had I known before now... the elderly mother... her spirit was slick; hidden from us, protected... until she struck, and killed us... "