Doctor Gregor Ludivic

[Avacyn 1706]

Character Name
 
Doctor Gregor Ludivic

Nicknames: "The Mad Doctor", "Crazy"
Age: Thirty-four years.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human, Hansetian to be precise.
Status: Alive.

Description

Height: Six feet, three inches.
Weight: 149 pounds.
Body Type: Very slender, but tall. Lanky. Not much muscle present.
Eyes: Baby blue.
Hair: Pale blonde, almost white.
Skin: So fair, that his skin is translucent.
Markings/Tattoos: His face is covered in patches of different skin that he's sewn on, and he has a message carved into his forehead. "Only in Death do we find the cure to Willpower~"
Health: Physically, healthy. Mentally, far gone from sanity.
Personality: Psychopathic, relentless, but with a strange sense of macabre humor. The only thing that matters to him is progress in medicine.
Inventory: His set of surgical tools. A scalpel, forceps, arrow remover, tonsil guillotine, and of course his trusty bonesaw. Wickedly pointed, a mahogany handle, and a serrated blade fit for tearing through skulls in record time. He keeps to vials of Curare on him at all times, a poison that acts quickly and paralyzes for short durations. He keeps a small sewing needle pinned inside his sleeve, coated in this poison, ready to be used to neutralize potential "donators".
Further Details: Constantly on the lookout for those who will donate their bodies to medicine, voluntarily or not.

Life Style

Alignment*: Lawful Evil
Deity*: None.
Religion: Science and medicine.
Alliance/Nation/Home: Nobody. He wanders around Oren usually.
Job/Class: Surgeon, self-proclaimed Doctor, Apothecary
Title(s): Doctor
Profession(s): Medicine
Special Skill(s): An almost unnatural knowledge of the mortal anatomy, and herbs. A mathematical mind, he calculates risks and outcomes.
Flaw(s): Psychopathy. It causes him to almost always take the "stupid" route, whether it be blurting out his murderous intentions or attacking somebody in the streets. It's all perfectly reasonable to him, though. He is physically weak, and really can't fight very well.

Magic*

Current Status: Searching for a teacher.
Arch-type: Dark Arts
Sub-Type: Necromancy
Rank: Searching
Weakness(es): N/A
Strength(s): N/A
Current Spell(s): N/A


Weaponry

Fighting Style: Surprise.
Trained Weapon: Small knives, like scalpels.
Favored Weapon: His scalpel, or his bonesaw.
Archery: Nope

Biography

Parents: Ernest and Anya Ludivic (Both Deceased)
Siblings: None
Children: None
Extended Family: None
Pet(s): His Cadavers

History
 
A cold cellar, sheeted in snow and ice, as the house is in Hanseti.
Behind a heavy iron door, a small glass window covered in frost crystals
gives a hazy view to the work that Doctor Ludivic is doing inside. His
newest patient is bound to an iron slab, leather straps restraining his
arms, legs, and head. He screams, yelling for help, but his shouts only
bounce around the room full shelves. Lining the shelves are glass jars,
each a different organ or body part floating in embalming fluid. A small
table sits next to the slab. A set of surgical equipment, unsettlingly
clean lies here… a scalpel, forceps, bonesaw, tweezers, and a needle
tied with specially hand-woven thread. A set of gloved hands hovers
above the set, looking for the right tool. The gloves are the color of
bone… not stark white, but more of a yellowish color. The fingers wiggle
a bit in excitement, and finally the scalpel is grabbed. The sound of
boots crunching in snow, and the Doctor now looms over his patient. The
man bound to the table goes silent, voice lost in utter fear. The silver
blade is gently placed against the side of his face, just under his
ear. A small cut is made, the blood slowly dribbling down onto his neck.
Ludivic continues cutting, his goal to remove the man's face. Behind
his bird-like mask, the only emotion present is one of focus, utter
concentration on his target. He cannot hear the man screaming bloody
murder as the skin around his face is slowly cut, because he does not
care. All that matters is progress. How did the Doctor become this way?
Ludivic thinks about this. It began as a child.


    Gregor Ludivic was born to two loving parents, Ernest and Anya. His
mother, Anya, worked as a seamstress, sewing clothes and selling them at
the village market. His father worked in the business of death. It was
his job to look after bodies. He was in the funeral business, and all
day long he listened to grieving widows, children, and husbands cry
their eyes out. He dressed the bodies of knights, noblemen, and later
buried them, putting them to their final resting place six feet deep.
Every day, the dead would come and go. Gregor wasn't really interested
in sewing clothing, and so his father began to take him to work at the
age of 5. They couldn't afford any schooling for him, or even afford to
live remotely near other children, and so Gregor began to spend his days
with his father, watching dead people come in, and then be placed into
the earth later. Gregor grew fascinated with the idea of death. How
could one die? What was the body like after they died? Even as such a
young child, he carefully studied the corpses, seeing what wounds or
what illnesses had killed them and how it had affected their body. One
might say his only friends grew to be the dead bodies he looked at all
day long. The years passed. The Doctor thinks about a time, many years
later.


    Gregor has taken over the cadaver business. His father is sick at
home, and his mother died three years ago after slipping, and bashing
her head on the ice. Gregor is twenty-one years old, and the business is
good as ever. He is known as a miracle-worker, for the bodies he's
given seem to go to their funerals without a scratch on them. Perfect
condition. Nobody knows how, but it just happens. Well, that is a lie.
Gregor knows how. When he was a teenager, he began practicing on the
corpses nobody cared about. Cutting parts off, placing them onto the
wounded, messy parts of bodies, and sewing them back on. He took a few
needles and thread from his mother. A nobleman would come in, dead as a
doornail, missing two fingers and a stab wound. That was no worry, for
there were plenty of peasants lying dead in the street… just a few cuts,
a couple stitches, a bit of makeup, and the man is good as new. But
he's still dead, of course. Word of "Doctor Ludivic" spread among those
who needed bodies cleaned up. But Gregor grew obsessed. He noticed every
imperfection in everybody, his mind nitpicking at everything. Soon all
he could think of was what body parts needed replacing, and where he
could get them… whether they be corpses or living specimens. He began
the grisly practice of finding "donators" (not always willing ones) and
taking small samples and pieces for his work. It was an unfortunate day
when he was caught in the act of taking the ring finger of a Count. He
barely managed to escape, coming home to find his father had passed on
from his sickness. Not caring one bit, he dragged him downstairs, into
the icy cellar beneath their home, laying him next to his blue and white
mother, frosted over. He proceeded to take everything he could
downstairs. Food, supplies, clothing… and then burned the house to the
ground. It was then that his work began. Alone, forgotten, he carved a
tunnel out of the ice and snow, the entrance masked in the side of a
stark-white mountain, a heavy iron door blocking the way. More years
passed, as he came and went, looting graveyards and battlefields all
over the land, now obsessed with creating the perfect person. He
couldn't help but notice imperfections, and how they could be fixed. He
had one goal in mind now, learning everything he could about the mortal
shell, testing its limits, finding the peak of perfection. He has
created 289 prototypes, and still thinks himself only beginning in his
work. Once he creates the perfect person, his next step will be bringing
them to life, and is currently seeking such a possibility on the side
of his work. His dear mother and father still sit in their chairs,
bodies stiff with ice, heads tilted, eyes fixed in an eternal gaze upon
their son's work, awaiting their time to be a part of his process.

Artwork