PLAYED BY: Jake Segor
RACE: Half Syndar (human traits) age 52
OCCUPATION: Drifter/Bard
CLASS: Cleric

He stands upon the mound of dirt he dug up, looking down at the figure resembling a corpse below him. The hardest part was laying out all of the pieces in the hole, he found the act of making the grave almost cathartic. Tilting his head up he looks upon the grey sky hoping that it would rain, it would feel right if it did but maybe it’s more poetic that it hasn’t. Inhaling, he picks the shovel back up and throws the first scoop of dirt over it’s chest. While he shovels he takes time to give a silent obituary, recounting what brought him here upon this hill.

Long as his memory serves, he lived among the monastery. He never knew his parents, all he had been told was that his mother was a syndar and his father was not. They left him with his name and that was all. Growing up in Saresh as an orphan wouldn’t have made for a promising start to life, looking back on it he wonders how his life would have differed if he wasn’t brought in by the monastery. It was a warm place. He was brought up among the teachings of Mahsai and only knew how to believe, no matter what it was in.

The monastery offered a place for him to grow spiritually, with some help he quickly became adept at channeling divine energies. He could feel the warmth of the gods flow through him and took a great passion in growing as a conduit for their magic. His learning was not limited just to that though, as he grew he learned a great many things stretching from the basics of commerce to mending wounds. He learned to play music and appreciate art. Of all the things he learned, one thing he found particularly satisfying was sword play. The heft of a large sword in his hands felt like a calling. His talents shown and he began to dream of a day where he could learn the sacred ways of the paladin. All of his life he had known of the threat of the undead holding siege to his lands. He had seen clerics and warriors of the Ma’kar Dominion and Vandergon travel through Saresh on their way to fight, and heard of how many would not return. He would make his goal to put an end to the rising dead with his own hands.

When he came into young adulthood he found his way to the battlefield. He had not yet risen highly in rank but he held confident in his skill not only with a sword but with divine powers as well. His unit was a young group, many of them were individuals of other monasteries, some that he even called peers. The confidence that they had held then, he now recognizes was arrogance. They pushed their way against lines of undead, dropping many of them effortlessly with divine righteousness. As they were ready to call their first folly a success a second undead unit came over a hill, lead by one wielding a sword made of curved and blackened bone. They stood their ground, not ready for what was actually in store. His memories of what happened next are foggy, maybe a way of preserving his own sanity. However he can clearly remember regaining consciousness after a violent loss. Surveying the field and seeing a second May’kar unit that pushed the enemy away, but not soon enough. The majority of his unit was lost, most of the survivors had lost limbs or suffered other substantial damage. His body was gravely wounded and would take the next year to fully heal up.

The fire in his soul was not put out from that fight, if anything his will to fight was emboldened. His abilities to channel divine energy however, was weakened. It grew harder for him to call upon the gods in true earnestness. He would claim that it was due to his injuries, even believing it himself on some level, but deep down he felt resentment for his loss at that battle.

Years go by and he rejoins the battlefield, smarter and hardened. He grows to despise the undead and penitent more with each battle and lets that drive push him through to the next day. The more experience that he gains on the field trains his discipline and he learns the ways of tactics and command. Each day begins to feel like the last, pushing undead back and being pushed back upon. Then the Bishop king rose.

He was away on the front lines for some time while it happened. Word spread out about the Bishop King and he wanted nothing to do with a land full of undead. A group of like minded soldiers in his platoon made the decision to join Vandergon’s lines, it was a hard choice but he followed them. He took only what he needed, his sword and armor.

For years he continues to fight, now against what was once his own people. The first year of this endeavor was emotionally the hardest. Torn between the sadness of fighting his own, the anger that they would turn in such a way, and at the same time feeling that he was wrong to fight them. Now and again he would feel a tang of guilt, he would catch himself thinking that there had to be a good reason the May’kar would do this. He was quick to quell these thoughts, reminding himself they were his enemy. By the end of the year he numbs himself of these thoughts and just fights.

As Vandergon pushed into Saresh, he was there. Cutting down anyone he was put in front of, throwing their bodies to the side to be burned. The dry air of the desert can carry a smell quite far when there’s nothing to interfere with it, it only made the funeral pyres that much more unforgettable. He did not see the end of the campaign against the Dominion though. Two weeks into the push he took a spear to the shoulder. Later he would be told that he was lucky to still have an arm after taking such a strike. He travels south for medical attention, this was the last time he would leave the city he thought he loved.

Word travels that boats that have gone out found a new land, a land free of undead. A call is sent out for able bodies to guard caravans heading to boats off of Faedrun. Even in his injured state, he still attempts to be strong enough to guard and finds himself boarding a ship when they arrive. The seas are anything but calm but compared to the day to day horrors of a battlefield, he would have rather take the boat.

When they dock in the budding colony of New Hope he has nothing. He hears that they are looking for strong hands to fight new monsters of this land, and he wants nothing to do with them. He finds a hill near a pond, removed enough from this colony, where he builds a small camp under a willow tree. He spends the following months in solitude living off of what he can find and sorting through the remnants of thoughts he held on Faedrun. His will to fight had been extinguished, the strength he once held had left his body, and the last of his faith had been snuffed out.

He eventually attempts to rejoin society. Unable to commit himself to a trade, he travels and plays music. He had paid enough attention in his youth to know how to play most stringed instruments, but never thought it would be a lifestyle in his future. He drifts from place to place for years, living off of tips and scraps, until the settlement of Serai was founded. He rejoined his people but he never truly felt at home. If anything, the only benefit there was that people were more willing to feed one of their own without asking for much more in return. When Bos Mezar was revealed to have been handling undead, he knew Serai was no longer a safe place and returned to a life of drifting.

He still traveled with his sword and armor, its weight serving as some type of reminder of his past. As he packs it up to leave Serai, he decides that it’s no longer a weight he can carry and makes for the camp he had made when he first arrived on Mardrun. It was makeshift camp to begin with, so he was not surprised to see that after years it was not recognizable. Time and weather had worn down most of it, save for the willow tree that stood over the pond. He decided it was time to bury the life he clung to. He dug down next to that tree and laid out a grave for the armor and sword that he once donned.

The dirt is easy to pack down. He levels off the pile, ensuring that there’s no visible mound of a grave. A bead of sweat falling down his face stings as it gets in his eye and he wipes it clear. For some time he just stands and stares at his work, almost waiting for it to do something. He throws the shovel into the pond and turns to leave, looking back one final time at where he buried the boy who dreamed of being a paladin to save the world. He needs a drink.

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