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Bartholomew, Cleric and Warrior.

Age: 27

Race: Human

Class: Cleric

“Training to be a blacksmith started when I was young. I wasn’t the strongest, but I had a keen eye and could shape steel well. I was sturdy and quick; I produced many fine weapons and armor pieces. I worked hard like I was supposed to and managed to get bread once in a while to keep myself and my father fed. Word swept fast that the mercenary units deployed at the front needed field smiths for the Ulven civil war effort. They wanted people who could work with little, keep their shields and swords strong, and patch arrow holes in armor. I could do that well enough and figured, ‘Hey, I may just get enough silver to live comfortably for a few months’. I enlisted my services and found myself running the forge for 26 hours at a time. I was only allowed rest when I collapsed from dehydration. The sweltering heat was maddening, but it was work that needed to be done and I was the man to do it. For weeks this went on, moving every few days, a few miles at a time. I saw fields and fields of scarred land from the battles won and lost. Day after day, I hammered away and wove chain link and other assortments of armor. I found myself overhearing the clerics chanting and healing. It granted me solace. I could breathe again; I could keep swinging that blasted hammer. I heard the Syndar clerics, their words soft, treating all they could. I started to pay attention to their words, drinking in deep the philosophy of Lunara. I found it agreeable and, being a previously faithless man, after seeing the miracles they performed on dying and injured soldiers decided to study and receive teachings in my spare time (what little I had). I started to feel a connection to the divine current they drew their power from. I felt tied to Lunara and that faith carried me forward for another year more. On a particularly dreary day, word rolled through the camp of important mercenary soldiers being pushed back.
All men that could hold a sword and walk were summoned to the fight. I had no say in the matter. I was outfitted in simple light armor and given a blunted blade, with no shield to speak of. Our leader was wounded, bandages soaked in bright red frothy blood. He was a dying man. At that point I reached the conclusion that I was assigned to a diversionary force… a suicide mission to assure the rescue of a few important units of mages. I looked around and could see it in the eyes of the injured and sick soldiers and bakers around me. They knew today was the end… I accepted that in my head. I screamed inside while my heart tried to claw its way from my chest. My throat felt cold and my heart continued pounding furiously. We approached the forest line where we were to do battle. I leaned around the man in front of me and I could see them. The Ulven, their teeth sharp, bodies hardy, and eyes fierce. The next gruesome hours were a blur. I remember catching a blade to the collarbone and tumbling down a hill. Lying at the riverbank, I watched as blood flowed down my arm only to follow the sweeping stream as the Ulven waded through the dead to find the injured to put them out of their misery. I lay there clutching at my wound. I knew I only had moments before I was found and ended or I ran out of blood. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the clerics’ words…. my ears were ringing…. the pain started to fade…. it was nice…. I could accept this…. and just before I could let it all go, I felt a tug at my leg. I snapped awake and a tall, slender figure was pulling me from my would-be grave. I glanced up the hill I so graciously tumbled down to find that the Ulven only watched as this man dragged me away. I was saved. “I see great potential in you. Your talents could be better employed somewhere not completely bloody stupid…” said the tall man. “My name is Vazra, I feel we should be fast friends.”
Since then, I have been drifting about and only recently have I decided to find out what kind of shenanigans Vazra has found himself in this time.”

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