Striding Into the Gates of Hell - a Wrath of the Righteous Campaign (Inactive)

Game Master Mark Sweetman

He’s a quiet man, but speaks when it is important. He’s never had much skill with the ladies. He enjoys a good ale, but not too much. He is respectful of other peoples property, unless he needs to use it to break someones face, then he will pay for it. Though he will not necessarily like his companions, he will fight with them and defend them.

Markus had no talent for sales, he was not a people person, and he certainly was not very good at selling them things, he was however a strong young man, so he was made a stocker. He did not enjoy his job, but he knew that for now it was the best way for him to make a living, and that one day he would have to support himself, and a family, but he also knew he was going to need a better job than a stocker at a fish market.

Markus was called to assist a man with a large order. All he saw was a small boy, so he asked the boy where his father wanted the fish. Unfortunately, this was not a boy but gnome, who was now very angry. His name was Varis Parath, and he was very sensitive about being called a boy. He had been called a child many times in his life because he looked like one. I looked incredibly young for his age, and he could not grow facial hair. He was about to being a very long prepared berating of Markus until he saw Markus lift the whole pile of fish at once. Varis saw on opportunity to get some assistance for his traveling salesman business.

Markus traveled with Varis for years, buying and selling all kinds of goods in all kinds of places. Varis taught him much about the world. About grand places like the Mugwi expanse, and the worldwound, places for grand adventures and skilled warriors.
Then one day while Markus was resting the horses by a stream he was approached by a cloaked man. Before he could do anything the man punched him hard in the stomach, then was slammed in the head, and his world went black.

He woke up in a daze, he couldn’t move, and his whole body hurt, and once he opened his eyes he discovered why. He had been bound with a spiked chain which dug into his skin as he tried to struggle free. I man with a long scar across his left cheek was stand over him, he saw Varis tired up next to him, also bound with spike chain. He introduced himself as Sam, called himself a trader, and said he was trading our possessions, for our lives. Varis protested, so Sam gave him a different trade, his good, for a dagger in the chest. Sam left while Markus struggled against the chain tearing himself up until eventually he lost so much blood that he lost consciousness.

Markus, to his surprise, awoke in a bed. A girl not much older than him. She introduced herself as Jill, and asked what happened. He told her his story, and once he was done, she offered to train him to fight so he could have his revenge. When he asked why she said because there is nothing sweeter in this world than revenge, especially if your enemy has given you the weapon with which to do it, as she motioned to the bloody spiked chain on a table next to the bed.

Jill trained Markus for months. He learned to wield the chain better than most men can wield a sword. She also taught him about people, the good and the bad. He came to understand that good people sometimes have to do bad things. She taught him about magic, and of the weird creatures, and places of the world. He learned that fear is a powerful weapon, and how to overcome and master fear. She taught him of the gods, specifically about Calistra, and about the virtues of revenge.

Then one day, while in town to gather some supplies, he saw him, a man with a long scar across his check. A man whose face he would never forget. He dropped the bundles he was carrying and followed the man back into an alley. Pulling the hood from his cloak over his head, he approached man and without a word whipped the man in the legs with the spiked chain. The man toppled over in pain and saw Markus, and his eyes filled with fear. He recognized a man he had once let live, and knew he time was at an end. Markus drove the large spike on the chain into the man’s chest, and then he turned and walked away.

He had his revenge; the man who killed his friend was gone, now he needed a new purpose, a new use for his skills. Varis had once told him of places that had uses for skilled warriors, warriors full of hate, and fight.

Taarlek's only fiendish feature was his golden skin, which allowed him to pass as an aasimar. Once Taarlek was old enough, he used his father's treasure to establish himself as an arms merchant in the new crusader boomtown. The Second and Third crusades ensured that he became filthy rich. He catered especially to the low templars and rogues who began to flock to the Worldwound for their own ignoble reasons. Taarlek married an ethnically Ulfen woman who was also a native of Kenabres. In 4642 they had a human son, and named him Roga.

Roga was different from Taarlek and Temujin before him. Where they were cruel, he was compassionate. Where they were domineering, he was accepting. Where they broke the law and disregarded innocent life, he saw the law and innocent life as sacred. Taarlek and Roga butted heads at every turn. This went on for years as Roga grew into a young man. He eventually learned that Taarlek was truly a tiefling, son of Temujin the Black, and of his involvement with the Ivory Labyrinth Templars of Baphomet. This was the final straw for Roga. He turned his father in to the newly formed Third Crusade. The Crusade burned Taarlek at the stake for his crimes, and Roga never looked back. He joined the third crusade as an inquisitor of Ragathiel, seeking to avenge all the wrong his family had done. He focused his efforts on rooting out the corruption inside Kenabres itself. The city was rife with demonic influence. Ivory Labyrinth Templars within the church of Iomedae even managed to tarnish the church's reputation with an extremely overzealous mass "witch" burning. Roga worked tirelessly to combat such threats, but against overwhelming odds. The Crusade ultimately came to nothing, piddling out in 4668.

For Roga, it couldn't be the end of the Crusade. He joined the city guard and continued his own personal crusade against the cultists infecting the city. He married a native Iobarian woman named Kala, who worked as a potter. Kala quickly became pregnant, and in 4686 she gave birth to Ruarc Bataar. Ruarc was a tielfing, but his mother and father loved him as they would any other son. To spare him as much pain as possible, they sheltered him from the outside world. Whenever he went in public, they cloaked him heavily, hiding his golden skin and horns from view. Four years later his sister Valki was born, a normal human. By this time Roga had worked his way up to the position of Inspector in the city guard, and had a reputation for being brutal against Ivory Templar activity. His abilities as an Inquisitor of Ragathiel were uniquely suited to rooting them out and putting them in prison.

As they rounded a corner onto a small side street, a terrifying sight stopped them short. Ruarc vividly remembers the three men wearing mintoaur skull masks, with the twisted runic symbol of Baphomet graven on their foreheads. The tallest of the three, their apparent leader, stepped forward when he saw Ruarc's father. His greasy tangled beard and thin smirking lips were visible beneath the cracked yellow of the skull-mask's upper teeth. "Ah, the great Roga Bataar. Long have you been a thorn in the side of the Ivory Labyrinth. But no longer, tonight Taarlek will have his revenge."

Above them all the sky exploded with lightning. Ruarc looked above him to see the impossibly huge Storm King in battle with the silver dragon Terendelev. Blasts of icy breath clashed with huge jagged sheets of lightning as the dragon slammed into the balor lord, grabbing him and tearing into his flesh. The demon broke free, and sent a thick rope of lightning into the wardstone in the center of the city. A great cracking sound sent a shudder through the earth that left Ruarc cowering on the ground in terror.

His father had no time to spare for watching the battle above. Roga drew Justice, his long black blade, and stepped forward to block Kala and the children from the cultists. "Ragathiel, may your eyes fall upon us, and your wings shield my children," he prayed. A snort of laughter escaped the gaunt man opposite them as he raised his arms and began chanting a spell. The fat, dark skinned man to his left and the muscular, blond haired man to his right did the same. The air seared with the foul tones of the abyssal tongue as their hands traced arcane gestures. Kala knelt over her children while Ruarc grabbed tight onto Valki's hand and whispered, "Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay." But it wasn't.

Good triumphed in the sky as Terendelev nearly killed Khorramzadeh, forcing him to retreat, but evil won out on the street below. The balor lord teleported out of the sky just as the cultists were finishing their incantations. Black lightless flames sprang up around their hands, before shooting forth in three rays. Two of the black beams struck Roga in the chest as he was charging forward, the third took Kala in the back as she shielded her children. Both of their heads whipped back and they screamed as the veins in their necks and face went terribly, awfully black. Ruarc watched in horror as blood erupted from his parents' tear ducts before they both collapsed and died in front of him. Tears of white hot rage, terror and grief streamed down his face as he screamed wordlessly into the roiling sky.

The Ivory Templars did not miss the results of the aerial battle, nor did they miss the squad of paladins that came hustling around the corner a moment later. The cultists broke into a run, black robes fluttering behind them as they split off into three different alleyways. Valki was leaning on Kala and crying while Ruarc ran forward to fling himself over Roga's body. He grabbed onto the hilt of Justice as he sobbed, staring at the word engraved on the blade. It was the first word his father had taught him to read. It echoed through his shocked young mind, suddenly meaningless. The paladins then gathered up the children, comforting them while they took them to safety in the temple of Ragathiel.

Roga had made arrangements long before his death that his cleric friends would care for the children in Ragathiel's church should anything happen to him and Kala. Ruarc and his sister would join the other young boys and girls in the temple training as acolytes. Roga thought it would be the best place for them, as they had no other family.

Ruarc was a difficult and troubled child. With his parents gone, he was exposed to the harsh realities of life for the first time. His first several years at the temple were rough. Everyone was mistrustful of him, and some people were downright cruel because of his fiendish heritage. The grief of losing his parents, dealing with bullies among the acolytes, and living with strangers eventually made Ruarc hard as a rock. He swallowed all the anger, all the sadness and buried it deep. He built an armor of cynicism around himself. If he always assumed and expected the worst, he could never be disappointed. If he never felt anything, he couldn't be hurt.

He buckled down and took to the acolyte training with gusto. He was always big and strong for his age, as tall and fast as any of the other boys in the temple. He was clever as well, and began to obsessively study demons and how to best them. He had inherited the bastard sword Justice when his father died. As the favored weapon of Ragathiel, he had plenty of people to teach him to use it. He trained daily with the paladins, clerics and inquisitors in the temple, shunning the social pursuits that distracted the other adolescent acolytes. When he wasn't training with arms or praying, he was eating, sleeping or reading. The only other person he had time for was his dear sister Valki. The gentle girl didn't remember their parents' death and had little of Ruarc's angst. She loved to study the healing arts and eventually moved to a temple of Iomedae to train as a cleric. Ruarc would visit her often to listen to her sing, or just to talk to someone who wasn't jealous of his accomplishments, scared of his appearance, or hateful toward his tiefling heritage.

Valki's best friend was a Varisian acolyte named Irianne. Irianne was beautiful with smooth latte skin, huge black doe eyes and a mountain of raven curls. The first time she saw Ruarc, Irianne showed no signs of fear or distrust. She simply looked him in the eye, smiled and said, "Hi, my name's Irianne." He tried to stammer a reply but only fell silent in embarrassment, which made her giggle. "It's okay, I already know your name," she said with a mischievous grin. From that moment forward, Ruarc was in love. Whenever he would go to the temple of Iomedae, he would both hope and dread seeing Irianne. He felt hope because of the way his heart soared at her every word and gesture, and dread because it seemed that in her presence, he was a master of inventing new ways to make a fool of himself. Though he saw her around the temple quite often, he never managed more than a couple words and a few painfully awkward smiles. She treated him with great kindness despite his strange behavior. He always treated her with respect, and Irianne developed a secret fondness for Ruarc.

The results of his training and going through puberty eventually began to show, and soon enough he was too big to be bullied any longer. In his teen years he found himself drawn to the inquisitorial branch of the church, like his father had been before him. As his studies intensified, he found less time for Valki and Irianne. This saddened him, and he often missed spending time with them.

Many parts of Kenabres were no longer safe at night, and the leadership of the Crusade was horribly corrupt. The same cultists who had taken his parents from him were out there doing more evil to innocent people every day. Ruarc requested permission to join the Kenabres guard, and the temple granted it to him swiftly. The guard placed him under the leadership of an aasimar paladin of Iomedae, Sergeant Georg Haffersohn. Georg was quick to recognize the talent he had on his hands in Ruarc. He was also worried that Ruarc's tireless dedication and cold emotionless logic might one day lead him down the dark path of becoming that which he hunted. Georg took Ruarc under his wing and assigned him to the Ivory Templar unit of the investigative service. He started to do undercover work at night, posing as a potential cultist to get leads. He was a terrible liar, but he usually didn't need to lie to get his job done. All he needed to do was reveal what was already true: he was a tiefling, and he was interested in learning about demon worship.

His fiendish heritage was just what the task force needed to break the dam they'd been hitting for several months. Soon enough they were raiding cult meetings and apprehending low-level cultists in handfuls. Things were going great and Georg fast tracked him for advancement, but Ruarc's path changed radically one night on a special raid. Ruarc and five other officers, along with Sergeant Haffersohn, were to raid a cult meeting where an Ivory Labyrinth Templar leader was purportedly going to give instruction on binding a demonic familiar. This raid was the culmination of months of grueling intelligence work, and it was the first chance they'd had to actually get to a high-ranking Templar since Ruarc had joined the force.

The meeting was to take place in the basement of a gnome-owned laundry called Soriander's Suds. Haffersohn took lead on the front door, while Ruarc and one other man took the back. When Haffersohn gave the signal, Ruarc slammed the back door open with a portable ram. The door dropped quickly, and he lead the way in shield first with Justice ready in his other hand. They came into one of the laundry rooms, dark in the after hours gloom. The great copper tubs sat tarnished and empty, casting weird moonlit shadows across the planks of the floor. Piles of unwashed linens lent an unsavory scent to the room. Ruarc heard a dim chanting and spotted a glimmer of light coming from in between two of the floorboards. Signaling his backup, he crept forward in a crouch to the trap door. A tossed aside rug indicated that it would normally be covered. Ruarc signed that he would go first, and drew the door up as quietly as possible. As he opened the door, he saw earthen walls and the chanting immediately grew louder. Ruarc crept down, his well oiled armor barely making a noise. Flickering firelight led him down a short passage and around a bend. What he saw in the chamber there changed him forever. Standing in front of three kneeling cultists was a man wearing a minotaur skull mask, graven with the twisted vile rune of Baphomet.

Suddenly he was six years old again, and his father had just been taken from him. All the rage, all the pain, all the darkness that had been bottled up inside him for the past couple decades burst forth at the sight of that mask. Ruarc could feel the Oni taint in his blood rising. There was no more thought, only hunger and action. Ruarc's body rippled and changed, his muscles bulging and his fiendish features becoming exaggerated as his horns extended and his eyes began to glow a fiery orange. Dropping his shield, he was across the room in moments as the cultists' leader was still raising his hand to point, his mouth forming a cry of warning. Ruarc leaped right over the kneeling acolytes' heads, slashing Justice down with him to slice the leader's arm off at the elbow. The man's scream was cut short by a gurgle as Ruarc whirled around, reversing his grip on the blade and shoving it to the hilt in the man's heart.

The cries to stop and the pounding of booted feet behind him went unnoticed as Ruarc grabbed the newly formed corpse by the neck with one knotty hand. He lifted it up to his mouth as if to kiss the dead cult leader. The sin eater opened his mouth wide as the other officers and Sergeant Haffersohn came rushing across the chamber toward him. He breathed in and seemed to inhale endlessly, drawing a twisting ropy string of iridescent black energy out of the dead man's mouth and eyes and into his own. As he ate the man's sins, the corpse shriveled and withered in his grasp. With a shudder, Ruarc dropped the body to the floor, leaning forward and hanging his head, breathing hard. Sergeant Haffersohn had been shouting, getting tangled up trying to shove past the cultists who were trying to flee from the terrifying Ruarc. When he and the other guardsmen saw what happened, the room instantly grew silent. The next sound was the clanking of armor as his own comrades raised their blades to point at Ruarc.

"Drop the sword, son." Haffersohn's commanding voice cut through the silence. Ruarc turned slowly, drunkenly around, grinning. "Sure thing, Sarge," he replied, letting Justice clatter to the floor. His dopey expression and manic grin didn't let up as he raised his hands in front of his waist, ready to accept manacles. "Arrest me," he said, giggling. "I just don't give a f*ck."

She and Irianne had heard he'd been arrested, and were worried sick. He told them what had happened, and they both assured him that everything was going to be okay. Irianne could see how distraught Ruarc was over what he'd done, and it pained her. She asked him to come to her chamber, and once they were alone she reassured him that he was still good. She reminded him of how he'd always treated her kindly and with respect, and of how strong and brave he was. She told him that everyone had a dark side, even her, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Finally she told him that she loved him, that she always had. He confessed his love for her as well. Then they made love, the first time for the tiefling. It was a short, hot explosion of youthful passion, but it comforted him greatly. Afterwards they repeated the process until they could no more, and then they slept.

That night Ruarc had a vision in his dreams. Ragathiel himself descended from the clouds above on his fiery wings, blinding in his glory. Ruarc fell to his face, prostrate in the dirt calling out, "Lord, forgive me! I have succumbed to the shadow inside me and committed murder." Ragathiel touched down in front of Ruarc and extended one hand. "Rise Ruarc, son of Roga, son of Taarlek, son of Temujin. You are forgiven." Ruarc slowly, hesitantly, pushed himself up onto his knees. Ragathiel spoke again once their eyes had met. "Long has your destiny been in the making. The seed of darkness in your soul is the tool I will use for the working of good. I too was born of evil, and battle constantly with my darker half. But that is not my weakness, it is my strength. It is the black rage of my father that makes me so zealous an avenger of wrongdoing. Join the crusade. You must become my dark knight. Use the darkness inside you to become the surgeon's blade that cuts the tumor from the flesh of Golarion. Too long have the servants of Deskari trod upon the weak and innocent. Go now, and show them what fear is."

With that final command, Ruarc awoke in a chill sweat, still in bed with Irianne. He knew what he must do. He rose silently from the bed, and wrote a letter to Irianne explaining that he loved her, but his destiny was too dangerous to involve her in it. He would always watch out for her from a distance, but he couldn't risk her safety by seeing her again. He wrote another letter to his dear sister Valki, and left a small note asking Irianne to pass it on to her. While his lover was still sleeping, he cut a lock from her hair and wove it into the grip of Justice's hilt. Then he left before dawn, taking all of his money and belongings. He went to an armorer and commissioned a special suit of black lacquered armor, including a helmet designed to cover his horns and lend him a fearsome predatory appearance. While the smith worked on his armor, he bought all the gear he would need for wilderness exploration and survival. Ruarc went to the smithy prepared to travel, and as soon as the armor was complete he made his way to the closest recruiting station.

To be more powerful (20 point buy) – tell me of your character’s personality and state which aspect of the Four Temperament Ensemble is closest to your character's outlook: Ruarc's personality is detailed on his character sheet. He most closely matches the Melancholic (Black Bile) temperament. Though, The Rational also fits him to some degree.

To further hone your strength (25 point buy) – describe a few other tropes that apply to your character, and whether you play them straight or subvert them: I have several tropes in the personality section of his sheet.

To choose one’s class – state what you have to offer the crusade (imagine you were responding to a recruiter)

The grizzled recruiting sergeant leaned back in his chair, picking at his teeth. One eyebrow rose lazily as it inspected Ruarc. "Son, that's a pretty scary getup you got there, but this ain't no costume ball. You know how to use that blade?" Rouarc's black bastard sword was out of its sheath before the word "blade" was even finished. With a bestial grunt and a double fisted overhand chop, the tiefling hacked the corner of the startled recruiter's table clean off. The chuck of wood clattered across the floor. Ruarc sheathed the blade in one smooth motion and leaned over the table on his mailed fists, his face a few inches from the sergeant. "I am vengeance. I am the night. I am Ruarc Bataar, and there is not a fiend in this world that is safe from me." There is no emotion in Ruarc's deep gravelly voice; it is a flat statement of fact. "I will track them down into whatever dark holes they are hiding with or without your army. Ragathiel himself guides my blade, it is through me that he removes sin from the world. Now, where do I sign?"
With each word the sergeant's left eyebrow climbed higher and higher up his forehead. As Ruarc finished his speech, the recruiter offered him an indulgent smile. Friggin psycho! he thought to himself as he slid a paper across the table with one finger. "Alright. Whatever you say buddy. Just sign here..."

To gain belongings (average wealth for your character class) –tell me what your character looks like, and how they comport themselves: See above, or profile. His backstory and personality spoiler detail how he comports himself as well.

To be richer still (max wealth for your character class) – describe one item you bear that was inherited from someone important to you, and how it came to be yours: The masterwork bastard sword Justice belonged to Ruarc's father. When he was murdered the guards gave the sword to Ruarc as his eldest son. The priests at the temple of Ragathiel made sure he knew how to use it. It is the last thing he has from his father.

To have skills borne of experience (two traits) – weave the skills into the background that shapes your character: All traits are elaborated on in the profile.

To gain the bonus trait Channel Divinity below – state your patron deity and how you venerate them in daily life.: Ruarc's patron deity is Ragathiel. He venerates him through daily prayer and tirelessly working to advance his causes in the world. He does everything in his power to avenge those who are wronged around him and to seek out evil and punish it.

When her mother died, Aaliya and her siblings discovered a nasty loophole in Katapesh's laws when her father disowned them, then immediately claimed them as slaves rather than blood. Sold off as a lot, Aaliyah quickly found her siblings' well-being held hostage to her good behavior by her new owner (A situation that was also reversed, leading to undeserved punishments.) As an additional measure to help prevent problems, she was introduced to pesh milk just as she was blossoming into womanhood.

But her performances before the elite proved an entertaining enough distraction at various functions that she was eventually allowed some freedom, whereupon she used it to seek escape in the various pleasure dens of the city with her meagre allowance - a place that one as weak as she really should not have been, but nevertheless chose to go as the tiny amount of defiance allowed to her.

When these two lives intersected for the first and only time, disaster struck. Seeking repayment for a debt not owed, men broke into her master's home seeking her, and began to kill anyone they found. Guards awoke, battles were fought...and a scimitar fell to Aaliya's feet just as blades were about to fall on what remained of her family.

At that moment, something changed in Aaliyah's world. Her pesh-induced stupor was penetrated by a serene feeling of enlightenment and clarity. These men around her, the slaver who would beat others to control one, the thugs who would slaughter a household for the sake of a handful of gold. Every one was beyond redemption by the word. Only the sword could truly give them the just reward for the lives they had chosen to lead.

People in the street suddenly heard screams in the voices of angels and men, screaming in fear of cleansing flame and death.

The next day, the authorities found a sobbing girl, covered in blood admist the carnage. Everyone who had held a weapon that night was dead around her, most with a neat slash across a vital spot from a single rusty scimitar, alight with a flame that neither burned nor spread. She put up no resistance when the weapon was taken from her hand, and the flame went out. All testing showed it to be nothing more than a scimitar on the edge of being discarded. And strangest of all, she sat in the eye of an ankh of her victim's blood.

It should have ended there, but for a stray word at a temple of Saerenrae about the incident. For there is a price for everything in Katapesh, and that includes the freedom of a slave who murdered a score of freepersons in the span of a single evening. While there may have been those whose friends were harmed by Aaliyah's actions, the temple took them on, believing this girl may have been destined for great things. Every day in her cell, they brought to her holy texts and attempted to teach her of their goddess. She heard their owrds, and believed she had understood, but every so often she would say something in the words of angels that seemed nonsensical.

Finally, the various negotiations came to an end. Aaliyah could not be simply freed, so instead she was sentenced to journey north. The Pactmasters had devised a particularly ingenious punishment to satisfy all concerned parties - she was to make her way to Mendev, to fight in the Crusades for no less than ten years. There was to be no escort, no way of enforcing the edict. Effectively exile...she was, after all, free to simply ignore it and go where she wished...

...and yet, there was perhaps a destiny involved. Saerenrae had inspired magic from within her soul to come forth, shaped it. It wasn't the truly divine gifts of Her priests, but...perhaps she was meant to do something with it.

Also, starting with 3 monk levels and taking paladin at 4 and 5 does sadly not not really work out for the strength version, since there are not really any feats to take on 1 (0 BAB, the Style feat I want can't be taken at one, he will get Toughness/Dodge from class and Improved Initiative is notoriously unreliable in PbP). Thus that version for now is a Paladin 1 with Quarterstaff before becoming a „true“ monk at level 2.
Once again the only way not to make monk suck seem to be not being a monk......

He usually wears simple robes and still carries a bamboo walking stick (quarterstaff) from home.
The following only incase of the strength build:For now joining the new crusade had the unintended side effect that they gave him some old equipment, which he, new in this country and not wanting to be rude or upsetting someone, didn't dare to reject. Thus he currently wears an old and unwieldy chain shirt over his robes, restricting his movements more than he would like. Once he has become a bit more accustomed with the local culture he plans to get rid of it as fast as possible.

No inherited/important item (well, besides the envelope, but that hardly counts), thus only average wealth.

He also follows this code of conduct:
A champion of the Irori embraces law and goodness as other paladins do, conducting himself with honor and protecting the innocent; he loses all class features if he ever willingly commits an evil act.
A champion of the Irori must avoid entanglements that would distract him from the pursuit of perfection, and may not incur debts nor give loans to others—though he is encouraged to give freely to those in need. He likewise turns away potential followers of any sort, and may not recruit (and must discharge from service, if already acquired) any cohort, follower, animal companion, familiar, special mount, or similar creature.

Born to Araevel Konnal and Telanna Moonsilver more than a century ago in the city of Greengold, the second largest settlement in the elven homeland, he started training in the ways of his House as soon as he was old enough. His family was known for its warrior mages, or magi as they were often called, men and women who were trained in a form of combat that effectively managed to blend swordplay and spellcasting, making its practitioners formidable foes indeed. Apart from that, however, those of his lineage were also known for another thing, that being the fact that they would put their talents to use against the demons that called Tanglebriar their domain since the time Treerazer had been banished there. Often enough, Konnal elves would travel to the southern part of Kyonin and lend their skills to the defense of their homeland against any demonic creatures that might feel bold enough to try and exit the swamps. More than simply guarding that area, on occasion the elves would form small scouting parties and venture into the swamps, usually for reconnaissance, although the occasional clash with some of that accursed place’s denizens did occur now and then.

One of those elves was Vaenathis, once he was old enough and far along enough in his training. Eager as he was to put his skills to proper use, the young elf still was not prepared for the first time he would lay eyes on a demon, much less when he had to face one in battle. Still, he came out of it relatively unharmed, thanks in no small part to his more battle-hardened comrades-in-arms, and the experience helped prepare him for the next time and the one after that. For there was no lack of abyss spawn in Tanglebriar. So, although it was a somewhat naive young elf that first set foot there at the southern edge of the Fireani Forest, it was a consiredably less naive elven man that returned home to Greengold after his tour of duty, so to speak, was over.

Happy to be back home, it was not to last, as his father soon informed him, though not without a certain sadness behind his words. He was to go to Kenabres, a city bordering the infamous Worldwound, Araevel said to him. He would soon be needed there, for a great evil was stirring and would soon break free. Although he did not elaborate on how he knew, his father’s grave tone left no room for debate or doubt, especially considering what happened next. Araevel presented his son with Morathil, the Witch’s Bane, House Konnal’s ancestral sword, and told him that it was his time to wield it, that it would greatly help him with what awaited him in Kenabres and beyond. And although the black blade felt as nothing more than a simple sword in his hand, Vaenathis nevertheless knew it to be far more than that.

Four Temperament Ensemble: Closer to the Melancholic and Phlegmatic (the Idealist).

Tropes:
Dark Is Not Evil – Despite such physical characteristics like his scar and the color of his eyes and the way he acts and carries himself, as well as his preference towards dark-colored clothing, Vaenathis is not evil. Quite the opposite, actually.
Every Scar Has A Story (subverted) (Eyes Are Unbreakable (subverted), Scars Are Forever (subverted)) – The story behind his scar is hardly worth telling, at least in his opinion. When he was much younger, he had a duel with one of his cousins, a sparring exercise really if not for the rather bad idea that they use real blades. Vaenathis did not take it seriously enough, which led to his not paying adequate attention and failing to deflect a blow, which actually cost him his right eye. It was only thanks to a priest’s regenerative spells that he still has both his eyes; nevertheless, he asked the healer to refrain from using his magic to also heal the cut, keeping the subsequent scar as a reminder of his foolishness.
Red Eyes, Take Warning (subverted or averted) – There is nothing sinister or foreboding about his eyes. Just as they may be blue or gold or violet, elven eyes may also be red, albeit less frequently perhaps.

Its once shining blade has been used in the fight against demons many a time, as the warrior mages who bear the Konnal name are no strangers to battling Treerazer’s minions. But it has been quite some time since the blade actually shone, not since Seraneth Konnal, the second magus to wield Morathil, used the sword to end the life of Revanora, a powerful half-succubus witch and servant of Treerazer. As her life faded away, Morathil drank deeply of her life force, replenishing its wielder’s and its own arcane power, but something happened at that moment. Perhaps her evil was too great, or perhaps her power, but whatever the reason, the sword’s blade turned from shining silver to pitch black and the powers granted through the bond with its magus changed.

The sword, since then also known as the Witch’s Bane, now allows its chosen wielder to tap into abilities more akin to a witch’s hexes, in addition to the lore all magi study during their training. And there is the potential for greater power still, though that comes with a price, as a part of Revanora’s essence, no matter how small and weak, remains within the sword, waiting to take advantage if or when the one wielding it falters or is hurt enough to let his guard down.

Of course, Morathil does not simply imbue its magus with power from the start. The new wielder must prove than he can survive and even thrive without the sword’s help at first before he may reap the rewards, so to speak.

As to how it came to be that Araevel Konnal, Morathil’s previous wielder and Vaenathis’ father, chose to pass the sword on to his son, the main reason for that would be -ironically enough- due to one of the powers that Revanora’s death “gifted” the weapon with, namely a hex that granted Araevel a vision of the future. In that vision something was stirring at the Worldwound and the magical protection of the wardstones was failing, eventually unleashing evil into the world. Araevel, knowing all too well the destruction a horde of demons could cause, reached the conclusion that warriors would soon be needed at that part of the world. So, he would send his firstborn son, an elf who has trained as a magus of House Konnal since childhood, and he would arm him with a weapon that had been used in the fight against demonkind again and again.

Drawback: Attached

Source of Ascension: Artifact/Passed On

Mythic Flaw: Insanity

Tropes:
Cool Sword (Ancestral Weapon, Ancient Artifact, Black Swords Are Better, Empathic Weapon, Loyal Phlebotinum, Named Weapons) – Morathil, Vaenathis’ black blade, more or less represents all of the aforementioned tropes.

Alternate Racial Trait (if allowed): Arcane Focus

Traits: Armor Expert, Focused Mind, Warrior of Old

• How do you reconcile his strutting and proud nature with his melancholic temperament?
  
• What are the overt signs of his tiefling heritage? – and what outsider tainted his bloodline?
  
• Given that your character will start at 1st level, how would you adjust your background?

• How did Melchesiech come across his familiar? – and is there anything of note about the hawk?
  
• Does he still worship Calistria? – or has he put that behind him for the now?
  
• Which languages will he know… and why?

• Given that the campaign starts at 1st level, how do you see that working with Gregori being one of the greatest weapons of the order of the Golden Blade? Is that based on potential alone?
  
• Has Gregori just arrived to the Crusade?
  
• Who was Tania, and how did she capture his heart?

• How do you reconcile the influence of Groetus, with the optimism of the Guardian temperament?
  
• How does she choose to venerate Groetus? – in terms of prayers and worship?
  
• Out of interest, how are her attributes spread out?

• What is Bodelin’s opinion of the rest of the Dwarvish pantheon of gods?
  
• He typically fights two-handed – when and why does his shield see use?

He never spoke a word of why he'd run, or why he returned the next morning, and accepted the accusations and imprecations without comment -- and although the fact that he appeared to retain his abilities as a Paladin indicated that he had not left Iomedae's grace, the tale of the "Coward of Darkmoon Vale" spread like wildfire and the family fell into disfavor with his exile.

That should have been the last of it...But several years later his son showed up at the barracks in Augustana, bearing Iomedae's favor brightly enough to be visible to the mundane eye, and invoked his right as an Andoran citizen to serve in the military. They didn't particularly want him, but by their own laws as long as he proved capable and willing, they couldn't deny him -- he had to quit on his own volition, or prove himself unfit for duty.

They did their absolute best to make him quit in any way they could -- lousy assignments, being passed over for promotion time and again no matter how competent he proved -- but he was Carenae and the Carenae do not shirk their duty. Still, military life turned out to be a poor fit for Michael. Not because he lacked martial skills -- in fact, he was something of a literal holy terror on the proving grounds, as well as having a definite talent for keeping a squad together -- but a lot of the older rank and file still remembered the Coward of Darkmoon Vale and wanted no truck with his son.

Michael had anticipated some resentment over his father's legacy, but he'd seriously underestimated how bad it would be. Still, Carenae did not shirk their duty, and he persevered... Until one sergeant with a steeper grudge than most decided that Michael needed to understand why they didn't approve of him and sent his squad to patrolling the Darkmoon Vale area.

Those survivors of the battle that didn't immediately recognize "the Coward's Son" were soon informed of his identity by those who did, and things went rapidly downhill. Insults and jeers were the order of the day, and squad morale plummeted as it's hard to respect your squad leader when he's regularly scraping rotten vegetable residue or worse off his breastplate.

Pile on enough straws and sooner or later any pack animal, no matter how strong, will revolt. In Michael's case, this revolt took the form of walking up to the sergeant that had assigned him there, telling him in no uncertain terms that regardless of what his father may or may not have done, taking it out on him was unfair, unjust and unbecoming an officer in the Andoran army, followed by formally resigning his comission and then slugging the sergeant.

Thoroughly disgusted, Michael wanted to wash his hands of the country of his birth... But he found that he couldn't abandon his oaths to Iomedae quite so easily -- and more importantly, that he didn't want to. Even if the world was full of far too many judgemental jerks and ungrateful scum who didn't deserve to be saved, plenty of people remained who did. Children, innocents, even people who just didn't know any better...

It should be made clear that Michael never expected or required gratitude -- most Paladins who do tend to fall in fairly short order -- but several years of never receiving any tends to wear on the soul, and while he wasn't about to give up on his calling, he decided he could exercise some personal discretion as to where to apply himself.

It was around that time that word reached him about the disaster that had befallen the Fifth Mendevian Crusade. A clear-cut fight against evil in someplace where no one knew his name sounded like exactly what he needs right now...

Years of being blamed and judged for his father's actions have left him something of a Knight in Sour Armor and a Cynic -- he doesn't have a terribly high opinion of humanity in general anymore and he's depressed at how often the people he protects lived down to his expectations -- but despite everything they threw at him (sometimes literally), he keeps doing his duty anyway, although on particularly bad days he decides to spend a night getting too drunk to care.

Code of honour:Like all Paladins of Iomedae, he lives by Her tenets, or at least generally tries to; some tenets are easier to live by than others, and he's just a bit out of practice when it comes to living as an example to others.

Good Is Not Soft: Michael will accept the surrender of a defeated enemy, if it's a sincere and unconditional one. However, an enemy that breaks their parole will not receive another opportunity to try to surrender. Lawful Good does not mean Lawful Stupid.

Angelic Beauty: Michael's Aasimar heritage manifests itself in the glow behind his eyes and sleek gold-red hair.

Chronic Hero Syndrome: It kind of goes with the job...

Sophisticated As Hell: Celestial speech is usually considered a caress upon the ears of those who hear it. Michael primarily uses it for swearing when he's in a foul mood.

... Now add three-day stubble, a perpetual grumpy scowl and bear in mind that the hair is unkempt, and while the armor is in working order it's seen better (and cleaner) days. That's Michael.
Despite his unkempt appearance it's quickly obvious that neither his armor nor his sword are anything other than well maintained, and the Sword and Circle that are Iomedae's symbol is clearly visible on the shield.

"... Imagine spending your entire life being judged by what your father did. Blamed for it, even though he's been dead for over a decade. No, not everyone, and not all the time... But enough of them, and often enough. There's only so much of that you can take and stay sane. And Iomedae's mercy is famously reserved for the weak, the helpless, the innocent and the repentant. Those She chooses as Her champions on this world are expected to take the abuse and deal with it. Fair enough. Someone has to. But She also expects us to know our limitations, and if I stayed in Andoran for much longer sooner or later I'd wind up giving in to the impulse to just punch some pompous ass whose only crime was being an ignorant twit, and that's a line I don't plan on crossing. I still love my home -- I think -- but right now it's probably best if we spend some time apart...

"... and like I said at the start of this conversation, this is a place where my help is desperately needed, and best of all: Absolutely no one here knows who my father was, or cares."

"What I can do? I'm a Paladin of Iomedae, and I wield Her righteous wrath in battle. I can hit a demon so hard its spawn-mother curls up in agony. I can smell out hellspawn and as well as mortal scum from twenty meters away. I can act as a conduit for Her grace and mercy as well to bolster my allies and banish evil. I am exactly what this Crusade needs more of -- and as ever, it is my Duty to be where I'm needed."

This is largely due to potential and what he's done so far. His ability vastly outstrips most low-level warriors and rather than walk in the light he holds it within him. I look at the Halo ability as the first manifestation of what will develop into the Warrior of Light abilities. Also was considering the idea that a few in the order may know of a prophesy of which Gregori himself is unaware.

Has Gregori just arrived to the Crusade?

Yes, he headed straight there upon finding out about his mentor's death. He is getting acquainted with the camaraderie of the warriors there yet very eager to tear into the forces of darkness.

[i]Who was Tania, and how did she capture his heart?[i]

Harrol shivers. The old keep is damp and drafty, and the silver sword and sunburst hangs heavily around his neck. He clutches it and mutters a wordless prayer. The one-eyed recruiter summons sellswords and vagabonds one by one. Harrol looks very much out of place among the mercenaries. He wears a dull gray pilgrim's robe, and carries a heavy leatherbound holy text and several scrolls. At a glance, you'd be forgiven to think the halfling was a scholar, but his calloused farmboy's hands, youthful features and guileless eyes rule out that possibility, as does the enormous holy symbol around his neck.

The recruiter does not seem to have noticed him yet. The halfling waits patiently until all of the recruits have been sworn in, before making himself heard. "... ex...excuse me? Begging yer pardon, m'lord. But I'd loike to sign up." he says, earnestly. "... and don't be lookin' at me loike dat. I've seen two and twenty winters, I have. I'm more than old enough!"

"My skills, milord?" he says, brow furrowing as the recruiter sneers down his crooked nose at him. "Well, I can clean a wound, set bones, tend a stable, give a blessing... I've seen a battle before, I'll have you know!" The recruiter finally speaks. We're looking for soldiers, not washerwomen. he says. The smile fades from Harrol's face, and he meets the recruiters eyes with a sullen expression. He'd already been laughed away by the Knights of Ozem. He wouldn't bear that shame a second time. "From the looks, and smell of things around here, it looks like you could use plenty of both." he murmurs, before abruptly slamming his holy text down on the table.

"Acts 10:35-38. 'Do not think that I came to bring peace; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. And he who does not take his sword and follow after me, is not worthy of me'." His expression is different now. In place of the earnest, wide-eyes of a young man is a steely glare that seems to pierce right through the maimed knight behind the desk. His voice drops close to a whisper, but it seems to reverberate from the walls. "The Inheritor is my strength and shield, and damn you, I mean ta foight!"

Harrol takes a deep breath, looking shocked for only a moment at the words pouring out of his mouth. For a moment, he looks worried the recruiter is going to strike him, but the man merely regards him with one last sneer before swearing him in. Very well. If you're so eager to get your fool-self killed, I won't stop you. May Pharasma have mercy on your soul.

Harrol's most treasured possession is a weather-beaten holy text, The Acts of Iomedae. Born to a family of free halflings that worked the riverboats along the Sellen, Harrol's family often bore crusaders, mercenaries and paladins making the long journey to the Worldwound. One such Paladin left behind his holy text, and certain his parents would not let him keep it, the youth hid it away. Having barely learned his letters, Harrol struggled. In time however, he grew fascinated with the heroism of the goddess, how she slew the King of the Barrowood from atop a flying griffin, how she ended the reign of the Whispering Tyrant, how she called upon the Undenying Light of Aroden to drive an army of ghouls from Absalom.

By the time he came of age, the young halfling was insistent that he would become a priest. He made the pilgrimage to the Sancta Iomaedea, the magnificent cathedral in Vigil. Where he would live for several years. Becoming first a stable-boy, then a messenger, then an acolyte of the third circle, and finally a surgeon on the back-lines. However, it soon became clear where this is where he would stay. Adamant that he should fight. He vowed to join the Knights of Ozem and push back the tides of evil. They laughed him away. Rather than return home in shame, Harrol steeled himself and took the long journey north to Mendev, with little more than the clothes on his back and a cudgel to discourage any bandits.

Harrol has idolized the courage of great heroes and saints since he was a small boy. He does not think himself half as courageous, but his faith in his goddess is enough to keep him going against the most terrifying of foes - (the courageous trait)

Harrol spent much of his time in Lastwall tending the magnificent warhorses of the crusaders, and has vowed that if any beast is to bear him into battle, it will be a Lastwall-thoroughbred (small-sized or no) - (the beast bond trait, UC)

If drawbacks okay, Harrol will take the Unlearned one so I can say I got SOME use out of Ultimate Campaign...

The light of the Inheritor shines strong through Harrol, allowing him greater skill at healing - (the blessed touch trait, CoP)

When the demons struck back in the Second Crusade, Emna and Aestellon narrowly escaped the tower but still stubbornly refused to cede Sarkoris to the demons. Instead, they disappeared into the hills as part of a small halfling and aasimar band to wage a guerilla campaign against the invading horde. For several decades they played a bold game of cat and mouse, and won some impressive victories, but eventually their luck ran out. A horde of nabasu and ghouls ambushed them just before dawn. Only a handful of the band escaped, and only with through the brave sacrifice of both Emna and Aestellon.

The remnants of the band weren't the warriors the older generation had been, but they stayed in the wild outskirts of the Worldwound because they knew nothing else. Where Emna and Aestellon had sought to defeat the demons, the goals of those remaining slowly dwindled to simply surviving. Emna’s eldest daughter, Loredne, took over guiding the band and keeping them out of danger. Their halfling optimism lost much of its luster. No one could call them happy-go-lucky, but somehow, despite their bleak and desperate environment, they somehow still found joy in song and good food, cooked around their fires in the deep woods. Loredne had a gift for song and story, and raised her children on tales of their grandparent’s deeds...tales that grew even bigger as the years wore on. When the kids’ eyes lit up too much at the stories though, she made it very clear though that those heroic days were done and their job now was to stay out of danger.

He wears his hair pulled back with a tie or bandana, and dresses in simple, patched, cold-weather gear. His tendency from a childhood in the Worldwound is to fade into the background, and to be constantly glancing about.

One passion he did share with his mother is for cooking and eating as fine a fare as they could manage in their wintery encampments. He especially loved to forage the blewit, bolete, and chanterelle mushrooms that still grew in this tainted land, then saute them in goat butter with chile peppers (having inherited his grandfather’s love for spicy foods, along with his other Bralani traits).

Growing up a generation removed from the loss of the tower at Drezen and the massacre by the nabasu, Lenn developed a deep curiosity that warred with his caution. While the band now kept their distance from the fiends and the foul humans who worshipped them, Lenn found himself creeping closer. He would break into abandoned ruins, tiptoeing around in search of useful detrius. He’d spy from the outskirts of settlements until all seemed to be off or asleep and then steal in, quickly disabling any locks and traps, in order to make off with supplies, information...and the somewhat dubious abyssal chile peppers he’d developed a taste for, but that few non-outsiders could tolerate.

As his excursions started to grow in frequency, the rest of the band was strongly divided about him. Many of the youngsters saw him as courageous, and they loved the little gifts he would bring back from successful raids. The elders on the other hand could see that he was stirring the pot. If he were to continue on this path, they declared, no good could come of it. At best he would be slain; at worst he would bring destruction down upon all of them.
For Lenn’s part, he could feel Desna and Chaldira Zuzaristan guiding him. Yes, there was real danger in his adventures, but there was danger in his extended family’s decision to simply hide and survive as well.

Here I’d like DM input, if I may. I imagine -- as Lenn begins to make more frequent excursions into enemy camps and demonic ruins -- that he discovers some bit of information he believes is important to the Mendevian crusaders. It might be a small part of an initial plot hook...or it might be something that he believes in urgent enough to travel to Mendev for, but that they in fact already knew from other sources. In any event, it’s jarring enough to get him to leave the only people he’s known, and journey to Mendev to join forces with the crusaders.

I might be able to add this detail myself once I see the Player’s Guide, but wanted to invite DM input as well if you have any. Thanks in advance!

…

Lenn felt the urgency to alert the Mendevians, but couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye...and he saved his mother for last. ”You know I have to do this, mother.” It wasn’t a question.

Loredne wiped tears from her eyes with her sleeve. ”Little Lenn. You’re not old enough for this. Don’t go thinking you’re Emna or Aestellon now.”

He lowered his head, sorry to be the cause of this pain. She saw his jaw was as resolute as ever...and even with his head down she could see the celestial flash of his eyes. He was going and she knew it.

”OK then, before you go, hold on a moment.” She rustled in her tent for a moment and then came out holding a large brass button, a needle, and some red thread. ”This was your grandma Emna’s sacred keepsake, her Blessed Button.” She explained as she pulled his leather vest back and started sewing it on, over his heart. ”When the demons killed her and Aestellon, the fiends destroyed their bodies and smashed or carried off all of their possessions. When we finally went back to search the sight, this was all I was able to salvage of hers. Take it. May it help you achieve your greatness, as it did for her...and may it also be a reminder to accomplish your missions without engaging in hand-to-hand combat, alright? Use your head.”

Lenn’s fingers explored the worn button and his heart lit up. He began to cry as well, as he hugged her goodbye and then hefted his pack and took off into the snow.

He traveled many days until he crossed the border into Mendev. Once he’d left behind familiar areas he elected to forgo the risk of a fire. Instead he traveled by night (guided by his darkvision) both to keep hidden and to keep warm. By day he’d huddle in whatever shelter he could make without exposing himself to discovery, and do his best to sleep.

When he finally entered Mendev, he felt a different sort of awe than he felt when confronted by fiends in the worldwound. This was a much larger city than any he’d seen before. He flinched a bit to be seen by humans, as the ones he’d met so far in his life were almost invariably demon worshippers. He knew the stories though. These were the Crusaders. Emna and Aestellon’s people. His people. The tremor in his chest was growing, as excitement eclipsed fear. He had a mission to accomplish. He was going to live up to the name Emnassen. And he was going to adventure!

”You don’t look like a Knight.”

”No sir.”

”This is a crusade. You DO know where you are, don’t you?”

”Yes sir. And I know where you’re going. I grew up in the Worldwound. I’m Lenn Emnassen, grandson of Emna the mighty.” He’s not sure if the recruiter catches the reference to grandma Emna, or just the thought of growing up in the Worldwound, but his eyes widen at something. ”I do know how to swing a sword, but not as well as that knight before me probably can.

”But in order for her to go cleave demons and cultists, she needs to stay alive. That’s what I do. I stay alive, and I help others stay alive. I understand their traps. I know how to stay hidden, and to skirt their encampments. And I have some skill with magic and a bow, when battle inevitably comes.”

The recruiter squints down at him and writes, Lenn Emnassen: staying alive on his register. ”Hmph. OK then, head out to the waiting room. We’ll have an answer for you soon.”

To play one tainted by good outsider blood (aasimar) – tell me how that came to be, and which outsider was your forebear.
Covered in History.

To be more powerful (20 point buy) – tell me of your character’s personality and state which aspect of the Four Temperament Ensemble is closest to your character's outlook.
Covered in History and Background.

To further hone your strength (25 point buy) – describe a few other tropes that apply to your character, and whether you play them straight or subvert them.
Covered in Personality section.

To choose one’s class – state what you have to offer the crusade (imagine you were responding to a recruiter).
Covered in Recruiter section.

To gain belongings (average wealth for your character class) –tell me what your character looks like, and how they comport themselves.
Covered in appearance.

To be richer still (max wealth for your character class) – describe one item you bear that was inherited from someone important to you, and how it came to be yours.
Emna’s blessed button. Covered in background.

To have skills borne of experience (two traits) – weave the skills into the background that shapes your character.
Covered and linked in background.

To gain the bonus trait Channel Divinity below – state your patron deity and how you venerate them in daily life.
Lenn worships Desna and Chaldira Zuzaristan as a pair. They are the source of his luck, without which he knows his road will end quickly. In gratitude to them he dedicates each day’s journey to them, and each night thanks them for the luck he received. He also frequently implores Emna as an intermediary who he knows journeys a their side. He often finds his fingers gravitating to her Blessed Button whenever he needs a bit of extra luck...or when giving thanks for luck received.