There are as many paths in life as there are people to walk them. It goes without saying that even the strangest combination of events can lead someone to walk their particular road, even if that road is anything but a straight one.
Kairen's childhood used to be clear with memories of fields, farms, children, lessons, and stories. He always loved the stories of heroes and holy knights the best. The tales of fearsome monsters and vile fiends terrorizing the lands and falling before the lone hero's courage always stirred his imagination and lifted his spirits, even in the toughest of times.
When his village was overrun, no story could have prepared his imagination for what he saw. Corpses rotting as they shambled about, buildings torn down, screams choked off as blood sprayed, familiar faces reaching for his flesh with blank, lifeless eyes. Only the strength to lift a short sword and the courage to use it saw him through that day. When the church of Iomedae sent warriors and priests to cleanse the town, they found him, a boy barely in his teens, atop a pile of rotting bodies, covered in blood, blade chipped and stained; in his eyes, though, was a sea of emotions: anger, grief, and shock were plain, but the fear was missing. He had already pushed past it. Bodycounts measured no less than a dozen zombified corpses had been laid to rest by the boy alone. When the clergy joined the fray, most expected him to hide, run, or collapse from exhaustion, but he followed their every advance, lopping off undead parts with a zeal to equal their own. His request to join the order surprised many, who expected, after the carnage subsided, that he would need rest, peace, and solace in the face of his trauma. they suspected, rightly as it turns out, that he had already heard the call of the goddess.
In the intervening years, Kairen trained dutifully with his short sword; it was the companion that saw him through his nightmare, and it stayed with him at all times. Though he remained pained by that night, he eventually found kinship and solace in the elders and his peers in the order. Many feared he would withdraw into himself and brood on his pain forever, but much to their surprise, he was often smiling. None doubted the pain was present, but it seemed that the flow of hope and inspiration with which he surrounded himself was enough to drown out the grief. He passed up no opportunity to quest with his brethren when the call went out, especially if the unliving, or any master thereof, were the instigators.
As Kairen's years passed, one by one, he came to grips with his loss and his memories, and made decisions that many doubted, including his lightly armored, aggressive combat style. He always kept that short sword in good repair, even when he picked up another, longer sword to complement it. Knights of the order were puzzled at his developments, and those who volunteered to mentor his training found confusion when he manifested no spellcasting, even after years of service. Many of the things that his comrades had come to expect from his blessings never emerged, no matter how many undead he vanquished, how many beasts he slew, or how many innocents he rescued. His devotion to battle in Iomedae's name was almost single-minded, but none could doubt the inspiring presence he lent to his allies. Many noted that when he plunged into battle, they could feel the pull, not only of the goddess, but of his own fervor, urging them forward to victory.
Unfortunately, his relentless charges led to one flaw: he would often outpace his comrades, cutting swaths through hordes of foes, moving from one target to the next, assaulting enemy leaders and spellcasters amidst their underlings without regard to his comrades' pace. Even the most aggressive combatants of the order had trouble keeping up with him, and the separation would often weaken the group as a whole. More than once, a fellow member was cut down on account of his being separated from his team. The pangs of guilt were always with him, but even in his most repentant and meditative moments, he still felt the drive to move onward and upward, as if the goddess, or some other force, were pushing him hurriedly towards a greater goal. Requesting leave, Kairen traveled Golarion, alert for undead encroachments and citizens who needed the help of a holy warrior. When his ears caught word of crypts of Kaer Maga being robbed of the dead, every vein in his body seemed to catch fire; this was it. The closer he came to the city, the more his pace quickened, the faster his heart raced, and the more clear his mind became. Irony and destiny were converging; the stories of the lone warrior, shining in the darkness against unspeakable evil, were about to come true.
