Even at the edge of the Worldwound, the drums of Belkzen haunt me, for it was under their auspices that I was born and found both my name and my purpose.
Of my mother, the least spoken is best. She was perfidy incarnate and her actions actually redeem what little respect I can hold for the memory of my father, a man who once held a concept of honor – his honor and self-respect ground between the stones of the Worldwound and my mother. What little I know of both is mostly from my uncle, who taught me of honor, of my patron Shizuru and of the example set by Ragathiel that even those of fiendish blood may rise to cleanse the dishonor of their birth.
My uncle was a great man whose only fault was too great a love for his sister – a love which blinded him to her evil until it was far too late. I owe him my life and my concept of honor, which never would have been imparted in me had he not retrieved me from that place which echoed of both the First World and the Pit. Some aspect of my strange physiology must have also altered my ability to recall, for I am told that human children cannot remember events as old as that and drums of the Black Sun Tribe have not been heard in their roll to “come forth” since the day I was recovered and my mother taken for justice.
I was raised in the shadow of Lastwall. There are no words which describe the feeling of that place. I think – no, I hope – that is one reason that coming here, to Mendev, seems so familiar - like coming home. This is the only place I have found where hope takes on something tangible, something greater. Though I journeyed with my uncle to the distant Tien lands, their nature felt alien, likely I now believe, because they did not know the taste of desperation as can be found here and at Lastwall. Lastwall is a guardian of two great evils: Belkzen, the great sprawling land of the orcs, and Gallowspire, home of the Whispering Tyrant, one of the greatest evils Golarion has ever known. It is a place of conflict to be sure, but somehow, despite the knowledge that they are outnumbered and may one day be over-run the taste of the air and of the feel of the people is different than here, in Mendev, where the stink of the Worldwound occasionally wafts over the ramparts of the fortress-cities.
My uncle gave his life defending this world from the undead of the Whispering Tyrant. I gave him my pledge as he lay dying, that I would do no less than he, that I would be the penance for both my demon-trafficking mother and my Ulfen Guard-turned-low-templar father. I will be the penance for my forbearers and will answer to no other name until the honor I have reclaimed for them will cleanse the stain that they laid upon both of their Houses.
The debt to the First Worlders I know not yet how I will repay.
