Demonborn. That was the label that accompanied Tsiron everywhere he went during his childhood. A heroic couple took Tsiron in, hoping to give the boy a good life. And yet, a year after, their house burned down. By the time the tiefling was of six years, he had went through three homes. After that, they just gave up and left him on the streets. At twelve, he left the town. Tsiron scraped out a living by drifting like a ghost through various towns, scavenging out of trash. He was scorned, if not outright driven out, everywhere he went.
However, the blood of heroes and the blood of fiends were mixed in Tsiron's veins, and from the two of them came an unshakable determination. He would persevere. He would live.
But finally, after twenty-two years of punishment and scorn, something in Tsiron snapped. His abyssal blood manifested and gave him undreamed-of power. And so, Ragmar of Fiendblood rampaged across the Lost Coast, using Tsiron's body as a vessel.
For three years, fiendish power pulsing through his body's veins, Tsiron watched helplessly as his body wreaked unspeakable havoc. And then finally, an aasimar paladin Ragmar... and then all was black.
Tsiron found himself in a forest grove, with the paladin making stew. Croaking out a question, Tsiron asked "Why?..." The answer he got before he blacked out was "Because it was the right thing to do."
Saphira-as Tsiron came to know the swordlady as-was calm and peaceful. As the tiefling recuperated, she helped Tsiron find peace that he had never known before, peace that he never could have achieved without her help.
One day, Tsiron confessed that he would never be at peace while the wrongs he had wrought remained marring his soul. He would repent for Ragmar's sins by helping people as Ragmar had destroyed them. For every soul destroyed, another protected. For every town razed, another saved. Sapphire smiled and simply said "I hoped you would say that."