A Dark Beginning
I was born twenty-seven years ago, in the town of Mosstone, Tethyr. My family was fairly well off, but nowhere near wealthy. Jarn, my father, was a member of the local defense militia, and a tailor for the upper class the rest of the time. My mother, Lurrene, spent most of her time at home, but she was a skilled musician, occasionally entertaining a small group. I remember sitting in the next room, watching the faces of the guests, and listening to her singing. Her performances seemed to bring joy to people's otherwise grim, war-shadowed lives. I always loved that about her.
My teen years passed quietly. I received a little schooling, and then began to seek work. I wished to join the militia, hoping to assist in defending the city during the war. My family, however, would have none of that. They did not want me to risk my life, and instead stay near home, working in a safer position. I apprenticed at a local stable, helping tend to the horses. While I was decent at coaxing them to do what was needed, I was somewhat clumsy, and not very suited to riding them.
My life took a new direction when I was twenty-two years of age. As I was returning from the stable, I spotted a commotion around my home. A crowd had gathered, and the door was idling off its hinges. Dropping my satchel, I ran the rest of the way home and pushed my way through the crowd. Inside, I saw my father being dragged unconscious by two men, garbed in armor and dark furs, armed with maces. My mother was slumped in the corner, bleeding from a head wound. I looked around, and grabbed the nearest usable object, an iron fire poker. I squared off in the doorway, and attempted to muster up a commanding demeanor.
"Drop him, and leave this place!" My voice cracked halfway through, turning my face red.
"I have no time for this. Out of my way, or I'll move you! the apparent leader snarled. They moved toward the door, showing no signs of planning to wait for me to move. I gripped the poker with both hands, and raised it, trying again to be intimidating.
"I said, leave my family alone!" I swung the poker at him, but it just clanged off the plates of his armor, harmlessly. The leader laughed at my efforts, raising his hand at me while he cast. A wave of magic flew out at me, sending me flying backwards into the throng of observers. As the brutes dragged my father away, they shouted back to me;
"Your father has been chosen by Malar for the High Hunt. You may even see him again. Pray to The Pard for your father, and he might just find the strength to survive." I started getting up to try and stop them again, but the villagers held me back, saying it was for my own good. They were probably right. I ran inside to help my mother.
Days later, during the night of the High Hunt, I did indeed pray. Not to Malar, like the cleric suggested, or to any other deity specifically. I prayed to any force that was listening for my father to survive the night. No, more than that. I prayed for him to survive, and in the process, to slay every follower of Malar that stood in his way.
My father did not return that night, nor in the morning. I only learned of his fate when I sought out the Malaran Temple, on the outskirts of town. Barging through the doors, I saw my father's sword mounted on the wall among other trophies, and the cleric who took him sneeringly told me that he had "lost". As I stormed out of the doors, he shouted a few insincere words of sympathy to me, something about my father putting up a fight, and dieing well. I made it a few paces, stumbled to the ground, and vomited. The clerics face had been seared into my memory, and I swore vengeance.
Within a few weeks, I had enlisted in the Knights Vigilant, a fighting order dedicated to Helm. I sent most of my earnings to my mother, in an effort to support her. In reality, the gold I gave her was three times what we were used to, but I felt that I had a duty to help her in my absence. With the Knights training, I learned how to swing a sword, and how to tell whom to swing it at. I spent a great deal of my time seething in anger at Malar and his worshipers, and as such, developed a strong devotion to Helm. The longer I trained with the order, the angrier I became. As my anger toward the cleric grew, I began to think of him less and less as human. He became a kind of embodiment of everything wrong in Faerun, and I felt it was my duty to eradicate him. I focused my training even more completely on fighting, and managed to convince my superiors to allow me to lead a small group of Knights against the temple. We stormed it at dawn, overcoming the place quickly. I found and slew the cleric myself, fulfilling my vow.
The victory felt empty, however. Reflecting on his death over the coming weeks, I felt pity for the cleric. When I killed him, I was sending his soul to the Lower Planes. He would be there for eternity, at the mercy of fiends. Through his death, I had caused more suffering for him than his actions could ever cause anyone else. I didnÂt even know his name. From then on, I had a new vow. I left the following of Helm, swearing myself to Ilmater, The Broken One. I would still fight to destroy evil, but my first weapon would be the chance of redemption.
