Helo

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Top Deck
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 30
Injuries: Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.

---

It was easy to spot a necromancer.

A hollowness behind their eyes. A sallowness to their skin. Death clung to them; it raised the hair on the back of one’s neck, sent a shiver down the spine, and made the pulse quicken- things people could ignore or pass off as a ‘bad vibe.’

Ezekiel was far too familiar with necromancers not to notice one. He caught the subtle odor of decay that clung to the elderly man as he walked past. No matter how much they bathed, what oils and fragrances they used to try to mask it, the smell of death always lingered on their skin.

His head turned, and his eye caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Time slowed.

Ezekiel saw that same face, now with its wrinkles gone, as if time had reversed. A man still in his prime, posture straightened, dressed in the red and black of Karrnath, commanding a legion of undead soldiers. That subtle whiff of decay he'd caught on the man amplified. The air became thick and suffocating with its sour scent. A cloying rot that clawed down his throat.

Ezekiel’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. An airship was not the place to bisect a likely retired Karrn general. The war was over. It was possible that the elderly man had given up necromancy. There were quieter ways to end a life. A tumble off the side of the ship could look like an accident. His head began to throb just behind his eye.

He watched the man walk past a towering warforged. For a moment, his hawk-like focus on the necromancer vanished, and he studied the machine with a softer expression. There was no mistaking the warforged origins; the elegant machine was of Cyran design. The sight of that warforged, of a Cyran brother, supplied a warmth that stung beyond words.

Warmth fanned the fire, hatred burned brighter, and the glow of his eye intensified. Those who held a hatred of the warforged had it wrong. The machines were not the monsters of The Last War; that title belonged to the undead forces of Karrnath.

And every horror caused by the undead came from the hands of necromancers.

The world could do with one less twisted mage toying with death.

Snap!

The sound of bone breaking drew his attention away from the elderly necromancer. He turned and spotted a child, his expression a mix of pain, fear, and shock, who sat cradling his arm on his lap. Above the boy, a woman in a dark and decorated kimono attempted to comfort him with a hand on the kid's shoulder. The woman called out for a doctor and a couple of concerned passengers went to fetch the ship’s physician.

Ezekiel headed down the ship’s deck, the opposite direction from the necrommancer's path and toward the woman and the injured boy.

“I’m not a doctor, but I can do some healing magic.” He gave the pair a respectful nod of his head before kneeling down to the boy’s level.

“It’ll hurt and take a few sessions, but I can expedite the healing for your son’s arm.” He offered, his eye flickered from the boy the woman standing over him. “Get you back to enjoying your voyage as quick as possible.”

Ezekiel waited for their answer and returned his attention to the child. “Ever broken a bone before?” He asked the boy, trying to distract him from the pain.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 6 pm
Location: Castle Dinning Hall
Attire: Winners wear red & black!
Interactions: Alexander

---

<It is my turn.>

Clarence gave little warning before the monkey dissolved into a billowing cloud of smoke. The smoke entered through the nose, eyes, ears, and mouth of the vessel that submitted to possession. In a matter of seconds, all that was Callum Danrose was locked away in a dream.

And it could’ve been a good dream too. Had Callum shown proper loyalty and respect to the familiar, Clarence would’ve rewarded his mortal with an inspiring dream. But it was petty spirit, even the slightest fault would earn the mortal a long nightmare that would feel like an eternity.

Clarence stretched out what were now his arms and legs, and paced around the prince’s room until he got a sense of balance in his new form. He felt the weariness, the dull ache of old injuries, and the softly fading drunkenness. The urge to open the bottle of whiskey that sat on the prince’s desk called to him.

“This body abhors sobriety.” He whispered. The voice came out strained, the spirit practiced talking to itself in a hushed whisper until he had gotten the hang of speaking. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, and clumsy hands slowly lifted and swirled the glass.

“Only right. That my first taste. In this vessel. Is of whiskey.” Clarence savored the sharp burn, caught hints of the barrel the liquid had aged in, and smiled at the warmth.

He felt a hunger so different from its own. Simpler. A desire for mortal food. He looked around the room, softly talking to himself as acclimated to a human body.

“I must prepare for the banquet.” He said to himself, speech slowly becoming natural.

Clarence took his time getting ready for the event. He indulged in a long hot bath, savoring the sensation of water and scrubbing against skin that could actually feel. He inhaled the scents of soap and cologne with delight, no longer did the scents of energies and emotions overwhelm him. It had been too long since he could enjoy as mortals enjoyed and everything felt new and fresh.

He studied himself in a mirror as he dressed. He looked almost exactly like Callum with a handful of subtle differences. His eyes, still a brilliant blue, were a few shades darker. His posture was entirely relaxed and comfortable in ways Callum could never achieve. His smile was nothing like the prince’s, a show of teeth and a glint of dark mischief. Few would notice, and fewer would care about such minor changes.

Clarence found the simple golden crown that the prince never wore, a placed it top his head with glee. Dressed in a black and crimson suit, white shirt, and gold bowtie, Clarence made his way to the dining hall. His gait, confident and carefree, his stomach occasionally growled as the scents from the feast wafted through the palace.

“Presenting...Prince Callum Danrose?!” The herald seemed unable to contain the surprise in his tone; not only was the youngest royal punctual but arrived completely dignified and poised. No antics, no drunken stumble, and not a hair out of place.

Clarence flashed a wide smile and nodded to those whose heads turned to look at him. He helped himself in the dining hall, a plate stacked with rich appetizers, decadent meats, and savory sides. He balanced his plate, nowhere near as comically piled high as Edin’s, with grace in one hand, and a glass of rich red wine in the other. He took his seat at the banquet table.

He glanced at Alexander as the new advisor spoke. “I can assume the food is delectable,”

“Of course. We would never present our guests with anything less than perfection. Tonight you have the honor of dining as royalty.” He commented.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Ezekiel

The Aasimar of Cyre

The Cyran Scourge

Ezekiel Jorion ⋆ 54 ⋆ Male ⋆ Aasimar ⋆ Paladin

God's Gonna Cut You Down | I Won't Back Down

---

Appearance

"There is but one path for me to walk; that of righteousness."

---

Height: 6’5

Weight: 235 lbs

Hair Color: Silver, with a metallic sheen and a feather-like texture.

Eye Color: One golden, and one an empty socket, both faintly glowing with holy light.

Skin Tone: Pale, with a scattering of scars that hold an iridescent sheen.

Distinguishing Features:
- Ezekiel has an unnatural stillness about him and he never fidgets. His movements are always graceful and made without hesitation.
- His face is constantly stern, his skin lacks the wrinkles formed from smiling, and both his missing eye and collection of scars speak of a life impacted by violence.
- There is a weariness to Ezekiel, seen mostly around his eye, the glow only highlighting the darkened skin beneath the eye. It is exhausting, to keep himself as calm and approachable as he can manage.
- At dawn and dusk, if the sunlight hits him just right, a fiery halo is barely visible above his head.
- He is generally soft-spoken, with a deep but calm and polite voice. When riled up, Ezekiel’s voice is notably different, speaking loudly with authority and echoing around him. When filled with righteous fury the sound of trumpets can faintly be heard in the distance, although no one can be sure exactly where that trumpeting is coming from.

Clothing Style: Ezekiel tends to dress in simple, modest clothing. Loose-fitting fabric, devoid of eye-catching colors or adornments, he prefers something he can almost disappear into. The one exception is his gloves. The finely decorated leather is a piece of home and the continuance of Cyran tradition, always worn around others. He wears a simple piece of black cloth around his missing eye. Although the socket is empty, it still glows, and most beings find this even more uncomfortable to look at than his remaining eye.

---

Psychology

“I am blessed to have been born into this world already knowing my purpose.
It rings in my ears with every heartbeat.
Leave this world a better place than you’ve found it.”

---

Likes:
⋆ Order, cleanliness, and organization
⋆ A hot cup of tea, his main form of indulgence
⋆ Art, music, dance, philosophy, and technology - anything that reminds him of what the Cyran people love and celebrate
- Helping others, but especially in small ways that require little to no violence
- Eradicating the truly evil, beings that cannot be saved, so that they can inflict no further suffering

Dislikes:
⋆ Tardiness, rude, crass, or salacious behavior
- Dishonesty, both lies and the twisting of the truth to purposely mislead
⋆ Law-breaking; unless the law broken was inherently unjust
⋆ Greed, gluttony, and wastefulness
- Those who enjoy the suffering of others, who inflict harm without just cause, and those who see it and do not intervene

Habits/Quirks:
⋆ An unnatural stillness; Ezekiel never fidgets, he can and will stand or sit perfectly still for hours and be completely comfortable doing so
⋆ He avoids looking people directly in the eye, mostly because his eye makes most people uncomfortable
- He does not drink, smoke, swear, gamble, or engage in any vices he feels are unbecoming of his celestial heritage
- In general, he doesn't like being touched, especially unexpectedly

Dreams/Motivations:
⋆ Dedicated to fighting evil and injustice
⋆ Protecting the innocent
⋆ To see the Cryan people thrive as they once did

Sexuality: Pansexual

Willingness to make friends: 4

Willingness toward romance: 2

---

Personality:

"What is strength for if not to lift the burdens of others?"

---

Engaging With Others

Extroversion: 2
Kindness: 5
Chattiness: 2
Trustfulness: 4
Sense of Humor: 2
Loyalty: 4
Selflessness: 5
Flirtatiousness: 1 (unless you’ve somehow managed to get him to dance the legendary Cyran Tago)
Arrogance:: 4

Handling Conflict and Decisions

Patience: 1 or 5, depending on the situation, very little in between
Temperance: 4
Forgiveness: 3
Courage: 5
Stubbornness: 4
Pacifism: 2
Impulsiveness: 1 or 5, depending on the situation, very little in between
Creativity: 5
Mercy: 2
Charisma: 3

---

Background

“Each day is a new opportunity to do better.”

---

Place of Origin: Totens, Cyne

Current Occupation: Bounty Hunter, Beast Slayer, and Adventurer

Living Family Members: None, all assumed to have perished during The Mourning

Companions on the Airship: None

Why are you traveling to Khorvaire? After a period of self-reflection and penance, Ezekiel is returning to Khorvaire with the hope that he might be able to do something good there. A redemption quest.

Non-Combative Skills:
⋆ Ezekiel, despite every hardship, never loses hope that good will prevail. He shares this sense of hope openly and willingly.
⋆ Gifted in music and dance; he can play any stringed instrument, sings with the voice of an angel, and dances with exquisite grace. These skills come from his Cyran heritage, and engaging with these skills not only brings him a sense of peace but is a powerful way to hold onto what is left of Cyre and what was beautiful about Cyre.
- Medic; basic battlefield medical skills combined with some divine healing magic.

History:

Born into conflict and uncertainty amid some of the darkest days of The Last War. He grew up hearing stories of how great and beautiful Cyre had once been, but around him, he saw only the devastation of a nation forever changed by decades of violence. He saw his people beaten down and brought to the brink of hopelessness, only to see them rise back up and strike back harder than before. Cyran ingenuity, courage, and resilience inspired him. For as long as he can remember, he wanted nothing more than to be a soldier.

As an Aasimar, Ezekiel has always had a strong sense of morality, a faith in the general goodness of the world, and a need to thwart evil and injustice whenever it crossed his path. Occasionally, this got him into trouble as a young child, for any bully he came across would end up beaten into submission. His fury was difficult to control; it flared easily and burned hot, and more often than not, he went far beyond what was necessary to resolve the childhood wrongs he witnessed. Control over himself, over his temper, took a long time to reign in, and still takes a great deal of effort.

Once he was old enough, he found his place in the army. Ezekiel liked the order and routine of things. Here, his dedication, loyalty, and even fury on the battlefield made him far more liked by those around him than he’d ever felt as a child. His fellow warriors knew they could count on him to have their backs, and all his strange qualities and intensity mattered less than that; he felt more comfortable here than he ever had before. No one feared him; they simply accepted him for what he was, and he felt no need to cast judgment on those around him.

His lineage, one touched by a divine being long ago, filled him with a need to fight for a noble cause, for the benefit of those around him. A drive to serve was embedded deep within his bones, a need as strong as drawing breath. He was equally built and wired to be a warrior for Cyre, and for decades, he served his nation with unshakable loyalty. He treated his orders as divine commands and carried out violence with zealous pride. He became a highly respected knight, and throughout the other four kingdoms, he was known as The Cyran Scourge, infamous for his brutality.

What some might call war crimes were simply the righteous retribution against his nation's enemies. Cyre could not fail, could not fall, because their cause was just and good, and everything done for Cyre was equally just and good. Ezekiel believed in this, with every fiber of his being; he placed all his faith in Cyre.

Then, Cyre fell.

Ezekiel watched from a foreign border as his home was completely and utterly destroyed. Watched as countless people, his people, died just a stone's throw from where he stood as they desperately ran from the mists. Countless lives - gone in an instant. Helpless to do anything about it. An entire nation transformed into something unrecognizable. His worldview shattered. His reason to fight was gone. All he’d done in war, all he'd done for Cyre, meant nothing now.

There was nothing left, and so he wandered. He left Khorvaire entirely; everything was just a painful reminder of what was lost, and he could not stomach the idea of living in any of the nations he’d spent most of his life fighting against. He journeyed to foreign continents and tried to find a new place to call home, but his heart only longed for Cyre.

Alone with only his thoughts, Ezekiel was forced to reexamine all he’d done in the war. With a clearer mind, he saw the missteps on his path, actions that strayed from righteousness into cruelty, a line so thin it was hard to see. He tried to do better, corrected his path, and eventually came to the conclusion that atonement must be made in Khorvaire. To balance the scales, to make amends for the decades of blood he shed only for the love of his nation, he’d spend each day he had left trying to do right by all of Khorvaire.

---

Combat & Magic Potential

“Perhaps evil is a foe that can never be fully defeated, but it can be beaten back.”

---

Class Concept / Role:
Paladin

Baseline Capabilities

• Righteous Devotion
– Paladins channel divine favor, granting unwavering resolve in battle and resistance to fear or mind-altering effects.

• Consecrated Strikes
– Their weapons carry a subtle divine blessing, making all your attacks deal minor additional damage to unholy foes (undead, fiends, etc.).

• Protective Auras
– Through faith or oath, Paladins radiate auras of courage and protection, bolstering allies' resolve, mitigating harmful effects, and repelling evil influences.

• Battlefield Medic
– Paladins possess practical medical knowledge, allowing them to stabilize the wounded, set broken bones, and apply effective battlefield first aid without the use of magic.

3 Signature Abilities:

Lay on Hands – Channel divine healing energy to mend minor wounds or cleanse basic ailments with a simple touch.

Avenger’s Strike – Deliver a punishing strike fueled by righteous wrath against foes who have harmed innocents or violated your oath.

Holy Bulwark – Your shield or armor gleams with sacred light, briefly providing a protective barrier against attacks or spells.

3 Major Weaknesses:
Knight of Infamy - Ezekiel made a name for himself during The Last War, many have reason to dislike or hate him, and he is easily recognized.

Man of Honor - His refusal to act in any way he finds dishonorable. Even if doing so could save him a lot of trouble. He obeys all just laws and rules. He helps those who need it, or ask for it, as long as it doesn’t conflict with what he feels is right. He will never break an oath. He will never turn a blind eye to another’s suffering.

Aasimar Vibe - It’s not just the evil, wicked, or corrupted who find themselves uncomfortable in his presence, but benign criminals, beings who hold onto a lot of guilt, and those hiding dark secrets, more often than not, naturally dislike him. His self-righteousness doesn’t help either.

Racial Trait:
Aasimar – Celestial Blessing
Ability: Once per day, Aasimar can emit a brief, divine glow that comforts allies, repels darkness, or unsettles evil creatures.

Boons:
Gifted Artist
Gifted Swordsmen

Banes:
Haunted Past - Ezekiel is haunted by the things he has seen, been through, and done during The Last War, but most of all, he is haunted by his relationship with violence. He enjoys slaying the wicked, being a source of divine retribution, and cleansing the world of evil one wretched being at a time. Paradoxically, he believes that enjoying violence is reprehensible.

Compulsion - Ezekiel's sense of morality functions like an extreme compulsion. He has to do whatever he believes is right and act in a way that satisfies his divine spark. If he fails to do so, his soul and body are no longer harmonious. He believes it is wrong to lie and he experiences intense nausea if he is dishonest in any way. Wicked thoughts cause him horrible headaches. There are physical consequences to straying from his path.

Combat Equipement & Gear:
Backpack with person hygiene supplies, adventuring supplies, rope, rations, water, a cup, blanket, small ax and shovel, large knife, and his lute.

A trunk that holds his armor. He owns two similar outfits and keeps the spare in the trunk, along with cleaning and maintenance supplies for the armor and his sword.

His clothing is always paired with an old but well-maintained pair of decorated leather gloves, and his longsword, Retribution is always at his side. He also carries with him a healing amulet, that allows him to focus meditative prayer and amplify what Lay on Hands can do, healing more complicated wounds and ailments. He can’t use it for himself, and it takes time and uninterrupted focus to use it.

---

The Cyran Scourge

The Aasimar of Cyre

---

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Ezekiel

The Aasimar of Cyre

The Cyran Scourge

Ezekiel Jorion ⋆ 54 ⋆ Male ⋆ Aasimar ⋆ Paladin

God's Gonna Cut You Down | I Won't Back Down

---

Appearance

"There is but one path for me to walk; that of righteousness."

---

Height: 6’5

Weight: 235 lbs

Hair Color: Silver, with a metallic sheen and a feather-like texture.

Eye Color: One golden, and one an empty socket, both faintly glowing with holy light.

Skin Tone: Pale, with a scattering of scars that hold an iridescent sheen.

Distinguishing Features:
- Ezekiel has an unnatural stillness about him and he never fidgets. His movements are always graceful and made without hesitation.
- His face is constantly stern, his skin lacks the wrinkles formed from smiling, and both his missing eye and collection of scars speak of a life impacted by violence.
- There is a weariness to Ezekiel, seen mostly around his eye, the glow only highlighting the darkened skin beneath the eye. It is exhausting, to keep himself as calm and approachable as he can manage.
- At dawn and dusk, if the sunlight hits him just right, a fiery halo is barely visible above his head.
- He is generally soft-spoken, with a deep but calm and polite voice. When riled up, Ezekiel’s voice is notably different, speaking loudly with authority and echoing around him. When filled with righteous fury the sound of trumpets can faintly be heard in the distance, although no one can be sure exactly where that trumpeting is coming from.

Clothing Style: Ezekiel tends to dress in simple, modest clothing. Loose-fitting fabric, devoid of eye-catching colors or adornments, he prefers something he can almost disappear into. The one exception is his gloves. The finely decorated leather is a piece of home and the continuance of Cyran tradition, always worn around others. He wears a simple piece of black cloth around his missing eye. Although the socket is empty, it still glows, and most beings find this even more uncomfortable to look at than his remaining eye.

basic outfit

gloves

---

Psychology

“I am blessed to have been born into this world already knowing my purpose.
It rings in my ears with every heartbeat.
Leave this world a better place than you’ve found it.”

---

Likes:
⋆ Order, cleanliness, and organization
⋆ A hot cup of tea, his main form of indulgence
⋆ Art, music, dance, philosophy, and technology - anything that reminds him of what the Cyran people love and celebrate
- Helping others, but especially in small ways that require little to no violence
- Eradicating the truly evil, beings that cannot be saved, so that they can inflict no further suffering

Dislikes:
⋆ Tardiness, rude, crass, or salacious behavior
- Dishonesty, both lies and the twisting of the truth to purposely mislead
⋆ Law-breaking; unless the law broken was inherently unjust
⋆ Greed, gluttony, and wastefulness
- Those who enjoy the suffering of others, who inflict harm without just cause, and those who see it and do not intervene

Habits/Quirks:
⋆ An unnatural stillness; Ezekiel never fidgets, he can and will stand or sit perfectly still for hours and be completely comfortable doing so
⋆ He avoids looking people directly in the eye, mostly because his eye makes most people uncomfortable
- He does not drink, smoke, swear, gamble, or engage in any vices he feels are unbecoming of his celestial heritage
- In general, he doesn't like being touched, especially unexpectedly

Dreams/Motivations:
⋆ Dedicated to fighting evil and injustice
⋆ Protecting the innocent
⋆ To see the Cryan people thrive as they once did

Sexuality: Pansexual

Willingness to make friends: 4

Willingness toward romance: 2

---

Personality:

"What is strength for if not to lift the burdens of others?"

---

Engaging With Others

Extroversion: 2
Kindness: 5
Chattiness: 2
Trustfulness: 4
Sense of Humor: 2
Loyalty: 4
Selflessness: 5
Flirtatiousness: 1 (unless you’ve somehow managed to get him to dance the legendary Cyran Tago)
Arrogance:: 4

Handling Conflict and Decisions

Patience: 1 or 5, depending on the situation, very little in between
Temperance: 4
Forgiveness: 3
Courage: 5
Stubbornness: 4
Pacifism: 2
Impulsiveness: 1 or 5, depending on the situation, very little in between
Creativity: 5
Mercy: 2
Charisma: 3

---

Background

“Each day is a new opportunity to do better.”

---

Place of Origin: Totens, Cyne

Current Occupation: Bounty Hunter, Beast Slayer, and Adventurer

Living Family Members: None, all assumed to have perished during The Mourning

Companions on the Airship: None

Why are you traveling to Khorvaire? After a period of self-reflection and penance, Ezekiel is returning to Khorvaire with the hope that he might be able to do something good there. A redemption quest.

Non-Combative Skills:
⋆ Ezekiel, despite every hardship, never loses hope that good will prevail. He shares this sense of hope openly and willingly.
⋆ Gifted in music and dance; he can play any stringed instrument, sings with the voice of an angel, and dances with exquisite grace. These skills come from his Cyran heritage, and engaging with these skills not only brings him a sense of peace but is a powerful way to hold onto what is left of Cyre and what was beautiful about Cyre.
- Medic; basic battlefield medical skills combined with some divine healing magic.

History:

Born into conflict and uncertainty amid some of the darkest days of The Last War. He grew up hearing stories of how great and beautiful Cyre had once been, but around him, he saw only the devastation of a nation forever changed by decades of violence. He saw his people beaten down and brought to the brink of hopelessness, only to see them rise back up and strike back harder than before. Cyran ingenuity, courage, and resilience inspired him. For as long as he can remember, he wanted nothing more than to be a soldier.

As an Aasimar, Ezekiel has always had a strong sense of morality, a faith in the general goodness of the world, and a need to thwart evil and injustice whenever it crossed his path. Occasionally, this got him into trouble as a young child, for any bully he came across would end up beaten into submission. His fury was difficult to control; it flared easily and burned hot, and more often than not, he went far beyond what was necessary to resolve the childhood wrongs he witnessed. Control over himself, over his temper, took a long time to reign in, and still takes a great deal of effort.

Once he was old enough, he found his place in the army. Ezekiel liked the order and routine of things. Here, his dedication, loyalty, and even fury on the battlefield made him far more liked by those around him than he’d ever felt as a child. His fellow warriors knew they could count on him to have their backs, and all his strange qualities and intensity mattered less than that; he felt more comfortable here than he ever had before. No one feared him; they simply accepted him for what he was, and he felt no need to cast judgment on those around him.

His lineage, one touched by a divine being long ago, filled him with a need to fight for a noble cause, for the benefit of those around him. A drive to serve was embedded deep within his bones, a need as strong as drawing breath. He was equally built and wired to be a warrior for Cyre, and for decades, he served his nation with unshakable loyalty. He treated his orders as divine commands and carried out violence with zealous pride. He became a highly respected knight, and throughout the other four kingdoms, he was known as The Cyran Scourge, infamous for his brutality.

What some might call war crimes were simply the righteous retribution against his nation's enemies. Cyre could not fail, could not fall, because their cause was just and good, and everything done for Cyre was equally just and good. Ezekiel believed in this, with every fiber of his being; he placed all his faith in Cyre.

Then, Cyre fell.

Ezekiel watched from a foreign border as his home was completely and utterly destroyed. Watched as countless people, his people, died just a stone's throw from where he stood as they desperately ran from the mists. Countless lives - gone in an instant. Helpless to do anything about it. An entire nation transformed into something unrecognizable. His worldview shattered. His reason to fight was gone. All he’d done in war, all he'd done for Cyre, meant nothing now.

There was nothing left, and so he wandered. He left Khorvaire entirely; everything was just a painful reminder of what was lost, and he could not stomach the idea of living in any of the nations he’d spent most of his life fighting against. He journeyed to foreign continents and tried to find a new place to call home, but his heart only longed for Cyre.

Alone with only his thoughts, Ezekiel was forced to reexamine all he’d done in the war. With a clearer mind, he saw the missteps on his path, actions that strayed from righteousness into cruelty, a line so thin it was hard to see. He tried to do better, corrected his path, and eventually came to the conclusion that atonement must be made in Khorvaire. To balance the scales, to make amends for the decades of blood he shed only for the love of his nation, he’d spend each day he had left trying to go right by all of Khorvaire.

---

Combat & Magic Potential

“Perhaps evil is a foe that can never be fully defeated, but it can be beaten back.”

---

Class Concept / Role:
Paladin

Baseline Capabilities

• Righteous Devotion
– Paladins channel divine favor, granting unwavering resolve in battle and resistance to fear or mind-altering effects.

• Consecrated Strikes
– Their weapons carry a subtle divine blessing, making all your attacks deal minor additional damage to unholy foes (undead, fiends, etc.).

• Protective Auras
– Through faith or oath, Paladins radiate auras of courage and protection, bolstering allies' resolve, mitigating harmful effects, and repelling evil influences.

• Battlefield Medic
– Paladins possess practical medical knowledge, allowing them to stabilize the wounded, set broken bones, and apply effective battlefield first aid without the use of magic.

3 Signature Abilities:

Lay on Hands – Channel divine healing energy to mend minor wounds or cleanse basic ailments with a simple touch.

Avenger’s Strike – Deliver a punishing strike fueled by righteous wrath against foes who have harmed innocents or violated your oath.

Holy Bulwark – Your shield or armor gleams with sacred light, briefly providing a protective barrier against attacks or spells.

3 Major Weaknesses:
Knight of Infamy - Ezekiel made a name for himself during The Last War, many have reason to dislike or hate him, and he is easily recognized.

Man of Honor - His refusal to act in any way he finds dishonorable. Even if doing so could save him a lot of trouble. He obeys all just laws and rules. He helps those who need it, or ask for it, as long as it doesn’t conflict with what he feels is right. He will never break an oath. He will never turn a blind eye to another’s suffering.

Aasimar Vibe - It’s not just the evil, wicked, or corrupted who find themselves uncomfortable in his presence, but benign criminals, beings who hold onto a lot of guilt, and those hiding dark secrets, more often than not, naturally dislike him. His self-righteousness doesn’t help either.

Racial Trait:
Aasimar – Celestial Blessing
Ability: Once per day, Aasimar can emit a brief, divine glow that comforts allies, repels darkness, or unsettles evil creatures.

Boons:
Gifted Artist
Gifted Swordsmen

Banes:
Haunted Past - Ezekiel is haunted by the things he has seen, been through, and done during The Last War, but most of all, he is haunted by his relationship with violence. He enjoys slaying the wicked, being a source of divine retribution, and cleansing the world of evil one wretched being at a time. Paradoxically, he believes that enjoying violence is reprehensible.

Compulsion - Ezekiel's sense of morality functions like an extreme compulsion. He has to do whatever he believes is right and act in a way that satisfies his divine spark. If he fails to do so, his soul and body are no longer harmonious. He believes it is wrong to lie and he experiences intense nausea if he is dishonest in any way. Wicked thoughts cause him horrible headaches. There are physical consequences to straying from his path.

Combat Equipement & Gear:
Armor
Longsword
Knife
Clothing
Gloves
Lute

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The Cyran Scourge

The Aasimar of Cyre

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🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11 am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: The whole theater

---

Gods, he is such a momma’s boy. Callum watched as Wulfric ignored him in favor of trying to reason calmly with the vicious thing that liked to call herself a mother.

Briefly, he glanced at Alibeth; hatred flashed and seethed behind dark, tinted glasses. His jaw clenched as he tried to resist the urge to shout at both the queen and the crowned prince. Alibeth’s voice, the same voice that admitted to wanting Darryn dead, the same voice that had tried to condemn him to it once before, was a sound that made his skin crawl with disgust. But Wulfric, pandering to her, trying to reason with such a vile thing as if she were even worth the breath…

How can he not see it? He wondered of his brother. The pain of Darryn’s loss had been vividly displayed on that stage, but it did not exist in a vacuum. What about the pain of knowing the thing that calls itself your mother had your friend tortured? For something you did. Wanted him executed. Was glad he was dead.

When had Alibeth ever treated Ana any better than how Edin treated him?

As quickly as his rage flared up, it was reduced to a dull ache. Callum was thankful his familiar had eaten away some of that anger, enough to keep him calm. His attention returned to the stage as Fritz, the damn near impossible not to like stranger he’d once called Barry, began to sing.

What began as a haunting melody quickly spread through the crowd like a fire. A good fire, one that made him think of warmth and community - like the bonfire Roman and Mina had lit days before.

The monkey gently swayed its head and closed its eyes. As Clarence’s voice commented on the delightful swirl of flavors that the emotions of the crowd exuded, Callum could only agree. It was the depths of human experience as a crowd became a chorus, and that chorus sang as one.

The finale continued to dazzle and captivate. It all concluded with a bang, a rainfall of colorful confetti, and roaring applause. Then the spotlight shone on the royal box.

Callum found himself startled by the snap of a fan. He turned and was surprised to see Morrigan was there - had she been here this whole time? He wasn’t sure.

“This is a good chance to practice your rhetoric.”

His attention turned to Wulfric, who seemed effortlessly comfortable with basking in the spotlight. He almost could’ve used Wulfric’s time on stage with performers as the perfect distraction to just sneak out of the theater…

“...always the first to leave a good time.”

But Callum Danrose, sure as shit, would not let himself be known as the second person to leave a good time. Instead, he waited for the crowd to settle following the end of Wulfric’s speech.

<Yes our turn. The spotlight. The eyes. All of them watching you. Watching me.> Clarence lept for its seat to the railing and bowed with a flourish while gesturing toward those on stage. Callum stood from his seat and addressed the crowd, shouting just loud enough for his voice to echo through the theater.

“Shahzade Farim and the majestic Thara, you’ve added wonder to our day. Lord Drake, you not only make Caesonia proud, but that last piece you played left a spark of hope in all who heard it. Kazumin, not only did you delight us all with your story, but you have brightened our faithful king’s day. Duke Lorenzo…” He paused, a smile widened over his face as he pointed towards the duke and shook his head.

“You broke my heart with your words, and I love you for that. But what I loved even more? That everyone finally got to hear the beautiful melodies that have blessed the palace for as long as I can remember. Ana, I am so proud to call you family.” He gave a quick wave to his sister.

You are the best of us. Callum whispered so quietly that even he couldn’t hear it.

“And Count Hendrix, you managed to inspire most of the crowd to find their voice and unite all these voices as one. What better note to end a charity event on? A big thank you to everyone who attended, everyone who displayed their talent, to Princess Anastasia and Count Hendrix for making it all happen…” He paused again to turn and gesture to Edin.

“And to King Edin, a god among men, the shining talent from The Festival of Lights in ‘36, who is responsible for everything in glorious Caesonia.” He smiled and clapped for Edin, the monkey did the same, and soon the crowd did too.

“See you at dinner, father.” Callum dipped his head respectfully as he exited the box, Clarence following a step behind him.

<Boring but mostly unoffensive. An improvement for you.>

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @SilverPaw

---

“How could I possibly not make time for my little brother? I can pencil you in for the day after tomorrow…”

“I’ll be there,” Callum responded before Wulfric had finished speaking. He didn’t think about it for a moment, just jumped at the opportunity half out of fear that Wulfric was joking. Hunting trip? He should’ve taken the other offer. Look how incompetent I am brother. Watch me trip over a stick.

His mind was suddenly infiltrated by the sounds of what had to be hundreds of chickens.

I’m not a chicken.

<Then do not SQWUAK as one. It is annoying.>

The performances continued. He wondered what a hunting trip with Wulfric would be like and if the bird would be doing all the hunting. He’d much rather watch a falcon be a falcon than show his brother how he could barely manage to handle a bow. Or a gun.

He certainly didn’t feel any better when Wulfric pointed out that Ana was also a woman. Callum said nothing, only offered a half-hearted shrug but he noticed how quick Wulfric was to defend Ana. And it stung how none of that extended to him. Not even a ‘hey Callum doesn’t smell that bad today’. He wondered if Wulfric just liked being the golden child.

“I wonder how long this one can last before he lands himself on the execution block.”

The monkey’s cackle filled his head. <Your brother is amusing!> Callum didn’t quite get the joke that Clarence saw in Wulfric’s words. He did find it funny how the potential for one to end up on the execution block hadn’t seemed to matter before. Not when it was Darryn.

“How long? As long as he does a good job, and doesn’t disappoint the crown. That is how this all works, right?” His voice left him like a shrug, a breeze that didn’t care where it went so long as it rustled the leaves. Callum wondered why he didn’t care what happened to the puppet dancer, but he didn’t. It wasn’t like Edin sought his advice or approval for anything.

Lorenzo’s performance was captivating; as bold and strange as the man. When the Duke asked the audience to hold their idea of love in their hearts, Callum thought of unwavering loyalty, unconditional support, and sacrifice. The way it was in stories, and he wondered if he’d ever really loved anyone like that before.

He had never seen Lorenzo so clearly. As the second stanza told of how love had become a weapon against the poor Duke, Cal thought of his childhood. Of being trapped in a family that had so little love to offer and who only rationed it out to their benefit.

Then came lines about love from a bottle. His heartstrings were tugged and his eyes watered at Lorenzo’s words. Whiskey was love. Always there, always a comfort, always easing the pain.

<Pathetic. Both of you. Pathologically.>

Shut up.

“Heaven? Hell? It mattered not on which door…”

As the petal fell, Callum was on his feet wiping a few tears from his face.

<You will not...>

He ignored the monkey and applauded the great poet Lorenzo, a man who had shown the audience his soul and who had made at least one person feel less alone.

Then, Ana closed out the show. He smiled warmly as she brought up Darryn and he relaxed into the somber notes from her cello. It was beautiful and honest, but more than that, it brought life back into Darryn's memory.

“Weak…She makes herself look weak. And worse—she makes us look weak.”

Alibeth’s voice grated against his ears, such a jarringly ugly thing to hear after such a beautiful song. Once the soft applause for his sister had finished, he turned to Wulfric.

“Ana really is something special.” Cal spoke to Wulfric, looked only at Wulfric, but was not quite with his tone. “It’s no wonder that our people truly love her, I think it’s in her willingness to show how much heart she has. Brave thing to do in this world.” He studied his brother, wondering if Wulfric would contradict Alibeth to support Anastasia.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @Silverpaw& Edin @princess

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"Finally! Something worth listening to out of your mouth, boy!"

<Sucess!> A voice proud and boastful filled Callum’s mind. The faintest crumb of praise was tossed his way. By Edin. Not even Cal could hide his shock. The familiar hopped over to the seat next to Callum, where it stayed content and still.

“Tell me, son—does it bathe? Or is it filthy just like you?”

Edin returned to the expected responses. As discretely as he could, Cal attempted to sniff at himself but he had bathed today. Thoroughly, to ensure not a trace of ink from his spell remained on his skin.

“Good point. I will see to it that the monkey is bathed regularly.” He replied softly.

But his head quickly snapped away from sniffing at himself when Edin agreed to let him keep the monkey. That worked??

<Of course it worked. What does your father see? When he looks at you?> The monkey did not wait for the mortal to slowly piece things together, it pulled the image of King George from the boy’s memories.

<He looks at you. He sees George. He desires superiority. Give him that. Use that face. Twist how he sees you. George; under his control. George; asking for his permission. George; working for his approval. Then, Edin believes he has won.> Clarence rewarded the witch’s obedience with clarity.

“A MASTERPIECE!”

<This…puppet dance…drivel! Better ending: puppet slays the offending mortal!>

Callum was caught between wanting to defend the touching performance and his disgust at the thought of agreeing with Edin.

“I must have him at the banquet tonight! No—NO! I MUST OWN HIM!”

<Agree with him.>

“A wonderful idea.” Callum offered. With a grin, he continued “I must admit, a talented court jester makes an even more impressive pet than a monkey.” He almost felt bad about encouraging the idea and what it would mean for the dancer. The sentiment was quickly eased from his mind. As if carried away by a faint and imperceptible breeze.

Clarence smiled, the taste of a bitter thought lingered on the familiar’s tongue after it had been devoured.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

6 months earlier (A flashback from Leo's Bodyguard)

Martin Barnaby

Time: Night
Location: Small town outside Stravy
Interactions: Leo

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Decay clung thickly to the air. A partially covered body lay supine and partially covered on a table. Bloated. Rotting. Stinking. Its face was barely recognizable as human, features bulging in grotesque ways. The sight of corpses and their varying states of decay had become an ongoing part of his job.

Minutes stretched on as the young lord stared unblinking, and unreachable, at the features of the corpse.

Martin placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The dim lighting paired with plumes of smoke from the enforcement officer’s cigar left a haze around them, playing tricks on the eyes. The bodyguard pictured Leo as a kid, the same gangly teen who desired nothing more than his father’s attention. Instead, the boy got free reign to travel with a bodyguard as Feralt prioritized everything but time with his son.

“Fella’s been rottin’ out in the woods for a looong while. Could be your missin’ duke.” The officer’s cigar puffed. “So ‘bout that reward…”

Martin’s gaze was sharp enough to cut the man off.

“It’s not him.” Leo spoke up, his voice shaky but certain.

Terrible burden, Martin thought for the dozenth or so time, for a kid. Searching for his father’s face in the dead. Martin offered a bag of coins to the enforcement officer for his troubles and his silence.

“Best if no one knew we were here.” Martin only turned away from the officer once the man nodded his understanding. Greedy hands immediately picked through the coin bag, the jingling echoed in a small village morgue as Martin ushered his employer out the backdoor. The men walked in silence back to the carriage.

Martin offered only a curt headshake to the driver. The Duke had not been found. For a long while, only the clomping of hooves and the rolling of wheels were heard, as the two men headed home. Once more without an answer.

“Is it wrong that I’m disappointed?” Leo broke the silence, eyes affixed to the window, watching the trees as they rolled by.

“No,” Martin responded.

“I don’t want him to be dead.” Leo insisted.

“You just want an answer,” Martin understood.

The silence soon returned, and with it, Martin’s mind wandered.

“I had this made for you.”
The kid offered up a necklace with a fang dangling from it. Martin held it up to the light with a faint smile.

“It’s from that wolf I killed, remember?”

“Of course, m’lord,”
Martin wasn’t inclined to forget wolves attacking their camp, or the way the kid had fought alongside the other men. Being an apt hunter was useful. A willingness to protect those who traveled with you was something to take great pride in.
“A true act of bravery.”

“I wasn’t afraid at all!”

Martin nodded his approval and said nothing of the boy’s small lie. Being afraid and not running away was a more impressive feat, even if the kid didn't quite grasp that yet. He knew what Leo had intended to do with the pelt of the wolf he killed, and waited for the boy to bring up the inevitable.

“I told father all about it. And…well he didn’t want the pelt. He’s right, of course, a scrawny wolf wouldn’t make a proper rug. But he said that maybe, if I could bring him back a bear next time, he’d consider it.”

Martin hid his disappointment in the duke with practiced ease,
“And you’re sure you don’t want this. To remember how brave you were?”

“No, I want you to have it. Never could done it without your training.”
The boy patted the still-healing bite wound at his shoulder; both with a wince and all the pride of one who had survived the dangers the forests could throw at a man.
“Got my reminder, right here.”

“My very own genuine wolf tooth! Gifted by a future duke! A real treasure!”
Martin slipped the necklace on, the kid’s smile only strengthened the sentiment. It was that easy and Feralt could not bothered to do the same.

It was hard not to wonder if a father like Feralt deserved so much devotion. Leo's expression was unreadable and Martin could only wonder when that’d happened. There was a time when it took no effort to see through him.

“Do you think it’s true?” Leo asked.

The lines on his forehead deepened. “Yes, I think he might be dead,” Martin answered. It seemed the most likely scenario.

“Not that.” There was a long pause before the young lord realized that Martin was not the mind reader he once was. Leo studied Martin's eyes as the young lord continued. “About my mother. Being involved. It makes sense; the only thing she cares about right now is planning her wedding.” Hate hardened Leo’s voice.

“I hope not.” His words were heavy with sincerity because it would break the kid to know his mother inflicted so much pain.

“Can you tell me it’s not true, even if you think it is,” Leo asked. His gaze returned to the window.

“A mother wouldn’t do that to her child. Watch you suffer with not knowing every day.” Martin answered as truthfully as the request allowed. Leo’s features seemed to relax some, he’d taken the statement the way he needed to in the moment.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Sorian Art Gallery
Interactions: Milo St. Claire @PapaOso & Mina @Tae

Attire

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Lord Amar…

Bey Amar. Rohit corrected in his mind, but he didn’t bother to mention such a petty complaint. Close enough, lord was Caesonia’s equivalent, it was just less pleasing to the ear. Lord Amar had such a harsh sound to it while Bey Amar flowed from the tongue, and felt inviting. But shouldn’t an artist, a bonafide genius at that, understand the importance of the right words? How they flowed, the texture of the sound…I certainly didn’t call myself a lord. I didn’t even say Bey, just plain ol’ Rohit Amar. Which also sounds rather nice, Rohit Amar…” Rohit’s mind followed a loose strand of thought and wandered away with it.

"What did you see in there, truly? Beyond the paint. Beyond the bite of that so-called entity."

Oh…shit… Here he was, talking to Milo St. Claire and he was barely listening. Daydreaming about how his name sounded. Rohit, you are an absolute buffoon. A narcissistic buffoon. He smiled and nodded his head to Milo’s words.

"Did it show you anything of yourself?"

Bless his luck, Milo’s question was on a subject a narcissistic buffoon was well-equipped to answer.

“Of myself, in your paintings…” He said, slowly, buying himself a second to try and regather his thoughts from the wind. “The Whisper, for instance, that feeling of a darkness that just… saturates…to a point that it feels alive and inescapable. I’ve never felt that, anything like that. And I wonder how deeply can I truly appreciate the light if I’ve never felt its absence? Or the Weight of Wanting, what is it like to have a desire that’s all-consuming? That rips away at you? To have pieces torn off only for something new to grow in their place? I don’t know. I saw myself in the sculptures, trapped in one moment, a good moment, nearly perfectly content, but without movement. Etched in something that doesn’t allow movement, or change, or the chance to stumble while dancing…” His stream-conscious ramble was cut short.

Ironically by another’s stumble.

A flash of red, a wave of fluttering obsidian, and the scent of roses crashed against him. Rohit followed the movement, one arm wrapped around a waist and the other grabbed a hand, as he swiftly pulled the stumbling dancer back to her feet. He flashed a thankful smile at the woman who had inadvertently saved him from embarrassing himself further.

“How marvelous, we were just discussing dancing, and then you appeared.” He released the woman and bowed as they did in Alidasht, with grace and respect. “Bey Rohit Amar,” He introduced himself, delighting in how his name flowed and mixed with the sound of softly strumming harps.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 11am
Location: Edin Theater
Interactions: Wulfric @SilverPaw, Edin, & Alibeth @princess

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“Where on earth did you obtain a monkey?”

Callum found himself tickled by how annoyed Alibeth sounded. If only she knew. He grinned to himself, popped a piece of fruit into his mouth, and refrained from even glancing in Alibeth’s direction. He focused in on Farim's performance, as the ancient spirit disguised as a monkey rifled through his thoughts.

“I did not take you one for pets,”

He casually glanced at Wulfric and offered a smile. “Thought I’d try something new.” His reply was uncharacteristically chipper. “Reinvent myself.”

“A monkey… How is it that he has a monkey and I do not? I’m the king! If anyone deserves a monkey…It’s me.”...
"He bows! Did you see that?!"

Edin’s jealousy was palpable, an unexpected twist from a king who normally despised animals but Clarence's charm was undeniable. The spirit delighted in the spotlight and its presence made Cal feel more at ease than he'd ever been while surrounded by the people who made him the most uncomfortable.

<Ha! I have already impressed your father! See, not hard. Just be a well-behaved monkey.> It was not the kind of guidance Cal expected, or even thought he'd heed, but it certainly was something he hadn’t tried before. Clarence turned its head towards the king and smiled at him, an enchanting twinkle in the animal's bright eyes. Callum offered the warmest smile he could muster as he glanced at Edin.

“...Clarence is a ridiculous name… And he smells.”

<Your sire is one to talk, he reeks of old milk and unearned arrogance...> Not even ancient spirits were immune to pettiness but the monkey merely cocked its head as if it could not understand the words.

“This is not a petting zoo, Callum-”

He quietly ate his fruit and acted as if her words could not reach him. A sarcastic reply was swallowed down with a bite of strawberry. He kept his eyes on Thara, his mind stayed distracted by Clarence, and his mother's words dissolved away.

“I like birds.” What had been a slip of the tongue, a reply that should’ve stayed a thought rather than an utterance - became an opportunity.

"Do you? You could always take up falconry. Or perhaps pigeon racing would be more to your taste?"

Callum, sluggishly, turned his head towards Wulfric and nodded. “Always liked birds...way they fly...looks so free. Like nothing can weigh them down.” He whispered in a wistful and dreamlike tone.

<Enough bird sentiment! Engage with the important brother.> Clarence dug deeper into his mind. It was almost unbearable; the sensation of something digging and clawing its way around in his deepest thoughts and memories. Callum's sunglasses hid the watering of his eyes.

“You like falconry, right Wulfy?” He asked, forcing himself to focus, to engage even through the haze and pain clouding his thoughts. “Maybe you could give me a lesson. If you ever have the time.” He asked in a hushed voice as a hint of something bitter crept in.

Suddenly, Callum felt as small and frail as he had once been. A lonely child who longed for his eldest brother to include him, in anything, but always been too afraid and too proud to even ask. So Cal had taught himself to despise the very presence of someone who felt too far away, unreachable. Those long-buried moments were violently pulled to the front of his mind. He turned his attention back to Farim and the falcon, applauding at the end of their performance.

Drake took the stage next and Cal tried to focus on the music. He let the melody wash over him and willed it to drown out the sound of Edin's ego as the man rambled about some forgotten festival. Clarence seemed to enjoy this performance more than the last; the monkey no longer dug about in Callum's thoughts but bobbed his head to the tune.

“Has anyone uncovered why the guests at Lord Edwards’ previous party were so… inebriated?”

“There was a strong alcoholic drink the guests enjoyed. They became inebriated because they were careless, that is all.”

With his fruit cup now empty, Cal chewed on the inside of his cheek to refrain from speaking up. <No, do it now!> Clarence encouraged. <Remind your mother she means nothing to you.>

Callum feigned a gasp. “The cause of drunkenness...was alcohol consumption!” Cal chuckled as he turned towards Alibeth. “And I obtained my new pet...From. A. Pet. Store.” His words dripped with condescension as he finally acknowledged her earlier question.

“Women ask the silliest questions, don’t they?” Callum asked, smiling, and turning to Edin. A joke tailored to the king’s taste before he turned his attention back to Drake. Soon Edin was dancing to the music, the king's spirit soaring higher than Thara had moments ago.

“Hurrah to Sorian indeed!”
“Only can get that kind of talent from a Caesonia-born!”

<Now, impress your father!>

As Edin shot up with applause, his approval for Drake's performance thundering through the theater, Callum mirrored the king's enthusiasm. Clarence dropped from Cal's shoulder down to the prince's unoccupied seat, and little hands smacked together as the monkey squealed with delight.

Once the crowd was done cheering, Cal again turned to face his father. “Father,” Callum began, somehow managing not to choke on the word. “I got Clarence here because I’ve heard caring for a pet can help teach responsibility. A skill I’m lacking. And I’m already beginning to understand your great burden; caring for every life here in Caesonia. I plan to teach him many amusing tricks and, as you can see, he is already well-mannered. May I please keep him?” He kept his voice soft and respectful as he asked Edin, for the first time in years, for his permission.