[Approved by Maltruism] Kazmir Saelaris

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Kazmir Saelaris
Approved Character
Posts: 129
Joined: Fri Jun 24, 2016 9:01 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 7
Wealth Tier: Tier 1



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Kazmir Saelaris

Name: Kazmir Saelaris

Alias: Paladin

Age: 27

Race: Human

Date of Birth: 30th of Cylus 688

Marks: None

Factions Joined: None. Former Decadrion of the Eternal Empire Legion

Languages Spoken: Common (Fluent)


Paladin is not a beautiful man. Perhaps handsome in some rugged way, though even that may press too far. Instead he is quite average looking, on the muscular side maybe and looking as he needs a good meal or two, but nothing that would be far outside the average. His nose and mouth are wide, but not offensively so, his cheek bones high and pronounced which often gives his face a sunken appearance in certain light. His jaw is strong wide and short, though his chin is on the side of too long. His eyes are small and deep, but not beady. A smattering of day old fur clings to his face almost always. Atop his crown is a wild and often tangled mess of curly medium brown hair that turns copper in the summer. When not tied back his mop of mad curls often drifts past his green eyes, each movement making his hair looks like its possessed by some ghastly apparition.

Wide shouldered his neck and back are stout and powerful, his years of training in heavy plate armor having made his upper torso a brick. His limbs are smaller in width than one might imagine given his prior career, but long with smooth compact muscle able to summon a great deal of speed when needed. His hands are wide and short fingered, giving them the look of being meant to crush and bend.

Even in the hottest of days it is rare to see Paladin without nearly head to toe covering, this is not to say he is anyway ashamed of his body, but instead perhaps a touch shy. Testament of his conservative dressing can be seen on his flesh, as the skin of his face is notably darker than that of his body, though gradients well all things considered. When not dressed in armor Paladin has a spartan sense of fashion, simple clothing of earth tones and cool colors enough to keep the elements off his back but little else.

Evidence of a violent life can be mapped all across his body. On his face a number of small scars, the most readily visible being the one which runs just under his cheek bone and towards his nose. Hidden under clothing there are dozens of small scraps, burns, cuts, and punctures that have left their signs, though most are small. The most notable being; a single thick scar darts down from the bottom of his navel and disappears towards his pelvic region, a ragged looking scar that runs from his left breast and up to his left shoulder, and a bright white puncture from an arrow wound located just below his right lung. Part of which is still present as a tiny knot under his skin. Just below his left collar bone is a small finger length tattoo of a sword wrapped in a chain, the meaning of which Paladin cannot recall, if it indeed had one.


Deliberate and willful Paladin's soft spoken words carry careful thoughts and a violently burning passion. With small serenity he rests in quiet repose as his mind hums hidden hymns haunted by heretical thoughts. He is not one to speak rashly, years of military training affording him great skill in understanding when and when not to speak. The latter of which, seemingly, would be his preference.

This is not to say he is not sociable. Paladin loves company, as simply being the in presence of other grants him small solace. But, excluding when pressed to sing or directly asked a question, Paladin prefers to listen. Listen and watch and learn all the tiny things which so often are missed by more extroverted personalities. When one does rouse him from his introversion, Paladin will often ask many questions and probe for details which, sometimes, are better kept private.

This stands in contrast to his own willfulness to talk about himself. Whether for fear, shame, or simply being unable to recall the fractured and obscured pieces of his mind, Paladin rarely talks about himself or his goals. Least of all his life prior to resurrection. The man Kazmir died on that battlefield and that is where he will remain. And despite his taciturn nature, it is this unwillingness for “sentimental” attachment that may be one of his more off putting natures. An arm's length distance between he and all others for which there is not a boat seaworthy enough to span. it may seem to many that he is purely incapable of cherishing any person or thing as dear. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Paladin possess an unfathomable well of empathy for all living things, even those he calls “tyrant”. Suffering, to him, is the great disease. A disease which he would gladly give his life to wipe from the hearts of Idalos. It is this empathy which guides Paladin in all of his actions, big and small. Every pain, every death, every sadness is his own. A cloak of obligation he silently wraps about his shoulders for “If not me, than who?” Maybe this deep seated feeling of responsibility is the skeleton for all of Paladin's psycho-social framework. Mercy, compassion, justice, morality, kindness and passion. The world is such a cruel place and, in Paladin's mind, it is his quest to give all of him until it is no longer.


Above all, Paladin is a liar and a coward.

The structure of morality by which he operates is a dam to staunch the flow of evil he has committed from ever entering his mind. This great blackness and abomination to all things a darkness lurks even now in Paladin's mind. This is, perhaps, the source of the thing he calls Pala. Unable to reconcile his guilt or face the horrors of war, his mind sundered and fabricated a thing which allows him to act upon this blackness without regard for anything else.

The delusion of Pala and the Norn drive most aspects of Paladin's life, dictating where he goes and how he behaves. Perhaps Paladin does truly wish to be all that his delusions and hallucinations claim he should be. A force of good to rival all the blackness of the world, but even though he could never admit it, there is something inside. Decadrion Kazmir Saelaris is still within, quietly pulling Paladin's strings and goading him to ever greater extremes. This is no better demonstrated in than Paladin's “anxiety”.

Often on edge, Paladin is prone to a nervous and fitful demeanor. Looking over his shoulder and always alert, he can often seem like a hart ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Or worse, a wolf backed into a corner. It is not rare for Paladin to far over react to sudden stimuli. A drop of a fork in a tavern could bring his hand to his sword. A angered bray of a horse causing him to assume a combat posture. The sound of trumpets leading him into a charge on some unseen foe. Ever uncertain of how he may react, this tidal ebb and flow of emotion has, at times, lead him fits of melancholy.

Though not often, Paladin occasionally becomes deeply withdrawn and without will to... anything. Its as though he was swallowed up by some impossibly black pit whose sides he could never scale. Sapped of all light, drained of all will, Paladin will quietly wander far away from any that mind find him in the state and wait. And though this melancholy could last for weeks, he knows that eventually it will pass with the aid of his 'Lady of White Fire' and her Norn.

And so the cycle repeats once more.



Paladin has always been concerned with knowledge, belief, and morality. Even before he was reborn by Pala's conviction, inside him lurked questions that, more often than not, others took for granted. Where most mortals were, more or less, content with their lot in life and never sought to challenge the underlying assumptions of their beliefs, society, or existence, such questions were not only obvious to Paladin but imperative. It is this reason that, from what Paladin understands, that Pala chose him as her son. Not his strength, not for his intellect, not even for his desire to do good. But because he, unlike so many, was willing to destroy every preconception of reality, self, and society in hopes of rebuilding a better understanding of that which is true.

It was this three fold tension the dynamics between nature, self, and society, that undid the man before Paladin, and it was by this three fold tension that he was reborn in the grace of Pala.

It would be inaccurate to say that Paladin 'worships' Pala. As she has no desire for such petty and egotistical foolishness. She has spent eons hidden from Idalos and, if she had it her way, there would be no need for her to reveal herself. She has no desire to rule. No love for worship, and no want for power. That is why, despite Paladin's desires, he is restricted in talking of his 'Lady of White Fire'. This is not to say forbidden, but instead Paladin is discourage from mentioning her. Pala does not want to be known.

To call Pala a 'god' would be inaccurate. It would be akin to equating a tree and a forest. From her own accord she has been since long before the first Eight were, sitting silently in contemplation of the void which she was. To call Pala an Immortal would be just as inaccurate, as she herself does not know if she is capable of death or eternal existence. Instead Pala is the All. Pala is the light by which the stars glitter, as well the shadow by which all mortals sleep. She is the greatest of mountains and the lowest of valleys. She is the center of all things which might be, and the heart of all the things that are. Pala is love incarnate, a bastion of all that is good and right and noble. She is mother and father, light and dark, mercy and justice. She it the beginning and the end.

This is not to say that Pala birthed all things, as she herself does not know that. But as she, sitting in her vast nothingness, began to understand her own being she began to divide. Just as Self becomes the traits in which one describes one's Self, the ideas and concepts of self recognition began to take a shape of their own. In this way she may have created the Eight, though she does not know that she did. Paladin thinks so, though he and Pala often disagree on minutia.

Paladin, on the other hand, is easier to explain. By her Will and for the benefit of her divided self, Paladin came to be. Unlike those which bow and grovel at the feet of their creators, Paladin is instead encouraged and indeed rewarded for his independence. He is not a slave to her Will. He is not some pawn to be manipulated and sacrificed for some greater goal. Paladin, in the mind of Pala, is instead her equal. He is her peer, her son, her ward and protector, her saint and warrior, her lover and her confidant. A companion in her void of contemplation and partner in her machinations. But never her slave.

Together they are, their minds allied but independent a mutual respect and admiration and goal bringing them together for a goal greater than their selves. It is not uncommon for them to disagree and to challenge each others understanding. Pala is the missing piece of Paladin, and Paladin is the missing piece of Pala.

By accord Pala and Paladin have come to agreement on many things. Chief among these are a set of concepts called the Precepts of Pala, a series of observations which independent are meaningless but together build a complex structure of moral guidelines which are both descriptive and prescriptive in nature. Unlike many prescriptive laws though, the Precepts of Pala are not static. They mutate in importance and reference and indeed are unfinished.
Precepts of Pala
The Precepts are divided into three 'sets'. The First Three address the very fundamentals of mortal existence. The Second Set are prescriptive “laws” which describe how one should behave to be in accord with Pala. The Third set are the three types of beings in the world, as well as Pala and Paladin.

The First Three

The first three Precepts of Pala a different than the rest. They are not prescriptive but instead descriptive, and are firmly rooted in place as the bedrock of all others. It is from this first three that every precept is built. This is not to say that, though, they are of greater importance, but instead sit at the fundamental for what it is to exist.
Precept of Reason
Gifted by nature, all mortals possess the ability to perceive understand their self and the world around them. This is to Reason. The cautious and careful understanding of all things great and small to better fashion Reason. By Reason we Know the world.
Precept of Will
To act is to Will. To want is to Will. To be through Reason is to Will. The nature of which is found in all mortal things. By Will we Know the Self.

Precept of Power
Power is the byproduct of Will. The Will of Self and the Will of others. Exercise of Power should always be in accordance of Will, as Power without direction is an assault against Reason of Self and Will of others. Proper use of Power promotes Will and Reason of all things.
The Second Set

Precept of Law

One should prefer the Law of Man over the Law of Nature. What ever the Will or Reason the Law of Man produces less suffering.

Precept of Knowing

To know a thing is not to Know it. To Understand is to Know and the path of true Knowledge. Of what use is a library if one can not act on Reason?

Precept of Knowledge

Knowledge is the bread of Reason. All should strive to be ever hungry, and none should let a mouth starve.

Precept of Foresight

In all acts one must Reason for there are no clear paths without Reason.

Precept of Mercy

None deserve to suffer, as to suffer is violence against the Will. If one must exercise Power to protect Reason or Will, one must do so swiftly and without joy. It is a cruel thing.

Precept of Intention

Intention is the Reason by which we understand our own Will. And to know ones Will grants one Power.

Precept of Action

Just as idleness in a stream breeds tainted waters, idleness of Reason, Will, and Power breeds a tainted heart.

Precept of Rebellion

A mortal heart must never be in chains, to do so abolishes Power, obliterates Will and destroys Reason.

The Third Set

Precept of the Innocent

Save the Innocent for he is without Power and may not preserve his Will or Reason.

Precept of the Fool

Spare the Fool for his is without Will but yet may be taught through Reason.

Precept of the Tyrant

Kill the Tyrant for he is without Reason. The Tyrant seeks to undermine Reason and abolish Will. The Tyrant is an abomination who only knows Will and Power.

Precept of the Paladin

The Paladin is Power of Pala. An accord of Reason struck, by her Will so he is her Power.

The Precept of Love

Above All Love. All acts in Love are the Power of Pala. Pala is the Reason and the Will and Paladin is her Power, for Pala has none.

It is by these Precepts of Pala that both Paladin understand Pala, and Pala contemplates her Self.

Other Gods
Pala's relations to other things which might be called gods is complex. On one had, though she deigns to admit it, she understands that they are aspects of her Self which she cannot reconcile. Though the Eight are long gone, it is the Immortals that worries Pala the most. To her they are elements which, despite being her, she sees as destructive and causing great suffering to mortals. This is one reason that Pala made herself known to Paladin. They, Pala and Paladin, have come to the accord that the Immortals are, by their very nature, Tyrants under the Precept of Tyrants. And it is the Will of the All that they are to be destroyed.

In the mind of Paladin the Immortals, no matter how benign they are, are too dangerous to allow to continue to exist. They know only domination and manipulation. They create to fulfill their own desire and not the Will of others. They are immutable and stagnant. And though it started with Raskalarn, Pala and Paladin agree that all Immortals must be destroyed.

It is this Quest which is paramount.



“...this is, each person, left to their own devices, is an agent of chaos. An animal bereft of of direction and Will. A force of nature without harness or direction. There in lies the Will of the State, to harness that which cannot be contained or maintained, as its very nature is to challenge that which would dominate. Thus, through Power and maintenance of the same Reason that freed the Will of the People, shall the Will of the State be affirmed. This is the Power of the State. Not to dominate the Will of the People, but to control Reason. Thus by cementing an everlasting relationship. Not in cruelty, not in Power, but through mercy.”
-Excerpt from “The Will of the State”, 437, penned by Rethtrakirisk of Isilorn
Kazmir Saelaris was born to the House of Saelaris in the year of 688. A noble lineage which, as rumor had it, traced its roots to the very founding of our ladies Eternal Empire. Loving servants of the State, the sons of the House of Saelaris had served faithfully since the beginning. Centurion Zandir Saelaris the Lesser. And his father, General Zandir Saelaris the Greater. And his father, General Jirar Saelaris. And his father, Centurion Kazmir Saelaris and so on and so on, each a paragon of submission to their beloved Immortal Empress.

Kazmir was a happy child. Old blood has deep pockets and, though money does not buy happiness, money does purchase liberation of want. And for nothing Kazmir wanted. He was also a willful child, not so much spoiled, but willful. He had a way about him. Slow, methodical, always speaking his mind, even when such speech was unwarranted. Even at such a young age had he formed deeply held opinions about his environment. And though tantrums were infrequent when he could not get his way of things, it was common to hear the child arguing with slaves and parents.

Equally so the boy was a curios one. And when he, just as all Imperial children did, began school he found himself in an environment which he flourished. Taking to academia as bird to wing, the boy was a dedicated student of all arts which grabbed his fancy. And many did. Whether the maths, or the natural philosophy, or discussions of morality and nature of mortal men, or rhetoric or debate, the boy was voracious in all his intellectual appetites.

Questions. Questions were the blood that flowed through his veins. It was not uncommon to find the boy, first seated in his classes, ready to devour the days lecture with gluttonous zeal. Nor was it uncommon for he to be the last to leave, in hopes of spending time pelting tired instructors with question after question. “Why?” was wielded like a weapon by the child. A weapon which his teachers, tutors, peers and parents all learned to avoid lest they find themselves spending the better part of the day interrogated and debated. It would be these very same questions that, in time, that became the boys undoing.

As the boy matured, both in his understanding and physicality, his “Why?” became more dangerous. During a lecture on governmental organization and civic duty Kazmir began to ask the most dangerous questions of all.'Why do we follow the Empress?' To which his teachers would respond simply by stating that it was the way of things. The child of less than a decade had begun to ask questions that were not for him. That were hardly for most grown men to ask. And despite the educators assurance that the boys answers would come in time, the question remained.



Centurion Zandir Saelaris was not a fool. He knew that, even though the child meant no harm, the questions he had begun to ask were the most dangerous of all. He knew that Kazmir's wild and free mind would, by its very nature, become reckless and self destructive. It was then that Centurion Saelaris made a decision. The boy needed discipline, and the Legion would be the one to give it.

Under the best tutors money could buy, Zandir began a program by which his boy would learn all it meant to be a citizen of the Eternal Empire and a dedicated member of the Legion. And though the training was geared to a boy of only eight, it would be based upon the careful military structure in which Centurion had lived for so many years. Tactics, strategy, combat, civic obligation, nationalism, honor, duty, these were the ingredients on which the boy would dine. A meal that would fill his belly and heart with the will of the Empire.

For years it would be like this. The child so young already beginning his journey in Legacy's footsteps. A product in half construction, his will tempered into determination, curiosity bent to obedience, rebellion crushed by domination. A soldier of the Legion, if only in heart, Kazmir drifted from academia as his interests allied with those of his father, his mother, and his State.

It was not Marin, Kazmir's mother, who first saw the changes though. Nor Centurion Saelaris. It was Kalina, Kazmir's older sister. With every passing day of his new education, something inside the child shifted. No longer did he play with his peers, as all of his time was dedicated to either keeping himself from failing classes or his exhaustive military education. No longer did the child dream, his paint brush dry and wilting. Not longer did he sing silly songs of childish humor. No longer was his mind hunger for new historians or poets. No longer did he laugh. No longer did he debate and argue. No longer did he question.

Kalina raised her concerns. “He no longer paints.” she would say.

“The sword will be his brush.” her father would reply.

“He no longer sings.” she would plea

“The drums of war will be his voice.” her father would assure.

“He reads only tactics and generals.” she would complain.

“Wise words from wiser men.” her father would counter.

“His mind is in chains!” she would scream.

“The chains of honor! Of Legacy!” her father would spit.

“You have killed him...” she would cry. Alone in her bed watching as her loved little brother died a slow death at the hands of the Empire.

This is not to say that Kalina was, in any fashion of the word, seditious. But instead she had recognized the cold hard militarized barren which encroached upon the field of wonder Kazmir once occupied. She feared that his impossibly demanding schedule was rendering him defunct in the social nuance of the world. She feared that he may never develop into a well rounded scholar. She feared he may set his art aside. She feared he would never find his first love. But most of all, she feared he would become a soldier.

“You are too soft for war.” Kalina would say. “You are sweet, and kind, and noble and loving. You are not meant to kill or be killed. You are destined to greatness in other ways. Your legacy will not be painted in blood, but in words.”

Acting upon what she believed was right Kalina, who had her self been allowed freedoms Kazmir would never know, acted upon the drive to save her brother from the thoughtless submission in which we was indentured. When night had fallen and parents were asleep in their beds, Kalina would steal her little brother into her room, lock the chamber door, and read.

From where she had gotten the books her parents would never know. Friends in low places, no doubt. Regardless Kalina had, in the past few years of her early adulthood, amassed a private collection of two dozen banned and restricted tomes. From these she would supplement the boys education, nursing a mind withering from a lack of the stimulation it so craved. For hours they would talk, on philosophy, geography, politics from within and outside the Empires border. Of the strange world of Idalos and the even stranger people which occupied her. Of myths and monsters and heroes. Of nobility, right action and morality. And it was here, in these midnight hours, that the question perched like adders venom on the tip of the boys tongue, finally began to form “By what...”

These, maybe, were the best times Kazmir could remember. And as bitterly short as they were, he would go onto cherish them for the rest of his life, and beyond.

Marin had noticed changes this time. The though his discipline had not faltered, the boy was distracted. She had noticed the late night visits with his older sister, in which their activity would be locked behind private doors and hushed words. And, as this continued over the better part of the year, Marin grew more worrisome that some sick unholy connection began to grow between the siblings. It was of no relief when she found out the true nature of the midnight meetings.

Discovering Kalina's collections of illegal texts, Marin was beside herself. How had her children, her daughter, been so swayed by the lies and propaganda of inferior peoples? How had her son, even with his countless hours of dedication, come to such treasonous thoughts? Was it the fault of the parents for giving too much freedom? For allowing her children to be so easily manipulated? It would not do. It would not be. She would not lose her children to their own foolish endeavor and lies of those who sought to undermine the Eternal Empire and their Immortal Empress.

It was then that Marin contacted her friends in the Order.

Kalina's collection was seized that night, the parents fined, and the young woman taken. And for nearly two years the House of Saelaris would not know whether its daughter was alive of dead. And with every new inquiry as to his sister, Kazmir would go unanswered. But still, the question would remain. “By what right...”



Like grinding of gears. The Legion, as Kazmir was taught, was a machine. Ten thousand cogs turning in unison to move the will of the Empire ever further along her goals. Ten thousand men and woman acting as a single being, a single living creature dedicated to the glory of the Empire and the whim of their beloved Empress. Her army. Her hand. Her children. Kazmir was but one cog in this machine.

Far more talented that most, as his early education placed him years in experience ahead of his peers, Kazmir became an exemplar Legionnaire. Driven, dedicated, skilled, brave, and honorable, and faithful, his sole goal, whether he knew it or not, was to be the living manifestation of what it meant to be a citizen of the Eternal Empire. And even though his career had just begun he had already showed promise to be the Legacy that the House of Saelaris had always dreamed.

Starting his career as most do, paroling the central lands of Imperial control, Kazmir quickly earned the station of Quinctus as well as the admiration of his fellows and respect of his superiors. His patience and dedicated attention to detail rapidly became an asset to his century. And even with every new engagement or hunt for some bandit group, he carried the weight of the entire century on his shoulder. Even if the responsibility was not his own. But even so, not all was well. Despite his fanatic dedication and boundless love for the Empress, Empire, and Legion, Kazmir had yet to perform the basic duty of his station. The one thing for which each soldier, at some time or another, must do. Kazmir had not killed.

This was not for lack of skill. As he was perhaps among the dozen most skilled men in his century. And this was not for lack of opportunity, as each week brought new engagement, though small they might be. And this was not for cowardice, as he would happily die for each and every man that flew the Empires banner. No, it was not for any of these reasons. Though he could not admit it, a none other would dare imply it, Kazmir was afraid.

In the past month a modest gang of thugs had taken up residence in the mountains on the Northern Border. Though none knew exactly were they had come from, they wielded a near military precision in their numerous assaults on the caravans running south from Viden. Those who frequented traveling the main north-south trade routes had pleaded for Imperial intervention in controlling the gang. Though, at the time, the Empress eyes were turned south and the plea went unanswered as it was assumed the bandits were operating inside of territories controlled by the Empires northern neighbor.

As time went on the collective of bandits grew more cocksure and larger, though none could attest to their exact numbers, the assaults and thefts began to have a visible impact on the willingness of merchants to travel the north-south trade route. Receiving a diplomatic communication from Viden stating that despite the Navy's best efforts, they were unable to locate the bandits local inside their border. And thus it was the Empires obligation to answer the deteriorating security of the trade route.

Kazmir's century arrived at the foot of those harsh mountain, the entire force dreading the long slog through the rocky cold hellscape. The narrow passes and broad peaks and tiny caves would each have to be searched one by one, a task which, despite the efficiency of the imperial machine, would take months. Part as his own mandate, and part under the recommendation of the Decadrion's and Quinctus', Centurion Kithrenas divided his century into tenths, each lead by a Decadrion. He and one squad would establish a camp at the heart of the search area to administrate the effort.

And so, a temporary camp was erected, and the century began their search for the blaggards. They would not have to look for long.

It an act of amazing boldness the bandits descended upon the centuries base camp just after the majority of squads had left to begin their search for the day. Surprised and overwhelmed, the Centurion lead an amazing defense against the assault, but in the end was over powered by the five dozen bandits. Taking Centurion Kithrenas captive, the leader of the bandits, a disgraced military officer from Andaris, demanded that the remaining century pay a ransom for their commanders safe return. Though largely assumed to be a farce, the remaining legionnaire's regrouped to weigh their options.

Kazmir supported the safe and unpopular opinion among the commanders. They had vastly underestimated the size of this bandit force, which rivaled that of a small army. They did not know where the group had holed up and a fifth of the century was either dead or injured. The most prudent course of action would be send for the Scouts, and together the Legion and Scouts could find and lay siege to this community of outlaws. And though Kazmir had lain forth a rational argument, the temperament of the troops was far from rational.

Not only had these bandits attacked in dishonor, not only had they assaulted the legion and empire, they had taken the deeply honored Centurian Kithrenas hostage and attempted to extort the Empire itself. There could be only one answer to such a blatant defiance of the Empires will. It was a Raskithecal woman, Decadrion Cassiopeia Nalin, who most fervently argued this position. And, in the end, her passion and honor had won over the other commanders.

Named acting Centurion by the other Decadrion, Cassiopeia Nalin gave little to the middle ground which Kazmir had argued. It was to be assumed even as the century sat and debated their options, that the bandits were watching. Waiting for when the century separated to search, they would slay the divided forces. This could not happen. Nor could even a single soul be wasted in a pointless attempt to send word to superiors without full knowledge the messengers would be safe. But, even with this, it was to be assumed that this was the bandits strategy, one which could be exploited.

Thirty legionnaires set out three days into the cold, Kazmir volunteered to lead the 'messengers' himself. At night his men stole away, leaving their bulky armors behind for quicker travel. Even before the first night they knew they were watched. The eyes of the hill tribe moved within the shadows of cliffs, and hid behind boulders and slinked into crevices. And then, in the middle of a wide ravine, Kazmir's party stopped and made camp. The bandits took the bait.

Atop the edge of the ravine, bows already strung, the bandits were readying for the slaughter. It would be an easy fight, the remaining century having divided itself. But, just as the commanders, Kazmir, and Cassiopeia had planned, the bandit messenger had been tracked the prior day. Leading both a squad to locate the bandit hideout, and the rest of the century to tail the bulk of the bandit forces as they moved to follow Kazmir's group.

Cassiopeia lead the charge that pushed the bandit army into the ravine and towards Kazmir's waiting shield wall.

Decimating the bandit army, the century then turned its eyes on the small cliff side fortification the bandits built in the saddle of two mountains. It would be difficult to assault, even with the bandit army being thoroughly battered by the Legion. The commander of the bandits, being former military himself, had lead his blackguards in proper development of fortifications. It was easy to see the dozen or so walls which held back imminent landslides and avalanches, as well as the hand full of archers towers. None the less the Legion did what it was trained to do. It did not stop marching.

It was a bloody siege on both sides. The enemy archers were hardly able to penetrate the shields of the century, but many legionnaires were lost under the snow and rock of the slides. It was, to Kazmir, as if the very mountains were assaulting the broken and battered century. Defying the Empire in some grand act of rebellion from Idalos herself. Rendered to just a fraction of operable forces, Kazmir, Cassiopeia, and fifteen other legion soldiers stormed the half formed fort to meet the last of the bandit forces. This is when Kazmir first tasted blood. The first time he felt the thrill of the kill.

Cut off, he and his squad were pinned by the rest of the living bandits as Cassiopeia pushed deeper into the towers and living spaces in search of their Centurion. Out numbering three to one, the bandits fought like men possessed, their rage and blood lust echoing through the hills as some dark iron bells. All excuse having run dry, it was kill or be killed. Kazmir called the order to form a wall, and the legion marched on.

All told the century had lost just over fifty men since she entered the mountains. Another thirty grievously injured. And not a single legionnaire came out unscathed. Seventeen men, lost to the landslide, could not even be given proper burial. And though the great yield the bandits had stolen was claimed, and the widows and widowers of the fallen soldiers were well compensated, the survivors of the century were changed by the encounter forever. It was their first taste of true warfare. And Kazmir wanted more. A request the Empire would answer. But in Kazmir, still the question remained. “By what right does...”



Six years the veteran Kazmir had earned himself a great reputation. He, just as his father, had passed by many opportunities for promotion, instead nominating those he considered his peers for the honor. This was his way. The boy, now man, had become the manifestation of Imperial soul that he had always desired. Skillful, powerful, dominant, aggressive, passionate, a guardian of the Empire and a loving devotee of his Empress many times he had lain down his life for his people and their way. And to any that could ask, if any could be the living embodiment of the ideals of the Legion, a resounding answer of Kazmir Saelaris would be given. But still, after all these years, after nearly two decades of devotion and training and learning the ways of Imperial honor, still. The question remained. Like the fang of an unseen spider that had slipped past his skin, it boiled within him. This hot venom tempered only by hotter still warfare. It was a dream half remembered, a childhood fantasy half forgotten. Perched like a ghostly raven picking over the carcass of the boy he once was. Still the question remained.

“Are you well my love?” Cassiopeia would ask in their private times. She had seen it. And, despite her denying herself, she knew the answer. He was distracted, nervous, jumpy. He walked around even in camp dressed for war, his hand on his blade ready to strike at any that might assault him. Even the slightest word could trigger an anger so frightful on more than one occasion she fear for her life. At times he would vanish in his own mind, an ocean of distance between him and the world before his eyes. Sometime, she thought, he would see things. React to things that were not there, though the nature of his visions were never discussed. But what she feared most of all were his dreams.

It started small. A sleepless night, a night spent tossing and turning by her side, a sudden waking only minutes after he had fallen asleep. It grew though. He would wake ready to kill, reach for his gladuis as reality would set in. He would be roused by his own screaming, mumble distant words in his rest. He would cry. A tear streaked face locked his a sleep he could not awaken from. Eventually Kazmir stopped sleeping completely. For over a week he refused to lay in bed longer than it took to perform his duty as Cassiopeia's lover. And as soon as their lusts were filled he would stand and make some excuse not to lay with her. It got so bad that, eventually, Cassiopeia began to slip herbs that would induce sleep into his food.

“He needs rest.” she would tell her Centurion. “He needs to be forced into accepting a months leave.”

“I cannot force him to do that. No one can. Even if I could, he would just transfer to a different century.”

“Sir, he hasn't had taken leave in over four years. He's cracking.”

“My hands are tied Decadrion.”

“I woke up last night. His was watching me in my sleep with his gladius drawn as he mumbled apologies. He didn't even know who I was. Sir, I'm not only concerned for my safety, nor his own, but the wellbeing of the entire century. He will be responsible for something horrible if doesn't get rest!”

“Remember you place Decadrion! I'll see what I can do.”

Little could be done. Twice had they attempted to force Kazmir Saelaris into accepting leave, and both times he had used his social currency to purchase exemption from his orders. And though frowned upon, little held it against him as it was the only times he had ever played political games. Still, a fear grew through the century, a chill which emanated from this Quinctus. And though none could understand why he refused so vehemently to take leave, to understand all they had to do was ask.

Kazmir loved to kill. He loved war. Perhaps even more than he loved his Legion, or his Empire, or his Empress. And, to be true, at first he thought he might hate it. So many years ago he had even considered leaving. But his honor had bound him to his station. So, instead, he acquired a taste for killing. When he fought, when the raw lightening coursed through his vains, when time raced to a crawl and his blurred vision narrowed to hawk like precision, it was the only time he felt fully real.

It became easy. So easy. So easy to kill. And with each new stroke of his macabre brush it became even easier. He could not remember the faces. He could not see the fears or the hopes or the dreams of those he slew. They were simply another body. Another tone for this artist of violence to paint in. “It is easy to take a life.” Kazmir would say. “The blade goes in, the blade comes out.” How many times had he painted? How many had he killed? One? Three? Ten? One hundred? One thousand? A million? With each death a world was destroyed. Trillion died at his hands. Sons and daughters that may have been but now would never be. World fell at the hands of this Legion machine. The grinding gears of progress crushing hearts, bellies and heads.

“Am I a tyrant?” he would ask the woman which he hoped could be his wife.

“What? No!” Cassiopeia would reply, “You a soldier. A warrior. One of the best.”

“But I am the Legion.”

“You are a Legionnaire, a small piece of the Legion which is a small piece of the Empire.”

“And we kill?”

“Those who deserve it, yes. We are soldiers.”

“They deserve it because they will not submit?”

“No. We kill to protect our Empire, our Empress. We kill out of love.”

“But we invade. And those that do not submit will be slain or enslaved.”

“To protect.”

“I'm a tyrant...”

And the Imperial machination marched on.

The horn sounded and the order to advance was given. Fifty men marched abreast, their shields raised before them. Fifty more behind with their shields above their heads, and fifty more behind them with their shield layered below. A heavy rain fell upon the advancing Legion, thousands of arrows bouncing off of sturdy walls in hopes of finding a chink. Sometimes and arrow would find a weakness, a man would fall to his death. And the Legion would march on as someone behind would move forward. A perfect machine. An unstoppable machine.

The enemy archers were forced to fall back, the Legion getting far too close. As they did the Cavalry swept in from a flank and cut through the archers. The pace of the Legion quickened, the enemy foot soldiers not ten paces away. Kazmir sighed in relief as the adrenaline hit him. This was his time. He gave the order for his unit to lower their shields and ready for engagement, as did countless other Decadrion on the bleeding edge of the Empires machine. Another call, this time from Centurion Nalin. Kazmir drew his gladuis and collided with the enemy shield wall. And the Legion marched on.

High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. Low strike. Low strike. High strike. Mid strike. Ankle, inner thigh, eyes, and heart. Right high. Right high. Mid Strike. Eyes, throat, and heart. The blade goes in, the blade comes out. The pace quickened and the Legion marched on. He had lost track of the Cavalry. Kazmir wondered if he would ever get a chance to join them. High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. Perhaps, he could have a few years to train with them? Learn better how they operate. Who was he kidding, he loved the Legion. Low strike. Low strike. High strike. Mid strike. Ankle, inner thigh, eyes, and heart. The pace quickened and the the Legion marched on. Something was wrong.

High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. Glancing over his shoulder and past the dozens of men ready to take his place Kazmir saw the enemy horsemen. They had flanked and were skirmishing with the rear of the Imperial machine, though avoided a direct charge as of yet. Right high. Right high. Mid Strike. Eyes, throat, and heart. Glancing at his lover who rode in the middle of the column, he saw that she already noticed. By Raskalarn he loved that woman. He wondered if they would ever marry. He fantasied they could even have little half breed mutts. Maybe not. Maybe adoption. High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. Manor. With small land. Kazmir could take up farming. A little bit of land and a half dozen slaves working a small manor/farm on the coast. He would return after a hard day plowing the fields to a simple supper of meat and potatoes. He would listen to his children play in the afternoon as he rested on his wifes breast and read to her. And at night he would take Cassiopeia in his arms, kiss her and Right high. Right high. Mid Strike. Eyes, throat, and heart. Life would be good. Simple. The blade goes in the blade comes out and the Legion marches on. The pace quickened and Kazmir wondered if he would have a son. His son would be named after his grandfather. And when the boy was old enough, Kazmir would High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. And the pace quickened. And the Legion marched on.

No, the column was broken. More cavalry from the southern flank. The skirmishers charged and the infantry pushed forward. The enemy grew bold. And the Legion marched on. A few men turned and they were cut down by the infantry. The Imperial Cavalry charged the enemies and clashed, pining the enemy horsemen against the Legion. The pace quickened and the Legion marched on.

“Archers!” Centurion Nalin called, alerting to the violent clouds that grew above the legion. “Cavalry suppress those arch....” And the Legion marched on.

Kazmir turned as he saw the woman that would be his wife slump from her horse and disappear beneath the waves of the Imperial machine. He had just been promoted. High strike. Low strike. Mid strike. Throat, groin, diagram. The pace quickened and the Legion marched on. He did not feel the sword sink into his exposed shoulder, but her heard its knell. Kazmir dropped his gladuis, unable to hold it anymore. His shield was heavy. He grasped blindly. The pace quickened and the Legion marched on. Kazmir fell.

Low strike. Low strike. Mid strike. High strike. Ankle, back of knee, mid back, head. The Legion marched on. Grinding gears of Imperial machines crushing and stomping and pushing. 'Are we routed?' Kazmir wondered as the mud slipped past his lips and filled his mouth. Hammers fell on him, his armor cushioning some of the blow as he was pushed deeper into the blood soaked mud. Kazmir was dieing. He could not breathe. The mud filled his mouth as the heavy gears crushed air from his lungs. His brother had died in war. Kazmir never knew his brother. He died long before Kazmir was born. Would he see his brother? War had taken him to. Would he see his brother when he made the journey to the other world? What about his sister? Would he ever see his sister again? He missed his mother. His father. He missed Cassiopeia. Kazmir died. And the Legion marched on. But still the question remained “By what right does she...”

The man woke with a gasp. Beside him was the woman he loved. He watched those pale eyes and smiled. “I had a dream.” the man moved in and pressed his lips against her cold Raskithecal flesh. He could not remember her name. “We were fighting. You said I needed rest. I refused. I think you might be right.” the man nearly laughed. “We should go away. To the ocean. What do you think my love?” he remembered her name.“Cassiopeia?” the man reached out and touched the Raskithecals face. “We can have children. We can adopt if we need to. And have a farm and a manor by the sea. Cassiopeia? Cassie! Why wont you answer me! Cassie?” the man pulled his shattered body towards his love, unable to look away from her milky white eyes. “Cassie!” he wrenched the arrow from her throat casting it to the dirt. “Please Cassie. Say something. I'm sorry I wouldn't listen. I'm sorry. I just wanted to be good. I needed to be useful. I wanted to be good for my Empire. I needed to make her proud. To make my father proud. To make you proud. I'm sorry I didn't listen. Wake up Cassie, please! We can have a manor. A manor by the sea. Please Cassie! I'm sorry. Say something Cassie... don't leave me alone.”

For years the man cradled the body of Cassiopeia against his breast as he watched the ocean of bodies that surrounded him. He could see them, the birds. The ravens picking at the eyes and faces and blood caked wounds. He could hear them to. His Legion. In the distance he could hear their heavy feet clattering against the cold mud. He torn his helmet from his head, taking a swatch of flesh from the back of his neck with it. He didn't feel it. Was he dead? A ghost? The ravens did not pick at his corpse which was not more than a few feet away. Why did they not want him?

For hours the man screamed. Why did they not want him? Why did they leave! Was he dead? Was he alive? He could not feel his face. He could not hear his heart or smell his breathe. Was he dead? He could see them though. The ravens. Hundreds of ravens. They did not eat his corpses. They just watched. Under white hoods with blue eyes the ravens watched. The Norn watched and judged. Three ravens among the thousands of his corpses. A century of the dead. The unkindness of ravens watching. Judging. Cawing. “Murderer.” she whispered. “Murderer!” they cawed.

“Murderer!” she screamed and he saw her. A dream more real that a half life lived she stood surrounded by her conspiracy of ravens, the Norn. Her judges and her eyes. “Murderer!” the Norn screamed. Wrapped in blinding white flames, eyes as pale as ivory he saw her, the naked truth clad in white flesh. “Murderer!”

“No!” the man screamed as he fell before her. “We defended ourselves.”


“We fought for the Empire!”


“To preserve and protect our brothers!”

"Murderer!" the Norn cawed in unison.


The man stood, facing the white flame truth he did not want to know. “Please.”

"Slayer of men! Murderer! You who would call yourself a hero in the name of the monster which you worship! You who would bastardize innocence and demand reward for your service! Tyrant! Blackguard! Monster! Foul abomination of the mortals, given the boons of greatness and sold for the chains of your bitch goddess! Damned is the twisted heart once pure, twisted is the mind of innocence lost within the void of hate you cherish! Love knows not your name! Kindness is lost to you! Bereft of mercy and goodness and light! Murderer!"

“Murderer!” the Norn screamed.

“Forgive me!” The man again fell to his knees blinded by the tears, “Forgive me!”

"Forgiveness is a mercy which you do not know! Forgiveness is a gift given to those worthy of my love! Forgiveness is not for your soul! Abomination of man you are damned! Assassin of the false goddess you have no heart to forgive!"

“No! I have a heart! I have a soul! I am kind! I am merciful! I am loving and caring and noble and honorable! I am innocent!”

"How many lives have you stolen abomination? How many cut down in the will of your masters! Coward! How many? How many!"

“I don't know.”

"Murderer! Dreaded monster of the blackest hearts, twisted abomination bereft of mercy! You do not deserve the forgiveness of Pala! You do not deserve her light! Draw you blade Tyrant. Draw your blade and give yourself the only honor you will ever receive!"

The man did as he was told. The court of the Norn was honest. The judgment of Pala was just. Cold steel pressed against his naked flesh, the thin fang of the empire pierced his heart for the last time.

"Abomination! Monster! Hound! Tyrant! Murderer!" The Norn cawed.

“I am so sorry...”


“I... I don't want to be this.”

"And you will not be.” the white fire of truth knelt and picked the man up by his shoulder. Cradling the man in arms of white fire, Pala held the infant close as she spoke. “My poor child. Be born again from the womb of my fire and suckle at the light once more. Rise again my child and reclaim what was stolen by the hands of tyrants. Wake unto you new life as the son of Pala. I name you Paladin.”

“Fetch the surgeon he's waking!” a man screamed. “My boy... Merin! Merin he's waking up again!”

“Kazmir! Kazmir can you hear us.”

'Murderer.' the Norn screamed.

“My beautiful boy...” a woman was crying.


“My sword. Were is my sword?” Paladin asked.

“That's my boy! Built by our hands and honed by the Legion! Kalina get the boy his blade.”

Paladin opened his eyes.

“Can you see us Kazmir? Can you see us?” the woman was still crying.

Cold leather and steal slipped between the mans fingers as the young woman carefully set Paladin's sword atop his chest.

'Tyrants!' the Norn screamed.

“I can see them.” Paladin mumbled.

“He can see us!” The woman screamed in joy.

“No. I can see them.” Paladin corrected. “The Norn.”

“Here boy, take my arm! I'll help you up. Your still weak. We were so afraid, you've been asleep so long...”

“Father!” the younger woman snapped, “He's too weak to be moving about. Let him rest.”

“No rest... I need to...” Paladin gripped the hairy gray arm and pulled himself into a sit.

“Good boy. That's it take it nice and easy.”

'Kill the Tyrant.'

“I'm your son...”

“That's right boy!” the mans eye had begun to tear up. Centurion Saelaris dipped pulling his son into an embrace.

“... no longer. Tyrant.”

The older woman screamed as the sword thrust through her husbands chest and sprayed a rain of thick blood across the wall behind him. Paladin withdrew the blade in a fluid motion, though could hardly lift it any longer. The younger woman was pale with fright, backing herself into a corner as her hand twitched to the knife at her side. Unlike her daughter, the older woman did not move. She just sat, her horror stricken face slack and stained with tears. At least she had stopped crying.

'Spare the innocents.'

Paladin stood as he used the freshly blooded sword as a crutch. For a moment he watched the girl. He knew her, he thought. A labored gait brought him to the entryway of a the room that, now, was a memory so distant it may as well been a dream. “Kalina.” he said. “By what right does she rule?”

Kalina had no words to answer.

Paladin sighed. He dreaded what was to come, but in his heart and by the grace of Pala he now knew. No question remained.


Picking up the Pieces

It did not take long for Paladin to gather meager supplies, and though he would have preferred time to prepare more thoroughly he was unsure of how long the women would take to break their way past the door of the barred room, not when the surgeon would be making his rounds to the Saelaris manor. Stepping outside for the first time in months the sun stung his eyes. It was summer, as for what month he did not know. But judging by the height of the suns, Ymiden. Preparing a horse that seemed to recognize him, Paladin glanced once more to the ancient manor that smelled so familiar. He shouldn't retrieve his armor. It would only serve to slow him.

The flight from Korlasir was uneventful, none knew of the punishment Pala had demanded. Still, despite the smoothness of his daring escape Paladin had a difficult time leaving the city in which he had grown. From the corner of his eye he watched the palace on the cliff above. He knew she was there. He could feel her. That tyrant god-queen that had been the architect of so much suffering. He wanted her. But the Norn were insistent, their cawing like the ravenous barks of fox hounds. Now was not the time. Even if the Immortals could be slain there would be no way Paladin was ready to do so.

Six days from Korlasir Pala had sent her son a gift in the form of a traveling merchant whose wagon wheel had been destroyed. Striking up a deal, Paladin sacrificed his own wagon in exchange for a allowance to travel with the trader and his three guards. Though Cabel, the merchant was suspicious of the nervous man he knew better than to ask questions, and Paladin knew better than to give answers.

As the months traveled by Paladin slowly gathered the pieces of his dream like memory. He knew he had been a soldier of the Legion. Born and bred to be achieve impossible greatness, but for the life of him Paladin could not remember what rank he had been. He knew the name of his sword, Cassiopeia, but did not know why he had named it such. He knew what was a family which he reasoned was his. The Centurion he killed was his blood father, the crying woman his blood mother and... Kalina.

Other memories came to. Darker memories. Memories of the man that Pala had forgiven. Paladin didn't like these memories.

When the Legion came too close Paladin would disappear from the caravan for days, only to return late in the night. Though he had no obligation to them, and indeed it was safer if he made himself as small a target as possible, he preferred the guise of a merchant guard. Cabel never asked where the man had gone, nor asked if he was going to leave again. A simple 'Welcome back.' sufficed. Paladin did not know if it was for fear or pity or something else. Surely there was a price on his head. But Paladin could not shake the feeling that this unspoken pact of silence was forged of steel stronger that fear or pity.

Though Rharne was closer and cheaper to get to, Andaris would be safer, Paladin reasoned. A powerful military and powerful nobility, a city welcoming of outsiders. And, at the insistence of Pala's court, it was the better choice to begin his quest. From there they wished him across the ocean, but would not say why.

It was not a poor way to travel, the company. And even though Paladin was sparing with his words, he found good company in the caravan. Much of his day was spent scribbling through page after page of his journal, trying in vain to solve the riddles that Pala had left him with. Who was she? A god? A demon? Some bleak ghost of great power? What was the Norn and why could only he see it? Why had she chosen Paladin as her son? She was merciful, no doubt. And moral. Her desire clearly stated with the Norn's words. “Kill the tyrant.” the Norn told him, “Protect the innocent. Spare the fool.” With each new word written Paladin slowly unraveled more of the wants of his white fire lady.

The scribbling only stopped in the afternoons when, at the request of those that called him friend, he was asked to sing. So he would sing. He would sing songs he could not remember, but whose words remembered him. 'Lady and Her Sword', 'Child of the Burning Lands' 'White Prince.' Songs of a bawdy nature where his “friends” favorites. But songs of war were his. With each word remembered he could smell the smoke and hear the laughs of a century of the dead. He would entertain men that he had fought with, bled with, and died with. “Decadrion” they called him. And the songs would end, and Paladin would sit by the fire and return to his scribbles.

Knowledge & Skills

SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Acrobatics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Acting5/100 (0/251)Novice
Agriculture0/100 (0/251)Novice
Alchemy0/100 (0/251)Novice
Animal Husbandry0/100 (0/251)Novice
Animal Training0/100 (0/251)Novice
Axes & Bludgeons0/100 (0/251)Novice
Appraisal0/100 (0/251)Novice
Baking0/100 (0/251)Novice
Basket Weaving0/100 (0/251)Novice
Blades25/100 (25/251)Novice
Brewing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Business Management0/100 (0/251)Novice
Candlemaking0/100 (0/251)Novice
Carpentry0/100 (0/251)Novice
Cartography0/100 (0/251)Novice
Chemistry0/100 (0/251)Novice
Climbing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Construction0/100 (0/251)Novice
Cooking0/100 (0/251)Novice
Cosmetology0/100 (0/251)Novice
Dancing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Deception10/100 (0/251)Novice
Detection0/100 (0/251)Novice
Discipline 0/100 (0/251)Novice
Disguise0/100 (0/251)Novice
Drawing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Endurance4/100 (4/251)Novice
Etiquette0/100 (0/251)Novice
Field Craft0/100 (0/251)Novice
Fishing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Flying0/100 (0/251)Novice
Fletching0/100 (0/251)Novice
Forgery0/100 (0/251)Novice
Gambling0/100 (0/251)Novice
Gardening0/100 (0/251)Novice
Glassblowing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Hunting0/100 (0/251)Novice
Intelligence0/100 (0/251)Novice
Interrogation0/100 (0/251)Novice
Intimidation0/100 (0/251)Novice
Investigation0/100 (0/251)Novice
Jewelry Crafting0/100 (0/251)Novice
Leadership3/100 (3/251)Novice
Leather Working0/100 (0/251)Novice
Linguistics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Lock Picking0/100 (0/251)Novice
Logistics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Masonry0/100 (0/251)Novice
Mathematics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Medicine0/100 (0/251)Novice
Meditation0/100 (0/251)Novice
Mining0/100 (0/251)Novice
Mount5/100 (5/251)Novice
Musical Instrument0/100 (0/251)Novice
Navigation0/100 (0/251)Novice
Negotiation 0/100 (0/251)Novice
Painting0/100 (0/251)Novice
Persuasion0/100 (0/251)Novice
Physics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Pick Pocketing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Poisons0/100 (0/251)Novice
Polearms0/100 (0/251)Novice
Politics0/100 (0/251)Novice
Pottery0/100 (0/251)Novice
Psychology0/100 (0/251)Novice
Ranged Combat0/100 (0/251)Novice
Research0/100 (0/251)Novice
Resistance0/100 (0/251)Novice
Rhetoric20/100 (20/100)Novice
Running0/100 (0/251)Novice
Sculpting0/100 (0/251)Novice
Seafaring0/100 (0/251)Novice
Seduction0/100 (0/251)Novice
Sewing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Shielded Combat25/100 (25/251)Novice
Ship Building0/100 (0/251)Novice
Shoemaking0/100 (0/251)Novice
Siege Weaponry0/100 (0/251)Novice
Singing10/100 (10/251)Novice
Smithing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Stealth5/100 (5/251)Novice
Storytelling0/100 (0/251)Novice
Strength0/100 (0/251)Novice
Surgery0/100 (0/251)Novice
Swimming0/100 (0/251)Novice
Tactics9/100 (9/251)Novice
Tanning0/100 (0/251)Novice
Teaching5/100 (5/251)Novice
Thrown Weapons0/100 (0/251)Novice
Torture0/100 (0/251)Novice
Trap Making0/100 (0/251)Novice
Unarmed Combat0/100 (0/251)Novice
Vinting0/100 (0/251)Novice
Whips0/100 (0/251)Novice
Writing0/100 (0/251)Novice
Skill Knowledge
Application of Costume
Animal Husbandry
Lubricate Your Horse


Turning One's Back Leaves One Open


Maintaining Composure


Fanning to Keep Cool
Drink Water to Stay Cool
Listening for murmurs and whispers.

The key to a successful lie is to believe it yourself
A good lie contains some truth
Small lies can be easily discarded and forgotten
The dangers of telling a big lie
Coping With Death
The Application of Make-Up
The importance of enforcing an order
How to intimidate through storytelling
Threatening a woman with sexual assault can be an effective way to control her
Watching Dust
Diagnosing Heat Stroke
Treating Heat Stroke
Horsies a Bargaining Chip to Young Girls
Hitching a Cart
How to hold a tune.
Keep it up lest a Blade find the Eye
Can Conceal Attacks
Poor at Protecting Legs
Removing nails from wood carefully.
Breaking wood quietly by bending it
Doing things quietly takes time
Carrying a Man
Survival involves knowing the odds
Pants are not a necessity for survival, but help in the long run.
Siege Wood With Fire
Rappelling From Above
A quick death is not a useful death
How to bind a body into submission
How to torture a pig
Horses unlikely to run into the wild if tame
Marks Section




  • N/A
    • N/A
  • N/A
    • N/A




  • Clothing
    • Travelers Clothing: (SP)
    • Cold Weather Clothing: (SP)
  • Armor
    • Shield - Heater
  • Weapons
    • "Cassiopeia" - Arming Sword: Prized Possession


  • Small Tent: (SP)
  • Bedroll: (SP)
  • Blanket: (SP)
  • Rope - 100ft: (SP)
  • Tinderbox: (SP)
  • Lantern: (SP)
  • 6 Torch: (SP)
  • Compass: (SP)
  • Fishing Rod - 30 hooks: (SP)
  • 4 Rucksacks: (SP)
  • Knife: (SP)
  • Waterskin: (SP)
  • Toiletries: (SP)
  • 2 Rags: (SP)
  • Notebook


  • "Baron"- Riding Horse: (SP)


Having long since abandoned his name, Paladin in unable to claim his familial manor in Korlasir. And, if he should ever return to the Empire he would be put to death. At the moment the manor is controlled by Paladins birth sister Kalina.


Traveler's Package ... 25gn
Heater Shield 10gn ...
Journal 5gn ...
Lodging 3.5gn ...
Tunic (Linen) 1.5gn ...
Breeches(Hemp) 3sn ...
Sash (Linen) 2.25gn ...
Ymiden Season 13.5gn ...
... ... ...
... ... ...
... ... ...

Skill Ledger

Thread or Skill NamePoints AwardedPoints SpentRunning Total
Matter of Faith15150
Communion10 10 0
First Lessons15 15 0
Learning in a Languid Light15024
Learning in a Languid Light10034

Total Currency: 0 ON, -11 GN, 0 SN, 5 CN

  • Centurion Zandir Saelaris (Father 68) - Deceased. Zandir came from a noble line of military figures in Korlasar history, many claim citing the Saelaris were among the first human family's to establish in the Empire. True or not, the House of Saelaris has been around for a very long time. Zandir was a soldier through and through, a rough but fair man who believed in discipline and submission to Raskalarn above all else. A devoted father, he had great plans for his second son which, now, will never be. It is a small condolence that he never lived to see his boy desert the Eternal Empire.
  • Zandir Saelaris II (Older Brother 21) - Deceased. Zandir II was a good lad, if a bit rough around the edges. He idolized soldiers and military culture, making it the center of all his interests. Though possessing great discipline on the field, Zandir II did not show such restraint in his personal life. Often he spent far too much time drinking at taverns, telling war stories, and flirting with pretty girls. Ever confidant and a touch brash, Zandir was permanently in good spirits. This is why it was so crushing when he fell in combat and why the House Saelaris waited so long to have another son.
  • Merin Saelaris (Mother 72) - The birth mother of Kazmir Saelaris and widow of Centurion Zandir Saelaris, Marin is dedicated to her family. Educated well, her father was a modestly wealthy salt merchant and patron of the arts, a trait which both she and her former son had shared. After the murder of her husband Merin disowned her son and entered a deep depression, from which she still suffers. Due to her age Merin has also begun to show the signs of cognitive deterioration, which has resulted in her needing almost constant care.
  • Kalina Saelaris (Older Sister 35) - Kalina is Paladins birth sister. A low ranking member of the Order in the Empire, she was reeducated and drafted into services after it was found she possessed contraband and was educating her younger brother in seditious ideas. Despite first begrudging her incarceration, eventually she found a permanent place in service of Raskalarn and grew to fit her role. Kalina is a flirtatious, kind of heart, and playful woman known to be dominant and forceful in her bearing. Having a deep love of her family, especially her young brother, Kalina is torn between worry and hatred of the man Kazmir has become. Two months after her fathers murder by the hands of her brother, Kalina has come to administrate her families manor and the daily caretaker of her mother.
  • Cabel Dorian (Merchant Mid-fifties) - Cabel first met the man who called himself Paladin when he, having been drunk behind the reigns, ran his cart off the road and destroyed a wagon wheel. Paladin, out of nowhere, appeared and offered to sacrifice his own wagon to the merchant in exchange for company while traveling. Cabel did not reject the offer. Despite Paladin's unwillingness to say anything of substance about himself, Cabel already knew from what Paladin ran. It would seem the caravan would have more than one person running from their wretched pasts. Cabel noticed immediately that Paladin was off, touched by some unseen force that pressed constantly. He assumed that it was battle fatigue, a maladies which he had seen far too many times before. Developing an empathy for the young man, Cabel kept careful eye on Paladin, half out of worry and half out of empathy. Knowing full well that they will probably never again cross paths, Cabel was sad to see Paladin leaving his troupe.
  • Unknown Slave Girl (Faith Placeholer) -
  • Rayna (Placeholder) -
  • Levinia (Placeholder) -
  • Toby Porter (Placeholder) -
  • Liraqyth Porter (Placeholder) -
  • Pyrim Porter (Placeholder) -
Thread List

- 20th of Saun 716
Paladin engages a monk in debate, and meets what might be called a god.
- 17th of Saun 716
Hired as a caravan guard, Paladin meets a guard who discovers that the merchants may not be entirely honest.
- 15th of Saun 716
After offering a veteran a favor, the old farmer collapses with heat sickness.(Reviewed)
- 14th of Saun 716
(Placeholder)Pyrim brings a friend to lessons. Paladin tests the boys. Paladin speaks with Toby and Lirqyth.
- 14th of Saun 716
(Placeholder)Dream Thread- What is Just is not always what is Moral. And Justice often comes with a steep price.
- 12th of Saun 716
There is a fine line between vengeance and justice. (Reviewed)
-12th of Saun 716
During the final preparations Paladin happens upon Faith. (Reviewed)
- 12th of Saun 716
The Juggernaut finds himself in a place he should not be.
- 5th of Saun 716
Learning of a child abducted, Paladin call on the aid of Rayna to find and secure the child.
- 2nd of Saun 716
Unable to sleep after an episode, Paladin and Pala engage in discussion about his well being and his complacency. (Reviewed)
- 1st of Saun 716
Dream Thread. When unstoppable force meets immovable object. (Finished)
- 52nd of Ymiden 716
Wandering the country side around Andaris, Paladin takes the free moments to scour some rust off his blade and is joined by the mercenary Rayna. Happened upon by a local farm boy, the fateful meeting is marked by a brief lesson in swordsmanship. (Reviewed)
- 12th of Ymiden 716
Heeding the advice of a friend, Paladin investigates the Sacred Seven and their Creed of Silence. But when his passion angers a local slave girl, he decides to make amends by offering his service.(Reviewed)
- 11th of Ymiden 716
Paladin, curios about the alien city in which he finds himself, hires a guide to show him the lay of the land. The fiery young woman proves to be quite the handful.
Last edited by Kazmir Saelaris on Thu Sep 08, 2016 8:45 pm, edited 11 times in total. word count: 12256
User avatar
Kazmir Saelaris
Approved Character
Posts: 129
Joined: Fri Jun 24, 2016 9:01 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 7
Wealth Tier: Tier 1



RP Medals


Kazmir Saelaris

Non-Skill Knowledge

Location Knowledge

Andarian Farms: Hot in Ymiden
Andarian Farms: Tranquil from the Bustle of Andaris.
Knowledge: Korlasir
Location: Athart

Rynmere Location: Andaris Sewers
Rynmere Location: Blacksmith Arms
Rynmere Location: Rynmere Library
Rynmere Location: The Crown
Rynmere Location: Ye Olde Inn
Rynmere Location: Ericor’s Elegance
Rynmere Location: Andaris Cemetary
Rynmere Location: Kash’deel Funerary Services
Rynmere Location: The Crown

Ye Olde Inn: Locks up swords for the night

People and Characters Knowledge

General People Knowledge
Alistair Venora: Nobleman
Alistair Venora: Has a secret male lover

Baron: White speckled horse
Baron: Sniff Out Water

Ericor: Tailor
Ericor: Snob
Ericor: Believes you to be Alistair Venora’s lover
Ericor: Also known as “Eric” or the “Tailor Wizard”

Faith: From Athart
Faith: A slave
Faith: A scrawny waif
Faith: A half-breed Edisi?
Faith: A Beautiful Girl
Faith: In Service of Venora House
Faith: Still a Slave
Faith: Likes the Quiet
Faith: Doesn't often open up to others.
Faith: Lonely
Faith: Innocent
Faith: Under orders to be educated
Faith: Promised to sing you a song
Faith: Understands basic Grammar
Faith: Finds it Important what you think
Faith: Sent to A Brothel for 'Training'
Faith: Bold by conviction
Faith: Cannot accept help with her tasks
Faith: Stronger than she looks, or more determined.
Faith: Flawed self-philosophy
Faith: Willing to die for her owner
Faith: Believes she was born to serve Famula
Faith: Will do anything for Famula
Faith: Innocent, Fool or Tyrant?

Galin Evin: Moseke Knight
Galin Evin: Not Pious

Famula: Caretaker of souls
Famula: Awaits the Dead

Immortal: Famula

Jamal Kash'deel: Undertaker
Jamal Kash'deel: Born in Athart

Maddy: Kind and concerned
Maddy: Barmaid at Ye Olde Inn

Mildred Kash’deel: Jamal’s Wife

Norns: Impatient, quick to anger and quick to judge

Pala: Impatient
Pala: As old as trees and with deep roots
Pala: Thinks you are too merciful
Pala: Wants you to be her justice
Pala: Anger will be your failure
Pala: Mother of All
Pala: White Fire

Pyrim Porter: Uneducated, Not Stupid
Pyrim Porter: Uneducated, Not Stupid
Pyrim Porter: Blabbermouth
Pyrim's Mother: Does not want Pyrim to Fight

Toby Porter: Old and Worn
Toby Porter: Pig Farmer
Toby Porter: Appreciative of Paladin

Torin: Farmer
Torin: Veteran Knight
Torin: Didn't Want to Die
Torin: Saw Pala?
Torin: Deceased
Torin: His Funeral
Torin: Had A Fair Bride

Tristan Venora: Nobleman
Tristan Venora: Artist and Sculptor

Yanahaqah: Pretty and Strong
Yanahaqah: Mercenary, Similar to He
Yanahaqah: Mercenary, Similar to He
Yanahaqah: Pretty and Strong
Yanahaqah: Strange Accent
Yanahaqah: The speed and Agility of an Assassin
Yanahaqah: No Children

Misc Knowledge

Acting Tool: Bald Cap
Acting Tool: Wig
Athart: Famous for Breeding Slaves
Architecture: Temple is exquisite
Fashion: Chiffon is pronounced “she-fawn”
Philosophy: The Tyrant archetype
Song: “The Ashan Maid”
Rynmere Venora House Crest: Rose
Murder: You murdered Jamal Kash’deel
City Structure: Cost of maintenance
Knowledge(ML): Andaris a Safer Destination Than Rharne
Knowledge: Korlasir
Knowledge - Imperial military protocol
Knowledge - Imperial philosophers
Knowledge(ML) - Devotion to Immortals Supercedes Family
Knowledge(ML) - Redemption Through Pala
Knowledge(ML) - There is No Answer to Some Questions
Monks: Observant
Rynlism: Based on Seven Hero’s who became Nobles.
Rynlism: Seven virtues on the creed of silence
Sword: Cassiopeia
Kazmir: You are not a tree
Knowledge(ML): Andaris a Safer Destination Than Rharne
Philosophy: Questioning the existence of an after-life
Philosophy: Controlling information is a key tenet of the principles of control
Philosophy: The value & ethics of murdering one to save many
Art: The Pigmentation of Skin
Art: The Design of a Wig
Music: Expression of the Soul
Morality: Your Beliefs Are Not Perfect
Morality: People are Cruel
Morality: Some People are Beyond Helping
Morality: The Heart is a Fickle Mistress
Nobles: Are Insufferable
Knowledge - Reason for deserting the Legion of the Eternal Empire
Knowledge - Bandit Groups in central Eternal Empire
Knowledge(ML) - Cassiopeia: A Name to Honor, But a Memory to Avoid
Knowledge(ML) - The Basic Directives Toward Tyrants, Innocents and Fools
Philosophy: All things served and loved and cherished: This is greatness
Age: Once Corroded, Never Salvaged
The past will find you
Knowledge(ML) - Raskalarn: A Tyrant Immortal
Knowledge(ML) - Raskalarn: Representative of All Immortals
Saun: Hot
Siege: The Cove
Reds: Best in Bed
Death: Slipping Away
Killing: Easier than Death
Undertaking: The Funeral
Socialization: Caring For Strangers
Socialization: Comforting a Dying Man
word count: 727
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