Iliomyndil Ar'aelantar the Champion of the Virtues, Captain of the Brigade

Title History

Role

Chapter 5

So many years passed, as Iliomyndil served faithfully and vigilantly within the
Holy Brigade. First as a Squire, Iliomyndil trained and fought, proving himself
to be among the best of his peers. Then, he was named the first Maran in many
years, tasked to lead the younger Squires and prepare them for war. Eventually,
Iliomyndil was selected to be the first Captain of the Brigade in living memory.
The Brigade, his sole responsibility. Their victories or failures resting on his
shoulders.

All those years, Iliomyndil leaned heavily on those painful lessons from Lord
Panmorne, as he attempted to shape the Brigade into a disciplined and ultimately
victorious army. He was hard on them at times, perhaps, always strict with his
expectations and stern when they fell out of line. Many of them blossomed under
his leadership, and Iliomyndil truly thought he saw bright days ahead for the
Fortress of Light.

But then cracks in the Brigade started to show. First, a Squire made a greivous
error, killing a man of the Light in error. Then another. Then again, two more.
Nearly a quarter of his Brigade had killed men they had sworn to protect. A lack
of discipline, perhaps? Perhaps Iliomyndil was too lax in allowing unready men
to join his Brigade.

These were the questions that kept Iliomyndil up at night, kept him wondering
about what he should be doing differently, and how he could lead the Brigade to
victory. Little did Iliomyndil know, those worries represented the simpler
times.

It was a disillusioned Squire that galvanized Iliomyndil. Vadarz, an Elven
Squire of the Paladin's guild, to be precise. Before being accepted into the
Brigade, that young Elf was timid, confused and somewhat ineffectual in battle.
Still, Iliomyndil thought he could be trained to be a decent Squire and perhaps
a Maran. Iliomyndil was wrong.

Instead, that Squire betrayed the Brigade, the Paladin's Code and himself as he
fell to his knees in front of the Emperor Sebenso. Hearing the words of the
Bloodoath out of his former Squire's mouth, Iliomyndil knew he was past saving.

Now, Iliomyndil wrestles with all new questions. Can the men and women of his
Brigade be trusted? Can he still lead them to victory, in spite of these great
failures? What can be done, to ensure no false soldiers like Vadarz infect the
Brigade with their weak will and false oaths?

It is a Captain's duty to lead his army to victory. In spite of these great
failures, Iliomyndil knew he must still find a way to lead them forward.

Role

Chapter 4

Iliomyndil, that young Elf with no home, did find his way back into Voralian
City, one tentative step at a time. From there, it was a few simple steps
further until he finally limped into that beautiful ivory and gold Hall of
Voralian Templars.

Presenting himself to Nicolette as a potential pupil, his knees quaked at the
lady-knight's stern, judging gaze. She looked him over carefully, taking in his
exhausted stoop over the walking stick, the blood dripping onto the floor from
his back, and the look of determination in his eyes. She was a statue, for all
that the young Elf could read of her. A statue, until he mentioned his full
name.

A slight twitch in her stern eyes as he said his surname. A look of brief
recognition, gone almost before he could register it. But with that, her
demeanor changed.

"Well, then. You seem the sort, well enough. We can train you to use that staff
of yours, if that's your intent."

That glint in her eyes made Iliomyndil wonder, but he had no time to contemplate
what would have caused it. That simply, Iliomyndil found himself as a Paladin,
consumed in the training, in the duty and in the life of one dedicated to
fighting in this war against wicked men.

From there, his life seemed to follow a preset path. Welcomed quickly into the
Fortress of Light as a Squire within the Holy Brigade, Iliomyndil spent much of
his time as Squires are expected to do, battling wicked men with every breath.
But it was his first interactions with the great Commander, Panmorne, that truly
tested him.

Tasked with scouting his allies of the Fortress of Light, Iliomyndil found
himself conflicted. The men and women of the Fortress were all good-hearted,
brave and noble. But were they allies to be trusted in battle?

Meeting the Acolytes, Iliomyndil was left doubtful. As they spoke of redemption,
of patience and understanding of truly evil beings, Iliomyndil knew they would
never see eye to eye. Could one who

Amongst the Brigade, there too were concerns. A drunkard was the only true Maran
Iliomyndil had ever met. Perhaps he was valiant in battle, but could he be
trusted when he could not keep his mind clear for the great war? And could the
young Squires and Pledges, many of whom untested or unsteady in battle, be ready
when lives were on the line?

Seeing these men, this supposed great army for the Light, and Iliomyndil knew
that he must learn all there was to learn from the great tactician Panmorne, and
share those teachings with his newfound allies. This army must be forged into
the weapon that Thera needed, somehow, if they are to see victory in the war.

Role

Chapter 3

It is not a long journey from Voralian City to Seven Pines, but in his weakened
condition it takes until mid-afternoon before Iliomyndil finally approaches his
family's farm.

A sign hangs crookedly from a single chain, the other broken and waving lazily
in the breeze. "AR'AELANTAR FARM" in carefully carved block letters adorn the
broken sign, which sends shivers down Iliomyndil's spine. His father would never
be so careless to leave it unmended. Something is definitely wrong.

Sprinting to the farmhouse, Iliomyndil smells the burned timber before he sees
it. The smoke has long-since cleared, but the burned husk of a building remains.
His eyes, though, are drawn to the strange scene just before what was once the
door of his family's home.

Two strangle lumps are scattered within a few feet from one another, looking at
first to be some sort of alien gray-green bush. As he approaches it becomes
clear. They are Orcs.. dead some days best, but still clearly identifiable. And
between the two, looking child-like in comparison is the body of an Elf, his
father. The signs suggest he put up a fight when the Orcs came, though there
must have been far too many of them.

But even more than the body of his father, the battle scene of his valiant
last-stand, and the burnt timber of his home, Iliomyndil focused one one thing.
Clutched in his father's hand was a hand-carved and well-worn walking staff. The
very same staff which was left behind when he rescued that girl from the Orcs.
They must have used it, tracking his scent on the staff to his home, looking for
him and the prize he'd taken from them.

It was his fault that his father and mother were gone.

And with that thought, Iliomyndil drops heavily to his knees. Not in an agonized
scream or crying despair, as one might expect, but with a head bowed in prayer.

Perhaps the routine of the Cathedral conditioned him to religion, or perhaps it
was a calling all along, but there and then Iliomyndil offered prayer to the
Gods above. Not a prayer asking forgiveness or mercy, but an oath. An oath that
he would find the fiends that preyed on his innocent family, that prey on any
innocent family, and find a way to defeat them. All of them.

It is a strange prayer, for a boy who'd never fought a battle and who'd never
served in war. But such things can be learned with under the right tutelage.
What is important is that, on this day Iliomyndil left behind the innocent Elven
boy and settled on his new path. One of religious fervor, one of righteous war,
and one that can only end in the victory that the innocent men and women of
Thera desperately need.

Grabbing the staff once more, Iliomyndil turns away from his home for the last
time, and takes his first steps.. towards the Paladin's guild of Voralian City.

Role

Chapter 2

Day and night, the best of Voralian City's healers tend to the young Elf.
Praying themselves to exhaustion, their valiant struggles manage to keep him
breathing. But despite their best efforts, the strange wounds will not heal.

Perhaps their persistent nature was caused by the exhaustion, or the extreme
exertion as he sprinted across the countryside with arrows piercing his back.
Perhaps the crude poison on the tips of the arrow, or some form of
previously-unknown orcish magic. Whatever the cause, the terrible wound
persists, closing only temporarily but never truly healing.

With the priests fearing for the boys life, they keep him in observation in the
Cathedral. They tend to him daily, and pray over him every morning and every
night in the vain hope that one day something may change and the boy may finally
recover.

The results never change.

Each day the priests persist in the routine, and each day the young Elf, who
they come to know as Iliomyndil, grows more frustrated at the idleness. He asks
what happened with the Orcs, with the girl, with his family. The response comes
with more healing prayers, but few true answers.

Slowly, though, some information finally trickles in. The girl lived unharmed,
physically at least. She was adopted by a well-off family in Easthaven and will
be cared for and loved. It is good news, but the only good news Iliomyndil
hears.

Finally, while walking through the corridors of the Cathedral one late night,
Iliomyndil hears a conversation that was never meant for his ears.

The hushed whispers say something of a raid in the Seven Pines. Of farms set
afire and an Orcish band that still terrorizes the innocent men and women of his
home.

And with that overheard secret, Iliomyndil understands. He realizes why his
parents have never arrived to comfort him, to collect him, or to add their
prayers to the priests. Something must have happened to them. On some
sub-conscious level, he already knows the truth.

Still weak from the wounds and treatments, the boy sneaks away that very same
night. He must get home, to prove his paranoia unfounded or see for himself what
he already knows must be true. The wounds do not matter, they cannot be the
obstacle that keeps him locked in idleness for the rest of his life.

Role

Chapter 1

A young Elven boys relaxes in the shade of a tall, gnarled pine. His chest rises
and falls rhythmically, the faint sound of snoring the only noise to be heard
heard over occasional chirping of birds and gurgling from the nearby river.

It is a scene of true peace and contentment, uninterrupted by the toils and
struggles of Thera. Of course no peace can remain uninterrupted forever, not
even this one. And with that, the moment of serenity is broken by a
blood-curdling scream of terror.

Startled to consciousness, the boy jumps instantly to his feet eyes warily
darting left and right in search of the source. With a brief moment of clarity,
the boy jumps to the ground and clumsily grabs his worn walking stick, wielding
it awkwardly as if it were a giant mace, and stands still once again, searching
the horizon for an answer to the unasked question.

A second scream breaks the still silence from a distance, but is quickly
stifled. In the same instant, the boy begins running at full sprint in the
direction of the sound.

Exhausted and panting, the boy continues his sprint around a blind curve,
running headlong into... something.

The fur- and wart-covered grey skin, the grissly, blood-soaked bone weapons and
that unmistakable stench all give each of the boy's senses the same answer:
Orcs!

Stumbling to the ground from the impact, the boy has but a moment to understand
the events before him. A man and a woman lay dead and dismembered. A wagon
burning on the side of the road, its contents spilled haphazardly across the
grass. And a young human girl, no more than 7 or 8 years old, crying next to a
tree only an arms reach away.

Fortunately, the Orcs are as surprised as the boy at his arrival and react even
more slowly. Grabbing the girl in his both arms, the boy attempts to make a
hasty escape. Grabbing their weapons and howling the signal of a hunt, the Orcs
spring into action. Warg-fur fletched arrows hiss through the air as the boy
rounds the bend, momentarily safe. But the war drums continue to sound, until
they are drowned out by the beating of the boy's own racing heart. Seconds turn
to minutes, which turn to hours, as the boy runs. Voralian City, on its island
guarded by peacekeepers and those defended gates, should provide safety. That is
is all that enters the boys mind, as afternoon darkens to evening, never
stopping to look behind

Blood.. it is everywhere. Is the girl wounded? Fearing a life-threatening
injury, the boy runs ever-faster, pushing himself to his limits until he at last
arrives in the Cathedral of the Holy Light.

Placing the girl in the arms of the healer, the boy collapses on the floor,
unconscious. Blood pools below him as three poisoned Orcish arrows are revealed
still protruding from his back.

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