Character: Aurundal Vilheim (pending rename to Aron Vigh)
Race: Human
Subrace: Gundarakite
Age: 63
Class: Paladin
Current Alignment: Lawful Good.
Primary story motivation: Gaza (Legend of Legaia)
Secondary story motivation: Maximus (Gladiator)
Player note: I am new to roleplaying, and new to this world. I have little knowledge of general D&D lore, and less of Ravenloft or server-specific lore. This writing is my attempt at creating a backstory for my character. If anything in it is inaccurate or incompatible with lore, please let me know, as I consider it subject to revision.
I'm one of the few Gundarakites who has survived into old age, and to be fair, I look far older than I am. I've served gods of death and hope. My mind has been shattered by tragedies, and rebuilt by experiences. I lived as a civilian once. Suffering quietly under the tyranny of Gundar, our ruler, as we all did. None dared question him, the sacrifices, the God Nerull. These were our traditions, our mandates. Any number of us could have ended his reign, but for the longest time, none stepped forward. Such is the weakness of all humankind. A new age was beginning when Gundar was assassinated, but as quickly as it began, it ended when the Barovians invaded. Many deny what happened that day, but I saw it with my own eyes. My wife Eva and daughter Yllana, ravaged, over and over again, countless times, before and after their deaths, until the sun went down, and the Barovian soliders who brutalized my family turned to rat men and devoured their remains. All while I was hiding, watching, a coward. Helpless.
Was that the day that I decided everything will change? No. I was a coward then. For decades, I did nothing. I drank. I wept. I drank. I blamed everyone. I drank. I hated everything. I drank. And most of all, what I hated the most was myself. And then years later, that is where my story truly begins. As a Gundarkite, I despised Barovians, and trembled at anything foreign, but at the Sanctuary of the Coming Dawn, everything changed. The rain was pouring, the night was long, and the job I had at the Lady's Rest was not kind to my old bones. The house was packed, but the oven was waning, and firewood needed gathering, if any was dry enough. Over the cacophony of thunder, the downpour of rain, and the muddled cursing in my head, I didn't hear the howling of wolves, or see the night-black fur in the ocean of shadows around me. So many of them, out of the shadows. What meal could I be to such a horde? I grabbed the ax from the wood pile and ran for the door, but I was already surrounded. I swung at one of them. A direct hit, but the beast laughed at me, and then, all went black. When I awoke, I was still surrounded, but not by wolves, by men, and women, clerics, mages, even demons, but none of that mattered, for the face which loomed over me, it could be none other. My Yllana. Surely this must be death. Her heavenly voice sang of years of practice, a song my sweet Yllana never knew in life. Her voice echoed as she chanted above me. Magic. I've seen it before, many times. The demons, the magic. Even in death, we cannot escape them. As she finished her spell, my wounds closed further, I gasped for breath as my lungs hacked out the last of the blood. What's happening? My sweet Yllana. Demons! Healing? My eyes began to finally take focus, and for the first time I noticed her hair, platinum blonde. She had Yllana's face, but Yllana's hair was as dark as jet. And then I saw her ears. Pointed? "Yllana" I called out to her, as my mind crashed inwards. My outer wounds were healing, but the shock of seeing my beautiful daughter again was breaking me.
I awoke again, some minutes later. Barovian priests from the temple had dragged me inside and were doing their best to make me comfortable. From outside, I could still hear the battle raging. Steel and maw and spell. Strange magics had barricaded the door, as a large green brute stood guard, protecting the Sanctuary's entrances with a robed woman and two large bears. The demon from before was not to be seen. My head was starting to clear. I don't remember much of night following the attack. The shock must have effected my memory in my old age.
I continued working at the Lady's rest for several weeks, occasionally greeting and thanking my Barovian caretakers. I never spoke of my vision of Yllana. Surely I had imagined it. Or perhaps I had briefly passed beyond to the realm of death, but if so, it seems like they brought me back. As the weeks passed, I began to be more friendly with my Barovian saviors. I began to listen to them, and their tales of the Morninglord. With so much death, so much chaos, and corruption. Their message was singularly out of place in this land. Their message was hope. It is night, but the morning will come. Just as morning came for me that fateful night, morning will come for this land as well. How, after all I've suffered through, all I've seen, countless times, over and over again, how could one such as I have hope? And then, as I was thinking those very thoughts, washing the floors in the Lady's Rest, letting my mind wander, then... there she was. my hope. My Yllana, sitting right in front of me, at a table. I fell to my knees and wept, a mad fool for all to see. And in that moment, I knew hope. I knew my path was with the Morninglord, and with Yllana. I will not sit idly by on Faith, nor will I waste what days I have left washing piss and sick from the seats of drunks and philanderers.
(Player's note: I am not quite sure how to handle writing the dialogue of meeting Yllana just yet. Dialogues are not my strong suite.
For now the shortened summary of the chapter is that we met, and beyond seeking a path of adventure and a meaningful campaign to change the world together. I became a Paladin in service of the Morninglord. She was in fact, not Yllana, nor did she ever pretend to be. Her name was Shana, and she was a half-elf bard, but had no memories of her own from before the night she rescued me on the battlefield. Most likely an outlander. I hope I can edit this later.)
As we adventured together, running errands for the Temple, and training each other, we developed a close friendship. "Da" she would call me. At first I thought she was saying the Barovian word for "Yes", but in reality, some instinct from her past prompted her to call me her father, and with her resemblance to my Yllana, I could not refuse it. And so it was, she, (an adult woman of some years herself) was now my daughter. Surely the morning has come for this old man. Yet, having a daughter once again does not absolve the loss of Eva or Yllana, or my cowardice for letting it happen. I have a purpose now, but not forgiveness. I will have my justice, and I know in my old soul, that I will not die before it is served.