Shards of Sky
A stocky Elven man with striking hazel eyes and bronzed skin.
Eothall Silae, age 170, 5' 3", 150 Ib.
Born in Aerenal, near Valen's Isle.
Str – 17
Con – 14
Dex – 15
Int – 13
Wis – 14
Cha – 14
Fort – +7
Reflex – +7
Will – +7
Climb – 12
Diplomacy – 11
Listen – 11
Perform: Dance – 6
Spot – 11
Tumble – 11
Sacred Vow (Book of Exalted Deeds)
Vow of Poverty (Book of Exalted Deeds)
Undead Empathy (Eberron)
Stunning Fist (Monk Bonus Feat)
Combat Reflexes (Monk Bonus Feat)
Improved Trip (Monk Bonus Feat)
Nimbus of Light (Book of Exalted Deeds)
Touch of Golden Ice (Book of Exalted Deeds)
Hp – 50
AC – 22
Melee Attack – +8
Flurry of Blows – +7/+7
FIST – 1d8+4 and Fort save DC 13 (Golden Ice) or 1d6 Dex damage, 2d6 additional Dex damage after one minute.
My family is dead. My mother's and father's souls reside in Dolurrh, unfulfilled and unsatisfied. Upon my life and death I swear, the Blood of Vol will fall by my hand.
I cowered behind the fallen tree, helpless, panicked, afraid. The horses stamped their hoofs against the ground, steel flashed in the setting sun, and blood spattered the quaint homesteads that dotted the once-pleasant hillsides.
I was only three decades old, a mere pebble in the avalanche of life, destined to hold the burden of my lineage's unfulfilled wishes. The Blood of Vol crashed against the shores of Aerenal, mounting an attack on the Elven homeland. Both of my parents answered the call to arms and left for the frontlines to defend the mighty empire. I know not what happened then, nor am I certain that my mother and father are dead. What I do know is that several weeks later the Blood of Vol rode through, slaughtering my people, and desecrating our tombs and shrines.
The crawl through the underbrush was long and insufferable, even as it lasted a mere few minutes. I took hold of a tree branch above me and hoisted myself up, fear driving me farther and farther, quickly. I could escape the battle, but I knew then the blood-curdling screams I heard could never be forgotten.
They did not find me, I hid all too well. Nobody of my village survived. It was in my anger and hatred that I realized, all of the kindred spirits of my people were dead. Truly dead. None of them would be saved, none of them would become part of the eternal, the undying. None of them would ever walk this plane again. I put aside my anger and took on a much deeper feeling of anguish and loss. It was in this loss I felt hope, hope that my brethren could be released from an anguish of their own, free from the knowledge that nobody would carry on their hopes, principals, dreams.
Large men in red and black walked through the sacred jungles. As I watched, they trashed our open-air catacombs. They dismembered our honored dead and left their remains smote upon the ground. I was helpless to stop them, and I had to repeat this to myself, lest I fly into a rage. I did not fear death, but I did not want to lead a life unfulfilled, like my friends and family had.
I took it upon myself to nurture this feeling, to tame it. My great grandfather must have smiled upon me then, for it was not long after I had taken the reigns over my emotions that Cial Jhaelin himself rode through to help any survivors. He took pity on me, but was impressed with my stolid nature and survival. When asked to undertake the training for membership into the honored Deathgaurd, I took to it with a vigor I had not even known before.
Their holy symbol burned itself into my skull, the image forever implanted in my mind, right next to the screams. The army rode northwards, and I finally came down from that tree, starved, angry, scared…
And so here it is that I find myself, amongst the humans, halfings, gnomes, and other races. I seek to destroy all that is unholy, and do right by my ancestors, and by that little tranquil little village, not far from the bay…
I wept. I wept for those who had fallen, for those who had lost their lives and for those whose eternal slumber had been violently wrenched away from them. But every time I raised my head, I never failed to notice… beautiful flowers continued to bloom around the catacombs. Violets, lilies, and crysanthemums, waving in the wind, undaunted by the passing of evil, of hatred. I vowed to become a flower. To never be daunted by evil, hatred, suffering. To be selfless, bold, a honest. To stand in the face of all that is unholy and stare it down with an adamant will.
It was then… that I learned to find peace within anger.