Born of Burden

Balathor Eldorak Thavinar drew his first breath in the hallowed township of Shrotumn, nestled deep in Orough, Manchel—a place steeped in holy law and ancestral reverence. His birth was not merely marked in the township ledger, but whispered through temple halls and into the scrolls of the Arcane Sentinel lineage. For he was not just a Loxodon child. He was the latest scion of the Thavinar line, protectors of the Loom of Ethernity, guardians of temporal harmony, and silent stewards of fate itself.
 
His father, Horamir, was an exemplar of discipline—grim and grounded in centuries-old codes. From Horamir, Balathor learned the sacred rituals of the Arcane Sentinels, the unbending ethics of time neutrality, and the iron resolve that came with knowing your life was never yours to begin with. His mother, Loradin, was no Sentinel, but her wisdom was no less revered. A gentle-heart, she taught her son that duty without compassion was tyranny, and that the truest strength was measured by how gently one wielded it.
 
Balathor’s lineage bore even deeper roots in this sacred duty. His grandfather, Eldorak—the namesake he bears—was also a Sentinel, the stalwart guardian who passed the mantle to Horamir. Though Eldorak died decades before Balathor’s ascension, his legacy lingered like incense in temple air: firm, unwavering, and quietly divine. Through stories, rituals, and familial reverence, Eldorak’s presence remained a guiding force in Balathor’s upbringing.
 
Between Loradin's kindness and Horamir’s severity, and the memory of Eldorak looming silently above them both, a young Balathor was forged into something rare: a just sword with a warm core.
 

The Candlelit Halls of Ulus

For Balathor, the Arcanum Luminaries were not simply temples—they were sanctums of insight. Towering domes filled with floating candles and labyrinths of forgotten tomes became Balathor’s second home. From his earliest memories, he wandered those glowing corridors in quiet awe, his massive frame dwarfed by the gravity of knowledge that surrounded him.
 
Here, among spellbound scrolls and scientific treatises, the teachings of Ulus imprinted themselves into his soul. He learned that magic and science were not rivals, but partners—like two tusks emerging from the same ancient skull. The lantern’s flame, truly known, casts the brightest glow. And so he studied. Devoutly. Tirelessly. Not simply to pass trials, but because it was through learning that he felt closest to his purpose.
 
Balathor’s mastery was hard-won. His training came slowly, shaped by sweat. A steadiness, an incorruptibility, and an empathy rarely kindled in Sentinel hearts. It was this fusion of humility and power that would define his legacy.
 

The Gentle Warden

As his hundredth year passed, Balathor walked Tumna with glaive in hand and serenity in heart. His presence commanded silence; his eyes spoke of decades of unseen war. Many saw only the giant clad in armor, the sentinel of law. But those who looked closer glimpsed something softer—the briefest flickers of wonder in his gaze, the almost imperceptible sighs during quiet campfire hours.
 
Even among the Keepers of the Loom—of whom he had long aspired to join—he was known not only for his strength, but for the way he listened, the trust he gave to those who earned it, and the unwavering clarity with which he judged right from wrong. To strangers, he offered dignity. To the weak, safety. And to all, the sense that he walked not for himself, but for something vast and sacred.
 

Trust and Purpose

Despite his heavy mantle, Balathor was not without warmth. He listened. He trusted when trust was earned. His word was iron. His gaze saw intention as much as action. Those who journeyed beside him found not just a protector, but a companion of unwavering faith.
 
He sought always to serve the Keepers in their eternal watch against temporal corruption. To him, the manipulation of time was more than forbidden—it was ruin made flesh. And to bend it would be to betray the sacred balance of Tumna itself.
 

The Letter at Dawn

It came on the morning of his one hundred and first birthday. The air was crisp, his meditations undisturbed, the sun filtering gently through the high windows of his study. And then—a knock.
 
The messenger bore a letter sealed in silver wax, the sigil unmistakable: the Birmouthian Federation. His hands, steady in battle, trembled for the first time in decades as he broke the seal. Inside, just a few lines:
 

Sir Balathor Eldorak Thavinar,

The time has come, you are called.

Report to the inner sanctum in Kras'qos.

The mantle of Sentinel is yours.
 
May Ulus guide you,

—the Birmouthian Federation

 
The day had come. His life's purpose, etched across the years in sweat, prayer, and silence, had been answered. He stood. He donned his ceremonial armor—not out of vanity, but reverence. He did not speak. He did not need to.
 
For he was no longer merely Balathor, he was Sir Balathor Eldorak Thavinar, Arcane Sentinel of the Loom.