Backstory

The town of Havenslock was a place of ashen skies and slate-streaked hills, where the air hung thick with the scent of wet stone and coal dust. Nestled against the shadow of craggy cliffs, its people were miners and stonecutters, their songs echoing through the tunnels as they chipped away at the frozen earth. The town was neither prosperous nor poor, but it had something many other places did not — a Temple to Mystra, its purple lanterns casting a soft, ethereal glow each night, warding against the ever-encroaching mist. Beneath that cold, flickering light, the townsfolk worked, prayed, and sang, voices rising above the clang of pickaxes and the grind of stone.

Within that temple, Mystra's clergy kept the wards strong, protecting the town from the horrors that roamed in the dark. The townsfolk believed that as long as Mystra's light shone, the mist could never claim them.

Craxian Flakwood was born to James, a human woodcutter, and Fhalahne, an elven huntress. Their home was small but warm, filled with the smell of woodsmoke and cooking stew, and for a time, it felt like nothing could touch them. But the mist always takes.

When Craxian was twelve, a few years after the birth of his sister Carkilia, his mother went missing on a hunting trip. Her bow and quiver were found abandoned at the edge of the woods. Search parties found nothing. Some claimed the mist had taken her; others said she had simply walked into it willingly, unable to bear the weight of the world any longer.

After Fhalahne's disappearance, James began to unravel. Once a proud, loving father, he grew cold and bitter - his grief souring to anger and drink. Craxian bore the brunt of it - bruises hidden beneath sleeves, words that struck as sharply as fists. The only place he found refuge was within the template of Mystra, where he spent hours tending to the sacred spaces, polishing the lanterns, and ensuring the wards were well kept.

Under the watchful eye of Father Alden Ironsoul, the Archpriest, Craxian learned how to serve Mystra - how to clean the altar, maintain the lanterns, how to speak the prayers that helped keep the wards intact. Mystra became a mother to him, a source of warmth and light when all else was dark.

But Havenslock was not immune to suffering.

When Craxian was twenty-two, the air in Havenslock was thick with the scent of wet ash. The streets were empty, the bells having already tolled the Final Bell, and only the purple landers of Mystra remained. Craxian was alone in the temple, tending to the altar, when the door swung open with a crash.

Two men stumbled inside, their cloaks heavy with mist, faces shrouded beneath deep hoods. The first was a young, wiry man with a nervous twitch, his eyes darting around the temple like a cornered animal. The other was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his skin pale and slick with a dark, silvery sheen that almost seemed to gleam in the lantern light. Beneath his hood, his eyes were black - not dark, but completely black, like polished stone.

The taller man strode forward, his eyes fixed on the altar of Mystra, where offerings of silver coins and ceremonial knives lay.

"Take what you can," he said, his voice low and echoing, like words spoken underwater. "Before the night takes us."

The younger man moved quickly, stuffing coins into a ragged satchel. But the tall man did not take his eyes off Craxian, who stood frozen, hands clenched around a half-burned candle.

"You shouldn't be here," Craxian said, his voice tight. "The mist is out, you'll die out there."

The tall man smiled, his lips parting to reveal teeth too sharp, too white.

"The mist is where we were born," he said. "It's where we'll be reborn."

Something glinted in his hand, and Craxian caught the flash of a blackened, rubbery cloth. The man wrapped it around one of Mystra's ceremonial daggers, his fingers rightening around the hilt until his knuckles cracked.

Father Alden emerged from the back room, drawn by the noise. The tall man's head snapped toward him, and in that moment, the younger thief panicked, knocking over an oil lantern. The flame caught on one of the hanging tapestries and spread, smoke rising in heavy plumes.

Father Alden shouted, rushing forward to pull the thieves away, and that's when the tall man lunged. Craxian grabbed another dagger from the altar - a silver blade, it's hilt adorned with Mystra's symbol - and ran toward them.

But his foot caught on a fallen pew, and the blade drove forward, sinking deep into Father Alden's chest.

The old priests gasped, his eyes widening as he fell, blood pooling beneath him.

The younger thief screamed, his voice echoing in Craxian's ears. But the tall man only laughed, a low, rasping sound. He crouched beside Father Alden's dying form and leaned close, whispering something Craxian couldn't hear.

Then he rose, his black eyes meeting Craxian's. "You took a life in a house of light." he said, voice like the wind through a graveyard. "Now the dark knows your name."

And then the two men were gone, swallowed by the mist.

Craxian stood, rooted to the spot like he was frozen in the fields. He looked down at Father Alden, lying in his blood that continued to pool and grow around him, and the footsteps of his blood left by the thief.

Then he ran. He ran through the smoke, the streets, all the way home. When he burst through the door, his father was there - drunk, angry, fists clenched. He grabbed him, demanding to know why his son was covered in blood and soot, and when Craxian tried to flee, his father swung at him, fists wild and uncoordinated.

Craxian fought back. For the first time, he fought back, and when he broke free he grabbed his bag and stuffed it with whatever he could carry, and fled into the night.

Hours later, when the mist had fully submerged the town in a heavy blanket, Craxian's legs gave out. He collapsed against a twisted tree, its branches clawing at the sky like gnarled fingers. The tree stood atop a hill in the town's graveyard, where the priests bury those taken by the mist, those who were never found.

Sleep took him, but it was not restful. He fell into a dream that felt like drowning, the mist closing in, a heavy weight pressing against his chest. In that dream, Mystra came to him for the first time.

Her face was obscured, shrouded in smoke and shadow, but her voice was clear - a low, echoing sound, like a bell tolling in the fog.

"You have betrayed me," She said. "You have defiled my temple and drawn blood in my name."

Craxian could barely breathe. "It was an accident," he whispered. "I didn't mean to--"

"But it was done," Mystra said "And now you owe me. Your life is forfeit to me now, boy. Your soul, too."

She raised her hand, and a murder of ravens burst from the ground, swirling around her, their wings beating like war drums. Craxian felt them clawing at his skin, felt their beaks pecking at his arms, his chest, his mind. But when they cleared, he was still standing, whole and unbroken. In his hands, he held two daggers shimmering with ethereal light - blades that pulsed like heartbeats, as though they were part of him.

"Take these," Mystra said. "They are yours now, as is your debt. Use them to do my will. You are mine, Craxian. Body and soul."

When Craxian awoke, the mist was lifting, and the town lay below - silent and still. As he rose to his feet, he saw a dark figure pulling away from the graveyard, a figure cloaked in black, its head bowed, ravens trailing behind it.

Craxian tried to follow, but the figure melted into the mist, vanishing without a trace.

In the years that followed, Craxian learned to keep his head low and his hands quick. The mist was dangerous, yes, but so were the people who might recognise him - thieves, bounty hunters, the priests of Mystra who still spoke of the template fire and the death of Father Alden.

His gifts - the soul knives Mystra had bestowed upon him - became both his salvation and his curse. They whispered to him in the dark, faint voices that reminded him of Father Alden's dying gasp. And always, he felt the weight of that debt, hanging over him like a storm cloud.

He began to steal to survive, using his skills to slip through the mist unseen, to navigate the shifting, mist-choked roads. He crafted a mask to keep his identity hidden in new places - until he was sure no one knew his name.

But the road grows harder, and Mystra's whispers grow louder. As the world becomes darker and more dangerous, Craxian knows that he cannot survive alone.