Saraquiel

Beginnings

Saraquiel was born into the radiant heart of Valoria. As an imperial theocracy devoted to Pelor, the citizens of Valoria revere aasimar as demigods, seeing them as divine paragons of virtue and justice. From the moment her bloodline manifested itself, the young girl was marked for greatness.

The Solarium

At the age of nine, Saraquiel was sent to the Solarium, an exclusive boarding school perched high in the Dawnspire Mountains.

Here, young aasimar are molded into champions of the faith—paladins, clerics, sorcerers and judges who would serve the Empire with unwavering loyalty. Her days were filled with ritual prayers, rigorous training and lectures on honour and her sacred duty to protect the innocent.

It was here she met Aikir, an aasimar girl with a defiant streak and a sharp, skeptical mind. Where Saraquiel thrived on the structure and discipline of the Solarium, Aikir questioned, challenged and resisted. They became inseparable—Aikir’s rebellious streak balancing Saraquiel’s dutiful nature.

The Wayward Tutor

Saraquiel’s life shifted when she came under the tutelage of Sir Malreaux, a visiting paladin whose charisma commanded all who heard him. He spoke of justice in ways that stirred something darker—an understanding of power not as a burden, but as a right.

Malreaux whispered truths the priests dare not teach, of strength unbound by the expectations of stringent oaths. Saraquiel, eager to prove her worth, absorbed every word as if they came from Pelor himself.

Aikir distrusted Malreaux from the start. She warned Saraquiel that there was something wrong in his eyes—too calculating, too hungry. But Saraquiel brushed off her concerns, blinded by admiration for her new mentor.

The Sting of Betrayal

The truth came like a dagger in the back—cold, merciless and drenched in blood. Malreaux was no human paladin at all but an abishai named Gallu, a devilish infiltrator sowing dissent among the Solarium’s chosen. He sought to nurture latent pride and ambition in the young aasimar, preparing them as covert warriors for an invasion of Valoria.

When Gallu’s true identity was exposed, chaos erupted throughout the school. He and his devoted acolytes cut a bloody swathe through the halls, before scattering into the wilderness. While Saraquiel and Aikir survived the attack, many others were not so fortunate.

Saraquiel, thought to be tainted by proximity to the abishai, had her loyalty questioned by the Solarium's council. As she showed remorse for her crimes, the priests presented her with a choice:

• Hunt Gallu and bring him to justice, proving her devotion;
• Leave the Solarium forever, doomed to the shame of becoming a fallen aasimar.

Duty-bound as ever, Saraquiel chose to hunt. She set out the following dawn, her pack light and her heart heavier than the armour she wore. The road ahead felt oppressive—every step carrying her farther from the life she knew. By nightfall, Pelor’s warmth seemed no more than a memory.

Her first trial came sooner than she expected.

The Cursed Inkwell

Three days later, in the hills west of Everglade, Saraquiel encountered a terrified farmer raving about a pack of bandits with hostages. Following the man’s directions, she tracked the outlaws to a half-collapsed watchtower near the Nymerian border.

As Saraquiel entered the tower, a familiar wrongness grew in her chest—the same presence she had felt listening to her former mentor’s “lessons".

Inside, the bandits had forced their captives to sit at a long, splintered table before an inkwell engraved with sigils. As each captive dipped the quill, the ink seemed to move of its own accord, dragging their hands across the parchment.

Words formed into desperate ransom notes. The infernal inkwell infected the minds of its writer with fear, distilling them into perfectly phrased pleas that no family could ignore.

After reciting a quick prayer, Saraquiel met the bandits head on, her longsword fueled by a fury she barely knew. Her aura no longer shone; instead, shadows clung about her and the air grew cold where she stood. The bandits quickly retreated, their courage broken as they realised this dark angel would give them no quarter.

Aiding the captives was a more difficult task. One had already lost weeks of memory to the cursed inkwell; another sobbed, unable to remember their child’s face. Regardless, the captives knelt before her—not out of reverence but gratitude. Saraquiel could not meet their eyes.

Overcome with righteous anger, she attempted to destroy the inkwell. Every strike was futile, the cursed vessel's ink simply boiling and shrieking in response. Defeated, she wrapped it in cloth and placed it in her backpack. If any had the will to withstand such an evil object, it would be an aasimar.

The Road Ahead

That night, as the ransom notes crackled in the campfire, Saraquiel pondered her future. Tracking an abishai was no small task but she was determined to bring him to justice, no matter how long it might take.

Unfortunately, such idealism can only last so long. Gallu proved to be a phantom, always one step ahead of her, if not two. Weeks turned to months, months to seasons, and the seasons into a full year.

Now, Saraquiel wanders the fringes, protecting those who the Empire overlooks. She clings to the hope that redemption is still within reach, that she may one day earn the right to see Aikir again.

Without a lead, her faith often falters and she fears a day will come when hope gutters out entirely. But until then, she will hunt—if not for Pelor’s light, then for justice.

And if justice fails… for vengeance.