Deimos the Devoted

Deimos is extremely tall and muscular. The orcish half of his heritage grew him into a towering 6 feet and 10 inches tall figure, weighing around 300 lbs. He looks bulky but his frame is solid.

Deimos has the heavy brow of an orc, but missing the more porcine nose shape of an orc, instead his nose is human shaped. He has the oversized pointed ears of an orc. Deimos is missing the lower tusks that grow out of the mouths of most half-orcs. Instead, his mouth is human shaped and filled with human sized teeth.

His large size and bright green skin.

Deimos has powers that come from devotion to his oath he took before the gods of The Twelve. He is able to heal the sick and wounded, smite evil with divine righteousness, and rebuke the undead with his holy aura.

Deimos recently found a magical shield, known as a Sentinel Shield, in a small treasure hoard of the slain Dagon.

Deimos could only just remember his childhood before he was brought to the monastery at the age of five. The memories came in fragments: a simple cabin, the warmth of a half-orc woman who cared for and nurtured both him and his twin brother, and a human father who brought back the furs and skins of animale he had trapped or killed.   Even as twins, the brothers were not alike. Phobos bore more of their orcish heritage — tusks budding early, a brutish cast to his features, and the strength of their mother’s blood already visible in him. Deimos, meanwhile, carried more of his father’s human side: broad-shouldered but slower to grow into his large frame, with green skin, a heavy brow, and the orcish ears that marked his lineage. In those earliest days, Phobos was as constant to Deimos as his own shadow.   One night, when they were still very young, the cabin door splintered under a powerful blow. Figures cloaked in fire and shadow stormed inside. Their mother seized her sons by the hands and fled into the trees, while their father’s screams echoed behind them. But the attackers gave chase. In the desperate flight, Deimos stumbled and lost his grip on Phobos’s hand. He looked back just in time to see his mother throw herself between the dark figures and her children, her final cry urging them to run.   Deimos obeyed—but he never saw Phobos again. That last vision of his mother, standing defiant against the darkness, was the only memory he carried of her. Both she and Phobos were lost that night, as if swallowed by the shadows themselves.   The monks of the Sanctuary of the Dawn later found Deimos alone and half-dead among the roots of the forest. They presumed his father had perished in the attack, his mother sacrficing herself so her children can escape, and no sign of Phobos was ever discovered. The search parties scoured the surrounding woods for days, but uncovered nothing—no footprints, no body, not even a scrap of cloth to suggest what had become of him. In time, the monks spoke of Phobos in hushed tones as though he were a spirit already gone to the afterlife.   Deimos himself came to believe it. Though he sometimes dreamed of his twin’s face, the memory blurred more with each passing year until only shadows remained. To him, Phobos was lost, and likely for good.   From then on, Deimos’s family became the monks of the Sanctuary of the Dawn, the monastery his home.   Abbot Gregor Volkov, a stern yet deeply compassionate man, saw more than just a child left to fate. “The gods do not make mistakes,” he said simply, gazing into the boy’s eyes. From that day forward, Deimos was raised within the cloistered walls of the seminary, under the watchful care of the clergy.   Though accepted, he was never coddled. The Sanctuary of the Dawn was not a place for indulgence or softness. Deimos’s days were carved into ritual: rising with the dawn bell, laboring in the garden terraces, hauling water from the mountain-fed spring, copying liturgical texts by candlelight until his fingers cramped. His chores were many, not out of cruelty, but necessity. The physical strain tempered him, dulled no part of him, and polished others.   Brother Laric Vorak, the monastery’s aging archivist, taught him letters and doctrine, often swatting his wrist with a reed when he misspoke a tenet or misquoted a line of sacred verse. “Your mind must be as sharp as the tongues of others will one day be,” he’d chide.   Sister Anya Mirov, a retired adventuring cleric turned healer and apothecary, taught him the basics of swordplay in secret when she saw how he playfully fenced with a broom during chores. “A body as strong as yours is not meant for sweeping,” she once told him, tossing him a wooden practice blade.   But it was Abbot Gregor who became his true father in spirit. The abbot saw every moment of Deimos’s growth—not just in height or muscle, but in restraint, devotion, and dignity. He would often walk with the boy beneath the twilight trees, reciting old stories of heroes who carried the light of the gods into the darkest places.   Yet even behind the walls of the monastery, the burden of his blood was never forgotten. Visiting pilgrims whispered. Acolytes murmured. Some left offerings farther from where Deimos prayed, fearful of his orcish brow and calloused hands. But he never responded with anger. The monks taught him to act out of rage, to act out of vengeance, was not the path of one who would follow the gods of the Twelve.   Not long after Deimos’s thirteenth birthday, a sparrow with a broken wing lain on the monastery steps. The half-orc felt compelled to touch the wounded bird, likely hurt trying to escape the claws of one of the many cats that lived among the monks at the sanctuary. When Deimos laid his hands over the sparrow, a warm, gentle light emanated from his hands and enveloped the sparrow. Scant seconds later, the bird was able to right itself, hopped around lightly on its feet, looked to Deimos and flew, disappearing into the morning sun.   Days after the incident with the sparrow, Deimos began getting strange sensations or feelings when he was near certain people or things. When he was in the sanctuary’s chapel, a warmth came over him and the sound of a gentle choir filled his ears. He set upon concentrating to block the sound from his ears when in that holy place or around the good monks of the Sanctuary of the Dawn.   These incidents were deemed strange by the young half-orc, but he kept these happenings to himself, not even revealing them to Abbot Gregor. He was already worried that that people looked at him strangely and treated him differently because of his orcish blood, he did not want to give anyone more reason to fear him and these mysterious gifts.   In the autumn of Deimos’s seventeenth year, a company of soldiers hailing from the Empire of Vaszkyza came upon the Sanctuary of the Dawn. The captain, a man named Attilus Malcus, was searching for young able bodied men who dwelled in the area to be conscripted into his unit, to join the Empire’s quest to rid the Peaks of Dawn of the dwarves who had settled there generations ago. The captain spied the young well-muscled half-orc and demanded he be pressed to join the legion.   Abbot Gregor and the rest of Deimos’s found family protested, of course, but the holy monks were vastly outnumbered and overpowered. The smell of sulphur and brimstone filled Deimos’s nostrils when he was brought before Captain Malcus. The stench was so strong that it sickened the young man. “Looks to me, the rest of you are naught but sodded old men and withered ancient crones, but we shall take this one,” Captain Malcus exclaimed gesturing towards Deimos as the monks were gathered in front of the monastery, “He will serve the Emperor well.”   Abbot Gregor knew about the Emperor’s attempted genocide of the dwarven clans that settled in the nearby mountain range. He also knew of the Emperor’s hatred of beings not of human blood. “Captain Malcus, he is not of pure human stock! He is a half-breed! A half-orc at that!” the Abbot pleaded, “I do not think the Emperor would be pleased knowing a bastard offspring of savage filthy orcs were a member of his legion’s ranks.”   These words hurt Deimos at first. They stung worse than any rap on his knuckles inflicted on him during his studies. But Deimos concentrated and used his new power he kept secret on the Abbot unknowingly. A warmth filled his belly and the soft ring of a choir again filled his ears. Deimos silently compared the stench he smelled when he was near the Captain to the sensation he felt when he directed his power at the Abbot. He came to the conclusion that the stench indicated that Malcus was pure evil, and that Abbot Gregor was still holy and good. Deimos guessed that the Abbot had uttered these slurs to attempt to dissuade the captain into taking him and forcing him to be a legionnaire for Vaszkysa.   “What better to sniff out a bunch of craven dwarves cowering in the mountains than an orc?” the captain replied with a chuckle referring to the ages long war between the dwarves and the orcs. “I would think the Emperor would reward me for clever thinking.” Malcus turned to Deimos. “What say you half-breed? Serve me well, and the Emperor might overlook your hideous green skin.”   “I will not join you on your quest of genocide, Captain. You will have to kill me. Take me in irons and I will still refuse to serve. You may as well send me to the gods now,” Deimos replied defiantly.   The captain sighed and signaled to his one of his soldiers standing at attention behind him. A quarrel flew from a crossbow from behind the captain and struck a monk in the stomach. She grabbed at the shaft of the bolt as she fell to her knees, her wool robes became dark and wet with blood. Sister Anya rushed to the woman’s side. Deimos fought the urge to as well. He wished to try his power to heal the monk, but he decided that revealing his abilities to Captain Malcus would not be wise.   “If you do not come willingly green one, I will send not only you to meet the gods, but all who serve them at this temple as well,” the captain said to Deimos threateningly. “The choice is yours.”   Deimos stood in silence for what felt an eternity. He felt a rage welling up deep within him. He pondered if he could make it to the captain in time and wrap his hands around his throat to snap his neck before being riddled with bolts from a dozen crossbows. He would gladly die if it meant he could take this murdering scum with him. But these holy people who wished for nothing but to live in peace and complete their service to the Twelve would be slaughtered after his final act of defiance, of this he had no doubt. It was either participate in the murder of dwarves who only wished to settle the Peaks of Dawn or be complicit in the massacre of holy men and women by resisting being conscripted into the legion. Either way he would have the blood of innocents on his hands.   “I will go, Captain, and I will obey, but only on your solemn word that once we march from this monastery, that legionnaire boots will never step on these grounds again, and that these people be left in peace.” Deimos gazed deep into Malcus’s eyes hoping to divine what the captain’s answer would be.   “While you are in no position to make demands, half-breed. I will honor your request if you come of your own free will. The people here will be spared. Now gather your things and say your farewells. We march northbound post haste.” The captain turned towards his men and disappeared amongst their ranks.   And with that Deimos and the monks of the Sanctuary of the Dawn both choked back tears as he said his goodbyes and hugged them all, with only a burlap sack filled with clothing as life in a monastery allowed few possessions. Little was said between until Deimos hugged Abbot Gregor goodbye. The Abbot whispered in the lad’s ear, “I do not fear for your survival, Deimos, for you have been chosen by the gods. I have seen it and know it to be true.”   Puzzled by the declaration, Deimos grabbed his belongings and marched with the Vaszkysan Legion into the Peaks of Dawn. Months followed as Deimos ventured into the tunnels and caverns that riddled the expansive mountain range and life in the legions was a crucible of blood and bitterness. Deimos bore the brunt of every slur and suspicion. To his commanders, he was expendable. To his fellow soldiers, he was a half-breed—good for taking lashes and front-line charges. There were few friends in the barracks. One was Sergeant Kael Dravik, a grizzled veteran with scars deeper than most men’s memories. He taught Deimos how to fight like a solider with honor. The other was Silen Varro, a quiet legionnaire who shared his bread and his books with Deimoswhen no one else would.   Then there was Captain Atillus Malcus. A noble by blood and cruel by temperament, Malcus saw Deimos as a weapon to be dulled against dwarven shields and tool to be broken. Thinking himself clever for pressing a half-orc into service. The curse of his orc blood could be a gift when fighting against his ancestral enemies, no?   At first, Deimos resisted the orders to participate in the slaughter of the dwarven people who were simply defending their homes. The dwarves should have been left alone, but the Emperor deemed them as invaders, encroaching on Imperial land-which was nothing more than a mountain range that no other species had settled. The Peaks of Dawn were but an afterthought to the Empire, until the dwarves had moved in.   Deimos at first tried to refuse the orders to engage in combat. The cruel Malcus would remind him, “By agreeing to join our ranks, you are honor bound to serve and follow orders, half-orc! If I suspect you of shirking your duties, I will punish you severely and your precious monks will suffer as well!” Deimos did not care about the punishment to himself, he would endure all the lashes of Malcus’s whip if it meant the clergy at the Sanctuary of the Dawn would be spared. But this threat ensured that Deimos would indeed fulfill his duty…and kill.   In the coming weeks, more blood was to be spilled; dwarven villages were burnt and its inhabitants slain. During a battle at a dwarven outpost deep within the mountain range, Deimos suffered a vicious wound to his leg from a dwarven battle-axe. Deimos had been felled and as the dwarf warrior raised his might axe over his head, ready to deliver the killing blow, a crossbow bolt ended that fatal blow to Deimos’s skull. He was helped to his feet by his fellow soldier, Silen Varro. “I can’t let you die half-orc. If you did who would I have to discuss my books with?”   After this act, Deimos vowed to never leave a fallen comrade behind.
In private, Deimos used his gift to heal a second time to mend his wounded leg, for he was sure that Malcus would not accept his injury as a stay from battle.   Days later, the company of legionnaires pushed forward, deeper into the mountain range. The men had suffered heavy losses when faced with the brave, fierce, and battle savvy dwarves. But when an excursion into a series pf caverns presented a small dwarven stronghold, Malcus pressed an offensive anyway, and it did not look certain that the forces of the Emperor would claim victory. The battle was chaotic and brutal, and indeed begin to turn the way of the dwarves defending their keep. The company was sure to fall to dwarven axe and mace, and Deimos considered surrendering, as many of these so-called ruthless killers began doing; throwing away their arms and begging for mercy from the dwarves. But he realized he would find no mercy amongst his foes being a half-orc, so when it looked like the battle was indeed lost, Deimos seized the opportunity and fled.   Suffering from exhaustion, starvation, and dehydration through mountain pathways in the days that followed, he stumbled through the rocky paths back south to the mouth of the Peaks of Dawn. He had collapsed at one point during his swift journey. With no food, no water, bloodied, and tired, Deimos had decided here was where he would surrender and hopefully the gods would welcome him and forgive him of the sins he had committed.   Deimos had a feverish dream, or was it a vision? The sun was beating down on his depleted body and he could swear the sun spoke to him;
“Seek the vale where the mountain pierces the sun. Behind the veil of endless waters, oaths broken and oaths kept lie entombed. Cast aside shield and sword, for only the spirit may pass unscarred.”
Then came silence, save for the echo of falling water in his mind.   A new strength had swelled within the man. He forced himself to his feet and continued down the mountain paths. He was determined to rejoin his fellows at the Sanctuary of the Dawn, to forget about the atrocities he was extorted to commit, and live his life at peace once again. It would be on the same doorstep upon where he was found as a young and frightened boy, that he would collapse again; depleted and near death.   Deimos awoke in a warm bed, surrounded by incense smoke and whispered prayers. When he could walk again, he strolled with Abbot Gregor amid the trees of the monastery’s arbor. Deimos had told Gregor of the strange gifts he had been given from the gods and of the times he had used them. He also revealed to the Abbot of the vision that fell upon him as he lay near death on a mountain path.   “Our order holds fragments of an older lore, preserved from before the fall of Celinad. They tell of the Vale of Forgotten Oaths, hidden in the Drakor Mountains. It is said in that valley lies a temple, older than even the Empire of Celinad. For centuries we have believed it lost — no path leads to it, and no one who sought it returned. The glen and the temple itself became a story, a parable.” He turned his weathered face toward Deimos. “But your vision must truly be a sign. South and east lie the Drakor mountains. There is a mountain there so great that it seems to pierce Primus at all times of day until the sun begins to set.. There are no roads or paths to follow, and fell beasts dwell among the peaks, but if the gods have chosen you, they will open the way. Only one called by the Twelve can enter its halls. The path will not yield to others. The gods spoke to me as well, the night before you left with the Vaszkysans. While in prayer they revealed to me this is your quest, Deimos, and your sanctification.”   So on the next morning, once again, he left.   His pilgrimage took him due west. The following are excerpts from his journal:  

Journal of Deimos   Year 3245, Imperial Calendar   Emberfast Refuge – Solara 3rd   Abbot Gregor says the gods have chosen me. I do not feel chosen—only burdened. Yet I trust him. He has never spoken lightly. My blade lies sheathed, not in shame, but in purpose. I ride west beneath the red-stained peaks of Dawn, leaving behind the only home I have ever known. The wind howls like a warning from the mountains. Still, I go.   Kingdom of Galador – Harvestmoon 10th   The lowlands are green and wide. Farmers wave cautiously. Word spreads quickly: a half-orc deserter from Vaszkyza walks among them. I wear no sigils, but they see the orc in me and wonder. I do not blame them. A merchant near Crosswater gave me bread and refused coin. “We all run from something,” he said.   Arindel – Harvestmoond 13th   The shining capital of Galador. I did not linger. Knights in gleaming steel stood guard at the gates. One looked at me and whispered “Half-blood” under his breath. Perhaps he meant nothing. Perhaps he meant to wound. I prayed beneath the open sky that night. The Twelve were silent, but I felt their watching.   Edge of the Greatwood – Havestmoond 27th   The elves do not welcome me. Not even the woods seem to. I turned south. I could not risk their arrows. My path leads further from home than I expected. The gods did not promise ease, only destiny.   Thimblebark Forest – Lunaria 14th   The halflings watched from burrows and trees. One brave elder named Mervin offered me ale and riddles by his fire. He spoke of things he could not know—my shame, my dreams, my fear. When I asked how, he simply said, “The flame watches all, lad.” I think he was more than he seemed.I rested here two days. I dreamed of a brazier burning with blinding light, buried deep in a stone chapel. When I woke, my hands were warm, my heart steady. I have never felt more ready.   Foothills of the Drakor Mountains – Lunaria 24th   Stone and wind greet me now. Snow lingers even in summer’s heart. Somewhere hidden in these crags is the legendary glen. I feel it in my bones.   The Drakor Mountains-6th of Gloomsoul   For fifty days I hiked pebble filled paths and scaled cliff faces. There were times I felt the wind would flay the skin from my bones, and even a fire would not remove it’s chill from my body. Since entering the mountains, I felt the eyes of creature and beast watching me, though they disturbed me not. The Twelve must have been protecting me. I could see the peak of the great mountain ahead to the east. It appeared as the vision said. A sharp point, like a dagger, piercing the sun. Ahead I shall forge, I must be getting close.   The Vale of Forgotten Oaths-18th of Gloomsoul   The sound of water led me here. I scaled a wall of sheer rock, and when I reached it’s summit, the Vale of Forgtten Oaths laid before me. Miles of green grass stretched out before me, their surface dotted by trees and patches of wild flowers. Across the valley I could see the massive waterfall that poured down into a mountain stream which flowed westward. As I climbed down into the vale, I could feel something… different. The air was heavy with divine presence. Not the kind that strikes you with awe, like a vision or a miracle. This was quieter, subtler. Like breath on the back of your neck. Watching. Waiting.   I made my way across the vale, happy to no longer be traveling on treacherous rock. I reached the waterfall, and I slipped through the veil of water and into darkness.   Behind the waterfall was a hollow chamber, untouched by time. Moss carpeted the stones beneath my boots, and I felt warmth radiate from the walls themselves—strange, given that the cavern was cold. A scent lingered in the air, faint and fragrant. Frankincense and myrrh. Holy incense. Someone had been here before me. Or perhaps still was.

  When Deimos stepped into a large chamber, he saw a single brzier was lit and flames were dancing atop small pyramids of burning coal. A lone figure draped in a hooded robe stood before him. Deimos could not see the figure’s face as it was obscured in shadow underneath their hood. A multitude of voices spoke at once when the figure opened his mouth. Male and female voices echoed simultaneously through the chamber:
“Welcome warrior. I am the Keeper of the Sacraments. In the chamber ahead lie the Sacraments of the Twelve. Time and space have no meaning there, and you will be tested by each god to prove your worthiness of the title of champion. The gods have chosen you to complete these sacraments. To fail means death.”   The Keeper outstretched his hand; a long, bony finger pointed at a doorway ahead of where Deimos stood, and the warrior stepped inside the chamber. The room quickly became a vast ocean, and Deimos sank beneath its waves. It appears the Sacrament of Naussica had begun.    

From the Journal of Deimos:
  Naussica's Sacrament, The Trial of the Deep.
The water dragged me down, my armor a coffin of iron. I had to shed it, though every piece felt like failure. On the seabed I found a chest — inside, seeds unlike any I had seen. I clutched them to my chest like breath itself.   Primus's Sacrament, The Trial of Radiance.
The light of the First shone upon me, and I was struck blind. Though I staggered in darkness, I heard his voice like thunder within my bones: “Not all blindness is loss.” What seemed curse would soon become strength.   Nocturna's Sacrament, Trial of the Shadow.
The maze of shadow stretched without end, filled with whispers meant to confuse and deceive. Yet my blindness shielded me; their illusions could not root in me. Guided by faith alone, I found the Amulet of the Blazing Sun and raised it high. Its radiance broke the maze, and above me spread a sky waiting for dawn.   Propsera's Sacrsment, The Trial of the Harvest.
I planted the seeds, watered them with sweat, and gave them the sun of the Amulet. But the earth stayed thirsty. I knew then: I would need rain, and the forest of Silvanus called me onward.   Silvanus's Sacrament, The Trial of the Forest.
The forest swallowed me whole, its roots and branches twisting endlessly in every direction. Blind though I remain, I feel the pulse of this place — old as the first breath of the world. It was here I heard her voice, lilting like wind through leaves, neither cruel nor kind.
"I am always growing, yet never move. I drink without lips, and breathe without lungs. Strike me down, and I rise anew. Tell me, warrior — what am I?"
I turned the words over in my mind, but my hands gave me the answer. For in my grasp I felt rough bark, the lines of age circling beneath my fingertips, and the whisper of leaves above. A tree. My answer pleased her. The path opened, and she laid the Horn of Storms in my hands — a prize earned not through sight, but by trust in touch and memory.   Serenna's Sacrament, The Trial of Mercy.
I found a unicorn dying. Its cries and whimpers begged me for peace, but I could not kill such purity. I decide to use my gift to try to heal the beast. There was pain this time and I tnearly broke me, but it rose whole again, and led me from the forest’s grip.   Tempus's Sacrament, The Trial of the Storm.
The Horn of Storms called down the Warlord himself. He grappled me with the fury of the sky, and I — weary, blinded, drained — should have fallen. Yet I did not fight with strength alone. I yielded, turned his force against him, and when he fell, the storm broke. Rain blessed the field, and divine golden ingots rose from the earth.   Volturnus's Sacrament, The Trial of the Forge.
With ingots in hand, I entered the forge. Fire and hammer guided me as though unseen hands moved with mine. Piece by piece, I shaped the armor that would guard me in the trials to come. When I set the last plate in place, I was remade in golden steel.   Revanna's Sacrament, The Trial of Sacrifice.
Two visions, two deaths. In one, I saw myself broken and lifeless, black smoke swallowing the world. In the other, I saw the Abbot’s blood upon the sanctuary steps, the sky above bright with birdsong. I chose his death, though the choice tore me. The false future passed, and Revenna’s cruel trial was done. In the stillness, my weapon lay before me — a divine spear, born of sacrifice.   Tyrannus's Sacrament, The Trial of War.
At last, armored and armed, I faced the horde. They came like a tide, countless and wrathful, but each blow struck was guided by more than steel — it was faith that carried me, the devotion forged in every trial before, for my spear from Revanna had now a broken shaft and my golden plate armor had become battered, dented, and almost useless. I fought with sheer rage and gauntleted hands. I let my orcish blood fuel me with rage, savaregy, and determination. What was considered a curse was now a boon, and when the last foe fell, silence reigned.   Lacking were two sacraments. I can only assume that there were trials administered by the dead gods, Kitsemus and Mystra, but have now gone silent after the deicide commited by the ursurper, the Lich King, he whose name cannot be spoken. So with these sacraments comeplete, I went to take my oath and my place among the righteous.

  The Sacraments once completed found Deimos in the same stone circular chamber that he had entered. His wounds gone, his sight restored, he turned and saw the Keeper in the doorway to the chamber. Another raised, wretched finger bade him into the entrance chamber. He dropped his broken spear and shed the once golden armor.   In front of Deimos was the brazier, it’s flame burning bright and high this time. The Keeper motioned for Deimos to kneel before the brazier, and as he did so, Deimos lowered his gaze to the flickering light, its warmth a stark contrast to the long shadows cast by the trials he had endured. The silence around him was thick with reverence, broken only by the faint whisper of distant winds through the ancient stone halls.   The words of his oath appeared in his mind. His voice was steady, carrying the weight of his journey and the resolve forged by each trial:
"I pledge my mind, to hold truth above all, that my words may be a bond unbroken. No deception shall pass my lips, no lie taint my honor."
The flame flickered in response, as if acknowledging the vow.
"I pledge my body, to face the darkness without falter, to stand unwavering in the face of fear and danger. Let courage be my armor, steady and true."
The air grew charged, the flame brightening as if stirred by unseen winds.
"I pledge my spirit, to show compassion to the weak and suffering, to be a sanctuary for those who seek refuge, a beacon of mercy in a harsh world."
A gentle warmth radiated from the flame, soothing and fierce at once.
"I pledge my heart to honor, to act with fairness, to do good without faltering, and to serve as an example to all who would follow the righteous path."
The glow deepened, casting golden light upon Deimos’s face.
"I pledge my duty, to accept the weight of my choices, to protect those under my care, and to obey those who lead with justice and wisdom."
The flame surged upward, a pillar of radiant fire illuminating the chamber with celestial brilliance. Twelve voices—strong, solemn, and intertwined—echoed through the hall, resounding in every corner:
"Then rise, Deimos, Paladin of Devotion. Bound by mind, body, and spirit to the Tenets of the Twelve. Go forth as shield and sword, the living flame against darkness and despair."
Slowly, Deimos rose, the sacred fire casting his elongated shadow across the stone floor—an emblem of the new path he had embraced. His trials had ended, but his service had only just begun. Outside the Sanctum, the world awaited—perilous, uncertain, and in desperate need of heroes.

Deimos studied academics, religion and scripture, history, as well as daily rituals and prayers at the Emberfast Refuge monastery.

Deimos was a soldier in the imperial army in the service of the Empire of Vaszkyza before deserting and taking the Oath of Devotion to become a Paladin.

Deimos comepleted and survived a months long pilgramage by foot to find the Sanctuary of The Twelvefold Flame and survived its trials, a feat few in known history have accomplished.

One could claim deserting his unit as a soldier in the Imperial Army would have been an embarassment, but for Deimos it was a decision that awakened in him his higher purpose of pursuing his devotion of the gods.

Deimos seeks to emobdy the tenets of the oath he took when he pledged himself as a paladin, and champion, to the Twelve. He looks not for glory, gold, or power, but to serve the gods and all the people of all the Silver Shores as a beacon of truth, chairty, righteousness, and faith.

Deimos emobodies the tenets of this oath to the gods. These tenets are:

• Honesty-Deliver no falsehoods or commit deceitful acts.
• Bravery-Never fear to act, though caution is wise.
• Compassion-To aid others, and protect the weak. Be charitable to those in need.
• Mercy-Show mercy to your foes, but temper it with wisdom.
• Honor-Treat others with fairness, and let your honorable deeds be an example to them. Let your word be your promise.
• Duty-Be responsible for your actions and their consequences, protect those entrusted to your care, and obey those who have just authority over you.
• Lawfulness-Uphold the tenets, laws, and faith of the Twelve and it's individual gods, save the usurper Vecna. Obey the laws of the realm second.

Deimos has contacts within the army of the Empire of Vaszkysa. Those who live and work at the Emberfast Refuge are the only people he would call family. He also knows the monks and priests that tend to the Sanctuary of the Dawn.

Deimos is a devout and pious follower of the The Twelve. He seeks to be the embodiment of their edicts and tenets.

Deimos exudes confiedence. Strength, bravery, and commitment radiate from his like a magical aura.

Deimos speaks slow and deliberately. His voice low but yet soft.