Ralo Wethrosh

Ralo Wethrosh was born beneath the pale shimmer of Noctem and the guiding Star Bands, yet his life was far from one of Elnian splendor. His mother abandoned him at the steps of a temple to The Dawnbringer, nestled at the edge of a Hymic village straddling the Andan Heartland and Myrkwood. Two devout clerics of The Golden Light took him in: Father Malvin and Mother Mosa. Raising him as their own. Teaching him the sacred hymns and their sacred prayers. Instilling upon him the virtues of light. Ralo grew into a kind hearted soul, with his faith unshakable and the belief he held in the goodness of all unwavering. Despite being the only Elnian in the village of Elnor, he found solace from his isolation in the teachings of compassion and redemption through The Dawnbringer. His diligence carried him through his youth of priestly training, bringing him to the same esteem in the village as Father Malvin—a beacon of light in both heart and mind.

He grew into the position of Father Melvin and Mother Mosa's assistant, ascending to the point of guiding others in prayer and devotion to Mother Seed, but as all clerics under The Dawnbringer are tasked with a mission, he too was tasked as the temple in Anderstal told him to make a journey into the Myrkwood and bring light to the people of Myrasae. Rumors had reached the High Priests that the village had fallen astray from the guidance of the Ilhuicani, the Twenty-One divine, and fallen into disarray and madness. As duty called, and the will of The Dawnbringer pulled him forward, he made his way to Myrasae eager to fulfill his purpose.

On his arrival, his eagerness and desire to aid these people was shattered. Unease clung to the air. Houses stood seemly abandoned, doors and windows barred shut. Whispers crept out from each shadow, carrying the hushed words of the few villagers that remained out and about; words of a cult searching for a vessel to host an emissary to the One of Fang, and strange man-like beasts prowling the woods and lowlands to the south at night, howling at the sight of Noctem above. Despite the new uncertainty, he stayed true to his mission and restored the local temple, bringing a small beacon of light back into the villagers lives. The weeks in Myrasae turned to months as the seasons passed, with Ortus turning into Peruro which shifted to Labes after the end of the scorch, and with each prayer to The Dawnbringer he helped the villagers belief in the superstitious rumors that held them down recede like the southern fog each morning. With the words he told himself and the villagers to keep the rumors at bay, "Fear creates myth and monster", hope was brought back to the villagers as they cast aside their beliefs that he was but a young fool, shifting into seeing him as a righteous man.

After a long day of ceremony and tending to the divine flames of The Golden Light, as he finished his rounds of the temple, he noticed a cloaked figure observing a statue of The Dawnbringer. Not recognizing them, he approached in hopes of helping another find the light that had guided him forward, just as he had for plenty in the village. He entered the great hall, with the first words of greeting leaving his mouth being matched by a blow to the back of his head, and his body falling limp to the stone floor with his shadow cast long by the dim light of the flame of his devotion.

He awoke, bound face up to an alter of stone and root, surrounded by a shallow basin of clouded water streaked red by blood. Cloaked figures surrounded him, each of their robes marred by blood and sinew. Pain ripped through his back, barely conscious but aware of each laceration that crossed between his shoulder blades and along his spine. "You denied our god", one of the figures spoke, "the Twenty-One hold no sway here, only the One of Fang, the Master of Beasts, only he can hold sway over us. You interrupted our hunt for a new vessel for his emissary, and as such, you shall take that role." With those words, the figures around him stepped forward, and all but one drove a dagger into his chest, carefully avoiding his heart and lungs while leading blood to pour from the wounds. From the alter beneath him, from a gap below his lower back, he felt something grab a hold of him, guided by the new onslaught of his blood. It dug into his skin, slid into the deep cuts crossing his flesh, gripped the bones of his spine and wrapped around it. Something ancient took hold in the base of his mind, something primal, something hungry... just as his surroundings went black once more.

His consciousness returned with the break of day, the early light of Caelux stirring him from his restless slumber. With the Star Bands fading into the morning sky, he walked back into town from the outskirts of the southern hills, draped in nothing but a tattered cloth. Mad with hunger, his body aching, and his mind refusing to allow him to recall the events of the night before, he packed his things from the temple and began the journey back to Elnor. The days of travel blended together, nights forgotten, his clothes ending up more tattered and ruined with each moment he couldn't recall. Upon his return and the sight of his small family temple, his home, he collapsed in front of the ceremonial basin that held the divine flame, weeping in relief. Father Melvin and Mother Mosa sat with him, at his side, and held him close, comforting the child they raised into the man between them that, in that moment, needed them and their kindness more than anything.

They stayed their together, in silence, for the rest of the day. Ralo drifted in and out of sleep, held in the arms of his family once more, he finally felt safe. But when Noctem rose once more, and his vision faded, his last thoughts were of concern and fear at the hunger growing at the back of his mind.

The next morning, he awoke naked and sprawled across a bench in the grand hall, his skin painted red in blood. The room was damaged beyond belief: statues toppled, the grand basin upturned with the ashes it held spread across the floor, burns from radiant flames mixed with claw marks scarring the walls and floor, and within two pools of blood rested the mangled and disfigured corpses of Father Malvin and Mother Mosa. Their faces, where they remained intact, showed a mix of fear and devotion, each having left the world into the arms of The Dawnbringer saying prayers with their final breath. Their bodies were ripped open, their organs torn apart and spread across the pools each of them lay in, with them both having been partially consumed. The horror tore through him, his heart breaking, and his faith near shattering in one fell stroke. Finally he was able to recall the night upon that alter of root and stone, and notice the aching pain that rest along his lower back. As his hands trembled with fear and the belief that his Soul had been hallowed out, Ralo fled the temple, running from what he knew had happened the night before.

Haunted by guilt for what he knows happened within his home, and hunted by both the cultists in desire of their vessel and those who fear him, Ralo wanders Thandia. Having traveled west in search of a new start, he joined with several bands of Mercenaries as their healer and moral guide to earn the coin for his travels. Never staying long enough to form bonds he would fear destroying. Constantly moving to ensure that the nights that go forgotten by him hurt few. Endlessly running from a beast that called him its home. The pain in his lower back, although fading over time, has become the reminder of both his transgressions against The Dawnbringer and the violence committed towards those he loved. Now, Ralo Wethrosh seeks impossible: a cure for this curse, redemption for his mind and soul, the the faint hope that monsters can serve the light.