Paladin of the Holy Order of Solathos
Agility: D8 (N)
Strength: D12 (V)
Vow (Major): A vow of piety towards Solathos, the Warrior God of Fire and the Sun.
Arcane Background: Miracles
Brawny: +1 Toughness, 8x STR carry weight.
Block: +1 Parry
Plate Mail (1 Parry)
Ancient Blade of Sir Arlic Porthis (Strength +D8 +1)
Blessing of Melkar (plot)
The impetuous and devout Cailan MacAlisdair is a paladin of the northern highlands, on a personal crusade of soulseeking and vengeance.
The Clan MacAlisdair
Empirical dark wizards once ruled over a small people of the north. Their reign, though kept during peacetime, was oppressive and unchecked by any outside source. Goods were taken, young girls abducted, and those who spoke out against whichever lord ruled at the time were turned to ash, and their families forced to work the mines. The rule became all the people knew, and after decades, lived symbiotically under the shadow of the Black Tower.
These are where the first records of the Clan MacAlisdair are found. It is said that Flannagan MacAlisdair and his son, Branan, were the first to rise up against the wizard who held dominion over their lands and families. The other farmfolk of the Clan followed them to battle, and though unaided by the other Clans of the north, sacked the Black Tower. Many lives were lost to the undead beings and ghostly apparitions summoned to take arms against them, and though Flannagan was slain, his son Branan slayed the beast, and ended his dark reign.
Greeted first as heroes, the land was assailed on many fronts by orcs and raiders, and whatever trade routes kept by the wizards were abandoned. The blight on the lands were blamed on the Clan, and though their actions were just and true, history remembers only the hardships that followed.
Once a people of noble standing and good name in the northern realm, the MacAlisdairs have since fallen from favor, being labelled as drunkards and renegades by the other clans of the nation.
The Dragon and the Farmboy
The youngest of 5 children, Cailan was a farmhand at a young age like all young men in his village. Though always looked down on as a MacAlisdair, he payed no heed to the words and preferred the stories his father would regale him with. Stories of far off lands, scaly dragons hoarding vast hills of gold and rubies, lizards who walked upright like men, and tombs of evil where the dead would come alive. But Cailan’s favorite story was always the story of Flannagan the Brave, and his noble squire Branan; the fearless knights who scaled a mountain to slay an evil wizard who sought to enslave all of humanity. The sword above his hearth was proof alone against the tyranny of evil, so why give doubt to any story his father had to impart?
The tales consumed him. Plowing the cabbage field became riding his steed into a horde of orcs, his silver lance finding home in their hearts. Plucking potatoes turned to shoveling heaps of gold into his coffers, which he always imparted to his clan as a joyous bounty. And as soon as he could start causing mischief, he would sneak out of his bed when the sun was set, fencing with the scarecrow with a broken broomhandle.
Branan died from infection following an orc raid on the highlands when Cailan was 12. He can still remember his mother forcing him not to follow his father to battle, and the longing sadness of his father carrying his eldest sibling Lachlan back from the eastern wall, dead. And while holding his father’s hand during his last moments shook him to the bone, the most defining moment of the occurrences held no tears or swords or blood. An argument between Patriarch Farnal of the Clan Drognan and his father proved to influence Cailan into the path he now treads. Shouting, blaming, name throwing and tears over lost land and loved ones, the state of the MacAlisdairs was as tattered as the wooden family crest that he bore around his neck, weathered by time.
His father died that same night. And though he held his hand to the very end, not a single tear was shed. Cailan whispered to his father, of the things he would see and the people he would meet, and the riches he would shower upon his family and all who needed them. He promised his father he would bring glory to his name. Branan smiled for the last time.
Praise the Sun
At the age of 16 Cailan left home. His clan thought his quest foolish and arrogant, many claiming it to be the dreams of a child, and accused him of never growing up. Only his immediate family honored his wishes, and with his father’s sword at his side and the healthiest plow-mule as his steed, Cailan set off to the western monastery.
To his chagrin, his quest bore little adventure. The polytheistic monastery was a painting of the state of the north: cold and poor, but full of character. Studying the finer points of state and religion alongside his extensive swordwork, Cailan was drawn to the path of Sirrion, the god of the Sun. The sun was ever-missing in the north, the fog and rain forever an obscuration. The sun was warm, omnipresent, and bat away darkness wherever it lurked.
The priesthood of Sirrion was cold to Cailan. His wanderlust was to be turned to pilgrimage. His adventurous chivalry turned to calculating celibacy. The priesthood was… boring. No mere priest would bring honor to his fallen brother and father. No priest would have songs of glory sung in his name. He learned more of Sirrion, but felt the fire drain from his heart. And this is when he met Pellis.
Pellis was a paladin of the order of the sun, and was sent to train Cailan in the art of bladework upon entering his second year at the monastery. He found Cailan’s story intriguing, and after many months of practice, the two became good friends. Pellis, much older than Cailan, frequently left the grounds to pursue his own agenda. Hunting fowl in the surrounding wilderness, hunting women in the nearby town, and occasionally slipping to a small shrine far into the woods. Before long, Cailan began to trail him here, and though against regulations, learned holy magicks and righteous passages of a far off eastern god: Solathos. A sun god like Sirrion, Solathos also embodied war, and with the fury of Solathos being pressed into his mind day after day, the fire in his heart returned.
His nightly prayers in the woods soon became common knowledge, and he was teased by the other members of the monastery. So them he was a fake, a heretic, called to the worship of a god as a friend instead of a true disciple. He cared not, he hadn’t had a sun in all his life, and if he were to preform fantastical acts of valor in search of his own sun, and spread the light of its warming rays upon his house and his Clan, he could not be swayed. Their words were as the words of Clan Drognan on his father’s dying day, and they only added fuel to his fire.
A King Without a Kingdom
At the age of 20, Cailan left the monastery on religious pilgrimage. He laughed at the idea of a pilgrimage, only using it as an excuse to flee the oppressive confines of the abbey and taste the outside world. Saying farewell to his friend and mentor Pellis, he embarked on his journey to embolden his Clan.
His travels cannot all be recounted, they be so great in number. Seeing the oppression and poverty of the lands of Emon, whilst he was guarding a trade caravan on his way east. The beauty of Achiled Palace, a gem in a sea of gold. The thundering hooves of Cailan’s horse on the vast golden sands among still lullaby him to this day. And hardly least among them was the Keep of Mram, when Cailan served among the guard to the mountainkeep, and learned much of nobility and chivalry from proper men south of his highlands.
Though he has grown stern and callous from his many travels, the sun-warrior still has the heart of the boy that made him who is is today. Through valorous journeys and selfless acts, Cailan MacAlisdair continues and will never cease spreading his father’s name, and continues to be a beacon of light wherever there is darkness in the world; although his real tales are just beginning.