Dmitri

Aasimar / Cleric

Submitted character story

You are the protector who chose Old Yost's Cart and investigated shadows because some debts can only be repaid in footsteps. The farmhouse taught you that standing ground matters more than winning, that witness itself is holy work. Every soul you guide back means another night Muriel's kindness wasn't wasted, but the terror never fades and running still sounds wiser. Tables will remember the cleric who turned cowardice into a compass, fear into fieldwork, and a raven's whisper into a vocation.

Defining moment: In a lonely stretch of nowhere, where the wind whispered through dead fields and the sky always seemed just a shade too dark, there once stood a crooked farmhouse at the edge of the Shadowfell’s reach. Most folk avoided the place. The ground there remembered things it should not. The ravens gathered there in silence. 🐦‍⬛
But someone still lived there.
An old, gentle soul named Muriel took in a frightened, half-starved wanderer she found shivering beside a broken roadside shrine to the Raven Queen. The wanderer remembered little—only fear, cold moonlight, and the sensation of being watched from beyond the veil. Muriel gave them shelter, warmth, and a name.
And peace almost followed.
Almost.
For the farmhouse stood where the boundary between life and death thinned like worn cloth. Spirits lost on their final journey lingered. Things that should have remained buried clawed their way upward. Nightmares took shape in the fields. And again and again, Muriel was threatened by creatures that did not belong in the world of the living.
Each time terror struck, the wanderer tried to hide.
Each time, they failed to run.
Each time, they stood anyway.
One night, when the darkness pressed closer than ever before, a black feather fell at their feet though the sky above was empty. A voice like distant wings whispered in their thoughts:
Stand. Witness. Guide what is lost.
From that moment forward, they understood their purpose.
The Raven Queen had claimed them—not as a warrior without fear, but as a guardian who acted despite fear. A watcher at the threshold. A shepherd of wandering souls. A quiet defender of those not yet meant to cross beyond the final door. 
Now they travel the lonely roads between villages and graveyards, following signs only they can see: a feather where none should be, a shadow moving against the wind, a dream that smells faintly of winter and old stone.
They are afraid of what waits in the dark.
But they go anyway. They must find her.

Can't stop helping strangers