"It was a time of omens. A cow had been born that fall with two heads, and a child had seen dark spectres in the forest and followed them to doom from drowning. The moon rode low in the night sky, and the scant light it gave off barely lit the way home. Evil rose in the land, and it looked as though the forces of light would be without people of power, champions, to serve them in the coming wars.
Then, in a small village north of the city of Ofcol, a child was born, and
the world would change..."
The Bard-King, Jerald, marches to a different drummer than the rest of the world. While the world centers on greed, violence, and the accumulation of greater and great masses of equipment and wealth, Jerald seems content to merely sit in his Hall and drink from his flagon of mead, smiling at the events as they go on around him.
Don't let this fool you, though. Jerald, and those who serve him, strive to keep those arts of peace which have long been overlooked or undervalued in the world at large, existing only in small enclaves and the offhand remark. Poetry, song, art, story, and all the myriad arts have a home within Jerald's Hall.
It was not always this way. In his youth, Jerald served with a mercenary company, learning from them the myriad arts of the warrior. After his band was killed by the Orcs of the Vile Rune, however, he returned home to find his small village aflame. Alone, with nowhere to turn, he found religion at the feet of the Demigod Splat.
It was during this time that the Lord of Creation, Tynian, issued an edict to all the world to protect those who were still learning the worlds ways. A recently minted priest of Splat, Jerald took it upon himself to single-handedly realize the spirit of Tynian's desire. He began to help every newbie he could find, with a kind word, a choice piece of armor, and a spell or two. So sucessful was he in this endeavor that Tynian Himself noticed, granting unto Jerald the title of Knight-Counsel.
However, Tynian was not the only one who was noticing Jeralds works. The servants of the pretender god, Nash, also noticed the young warrior-priest and took it upon themselves to stop his good deeds. Which they did through the singular means used, throughout history, by all the nashites. They struck him down, repeatedly, in cold blood.
As the Phoenix rises from the ashes, however, so did Jerald, reborn into a new and darker purpose- to slay those who would presume to stop those who would aid. So swayed to this new purpose was he that he become an avenging war-priest, slaying the dark foe and rising when they, in turn, slew him. It was at this time when he first became eligible for immortality.
The gods, looking upon his life, did not find Jerald worthy. So, in time, he went forth to search for what he had lost, that spark that his long years of service to war unending had cost him. And so, on a cold beach, dressed in rags, he found a simple book, a journal, sealed in wax. Upon it was inscribed the word 'Memories', and the words within it, his own.
Amazed, he opened the book and looked upon the simple idealistic words of a young man, not yet tarnished by wars, still striving desperately to put into being the edicts of the Creator God. Quietly he read of that struggle, amazingly so, for never had he penned these words. Yet they existed, in his hand. He took it as an omen.
Again he asked the gods for permission to become a god. This time, however, he had within him the spark he had lost, the light of learning, of caring, of creativity. So he was accepted into their ranks, and assumed the position he holds today.
Jerald holds to these laws, and demands they be obeyed by those in his service:
Those who would hold to a vision of good that comes of service, not war, will find Jerald a god worth worshipping.
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