LG Human Monk
Heodan was born in a small citrus-farming village in southern Cyre. His father had owned a farm there that had been passed down his family line for more generations than he or any living member of his family could remember. Those who lived in the village pledged most of their crops to the local lord, and their homage was paid in kind; the lord had his personal magewright design an irrigation system, so the village could produce crops all year round. Beyond that, the lord’s army men were uncharacteristically kind and polite to the villagers. When Heodan was old enough to understand such concepts, his father told him the story of how the lord’s favorite bastard was born in that village. Heodan figured this had undoubtedly played a major role in the village being held in such high regard. Let’s be honest: the oranges were good, but not that good…
Heodan was the oldest of three siblings. Serafin, his sister, was a couple years his junior, and Bran wasn’t much younger than she. Bran was Heodan’s shadow, which usually did not bother Heodan, but occasionally did. Bran relentlessly hounded Heodan to train him in combat techniques – techniques that Heodan developed based on the various Cyran dances his mother and some of the villagers had taught him. Heodan taught his brother because he thought the little fella was ready to begin learning. Serafin was adored by each of her family members, but especially Heodan. She was born lame, but she was as quick-witted as Heodan was quick. She loved to read and had often read stories to her brothers at night before bed. And they all were raised under the banner of the Sovereign Host, but the family’s yoke of religious devotion was loose, if carried at all.
Everything was really fucking great in Heodan’s village, until The Day of Mourning. Heodan’s parents were delivering the village’s tithe to the lord at his keep the day it happened. Heodan and Serafin both immediately picked up on the peculiarity of this, since their father had always gone alone. The three siblings, awestricken, watched the imminent beauty from their front door, and only Heodan survived to his knowledge. He was rescued from the rubble by a passing caravan headed for Breland.
The caravan eventually stopped somewhere in Breland, which is where Heodan regained consciousness and was made aware of what transpired. He came to know well the refugee camp that held his stay, as well as the dwarven cleric who brought him back from the brink of death. The cleric diverted Heodan’s mind from the path of vengeance for his family and trained him to calm his mind with meditation. The two often conversed about philosophy and politics and about the foolish, radical nationalists among the camp who claimed New Cyre was on its way. The movement eventually gained much momentum in the camp, which irritated Heodan and eventually drove him to leave. The dwarf gave Heodan a map to a remote monastery before he left, and told Heodan that he could probably find some peace and quiet there. Heodan thanked the dwarf for his wisdom and kindness, packed his belongings and some supplies from the dwarf, and hit the road.