Greyhold, Turin

Turin Greyhold was born in the land known as Tantras twenty-two years ago. His father was a loyal paladin of Torm and his mother was one of Torm’s priestesses. Both his parents were among those sacrificed to give Torm the power to defeat the avatar of Bane outside their home. Turin, along with all the other children under the age of 14, was spared.

Spared.

Such a nice word. Makes it seem as if he and the others were so lucky.

Spared.

Makes it seem as if watching your parents and those of all your friends die was some nice thing for the children who were now orphans. For eight year old Turin, it did not seem he was spared anything other than the joy of being with his parents forever. He was certainly not spared the horrors of watching his family die before him nor the sight of two gods going at it while all the newly-orphaned children watched in horror, none knowing their fate should their patron deity fall to the evil god’s avatar. He was not spared years crammed into an orphanage in Cormyr. He was not spared being taken from the orphanage to act as a squire to an aging mercenary with the Red Ravens at the age of 15.

At least he was out of the orphanage. The old mercenary warrior was hard as nails and insisted upon strict discipline. Fail to polish the old man’s armor just so…a whipping. Fail to sharpen the sword to a gleaming edge…more whipping. Fail to …whatever…

But, do a good job…praise. Listen to what the old man would tell you and watch his movements…a lesson in warfare. The old man was rough. But he was also fair and an excellent instructor. He always told young Turin that the price of failure on the battlefield is death for you or your comrades. The beatings simply drove home the fact that failure hurts. It was harsh. But, in time, Turin would realize that this discipline was exactly what he would need in his life.

By his eighteenth summer, Turin had grown into a tall, strong man. His face showed the tale of a lifetime of loss and hard living, making him look older than his true age. The lessons of his adoptive father and mentor had produced a finely honed soldier out of the once bitter child of the Martyrs. They called him the Martyr’s Progeny. Some said he was destined for greatness in the service of Torm. Turin simply wanted to survive and make his parents…his birth parents as well as his adoptive one…proud to call him their own. Turin joined the Red Ravens and fought alongside his mentor. Eventually, the two would start acting more like comrades in arms than father and son or master and pupil. The pair were a sight on the battlefield. The old and the young, fighting back to back and side to side against all foes. Their greatswords cutting down any enemy that was foolish enough to face them. They were quickly becoming the topic of bard songs and stories throughout the Stonelands.

But, as with all mortal beings, the old man would soon fall to age. After a short four years of campaining together, the old warrior’s age finally caught up to him. His joints pained him every morning. His eyes were not able to catch the movement of enemies as easily. And his breath began to not outlast most fights. He decided to retire from the Ravens after almost losing his shield arm to an orc…a measly, puny, orc. As he packed his gear from the barracks, the old man quietly handed Turin his sword and armor. He then turned back to his packing and spoke quietly over his shoulder.

“Turin, my boy, you do have a destiny. Whether it is as great as those priests say, I don’t really know. But I do know it won’t be found here among the sellswords.”

He turned form his now packed bags and smiled at Turin as he just stood there still holding the old man’s gear as if it would be taken back at any moment. “Take my gear, boy. Use it to bring honor to your parents, to me, and to yourself. Go talk to the priests at the temple back in Tantras. They will know more of your destiny than some old, washed up sellsword. Listen to them. Learn from them. And most of all…don’t fail at anything you really want to accomplish.”

Still holding the gear in outstretched arms, Turin asked bluntly, “So…where will you go now? Will we ever see each other again?”

The old man turned back with a smile and gave Turin a hug…something he had never seen his mentor do. “I have little doubt we will see each other again, boy. Our destinies our now intertwined. As to where I’ll be, got an old friend that has set up a shop in Neverwinter. He wants me to come help him run it. I think he really just wants a friend around to make waiting for death a little more fun, but I’ll try and help him as much as I can. You get out that way, we’ll meet again.”

With that, the old man turned and made his way towards the caravan area to book passage to the Sword Coast.

Turin spent the next week or so thinking about what the old man had said about his destiny and his old home town. Could he have been right? Could the priests hold some knowledge that would make all his loss and grief have some true meaning? Only one way to find out.

Turin resigned from the Red Ravens, gathered his things, and made his way towards his former home. Towards Tantras. Towards his past and possibly his destiny.

The priests at the temple were happy to see the returning Progeny. It seemed quite a few had returned after years of soul-searching. Most had rejoined the worship of Torm and the majority had become clergy or paladins in His service. Turin spent many a day and night speaking at length with the priests and paladins. The more they spoke, the more his old grief lifted. He was in the temple for just over a full month talking with all the priests and returned Martyr’s progeny. At the end of that time, he had found his calling.

In a dream, he was visited by images of his parents. They were still exactly as he had remembered them and dressed in their best robes and armor, all baring the symbol of Torm. A vision of the old man that had trained him in the ways of war also came into view. A single word floated from his mouth.

Destiny.

The word was followed almost immediately by the vision of a large, gauntleted hand. The right hand of protection.

Turin awoke with a start and was amazed to see the images slowly fading into the walls of his Spartan room. This was no ordinary dream and he took it as the sign of what his destiny was. He swore his paladin oath that very night. He then made his way towards Neverwinter to tell his mentor of his decision.

But, one problem arose: Paladins do not always get to choose their own path.

Turin was intercepted on his way to the docks and given orders. He was to travel to the lands of Sundren to aid the Triumverate against several evil plots. Though he was severely annoyed at not being able to speak with his adoptive father about his decision to rejoin the faith of Torm, he could not turn away from a duty to protect the innocent from evils such as the one that brought about the sacrifice of his family.

He boarded the next ship headed for Sundren. What he would find there was completely unknown to him. But whatever it was, he would not fail.

Personality: Turin is not exactly the typical paladin. He spent the majority of his life in orphanages and with mercenaries. He is gruff and a bit crude at times. He also has a hard time holding back sarcastic comments and seems to be a bit apathetic to many situations. His speech and demeanor would seem more appropriate coming from a grizzled old sellsword than a holy paladin of Torm.

Truth is, though, he is very dedicated to the eradication of evil. He absolutely despises Bane and all his followers and has no qualms with striking one down for any slight reason. He will fight to the death to protect innocent lives. While he does not wield as much holy power as most paladins that have been in service for their entire lives, his years of mercenary work have given him a slight edge over most paladins in straight up combat. He is an expert in the use of weapons of war and uses many “dirty tricks” to get the upper hand in battle. All-in-all, a most unpaladin-like paladin.