All minotaurs have a deeply held respect for Baphomet, the Horned King. He represents raw, bestial power – the fury and savagery of a predator at the moment of the kill. Many succumb to their dark impulses. Some, rise above it, their conscience is more developed and through discipline, prayer, or both, they control their inner beast. Spurned by most civil societies for their terrible appearance, they usually live in distant conclaves, or wander the land in search of adventure.
Thus I found myself in Fallcrest, a wanderer, seeker of adventure. The Paladin’s order found me first, removing my hooded cloak to reveal the ugly beast hiding there. They were this close to killing me when an angel appeared, a messenger from the great and mighty Bahamut himself. The messenger said, “We expect great things from this one. Lay up your swords and let him live. Teach him of the Great Master and look past his visage to the strength within.”
I stood up, shaking off my attackers, who fell back, awestruck. They escorted me to the temple where their Captain told the story. The elders took me in, training me as they would any acolyte. I sparred with the Paladins, often 2 at a time. By size, and strength and ferocity, I was their equal in the practice yard. But, always, I would struggle with the bloodlust that lay beneath the surface.
I showed some talent with the healing arts, so the miesters helped me focus on channeling those powers. I am truly blessed by Bahamut to be able to swing my hammer at the foe and lay my hands upon my allies.
A few years ago, I met Sir Oakley. He immediately recognized my strength and at arms, and soon came to appreciate my other talents as we fought in battle after battle. He has a hunger, some need in his soul that has yet to be fulfilled. He searches for something, I know not what. But he has allowed me to go with him and work for him, developing my power as a warrior and my talent as a cleric. Last year, I was named a Templar in the Order. One of many, I know, but a proud distinction nonetheless.
Now, a group of adventurers – none less than the Defenders of Harkenwold and Slayers of Shadowmire, has found their way into Sir Oakley’s plans. He has asked me to accompany them and keep them well. Which I shall do, or die trying!