Sir Jon of Parenham
Humble paladin of Pelor, shining light of Justice in a dark and sinister world.
Current Max HP: 65
Human, Paladin 7
From the Diary of Sir Jon of Parenham
I was born on a farm in the small village of Parenham, two days ride from the great city of Port Silversheath, in the month of Moondark. My parents were Thomas and Sarah. In Parenham, families do not have surnames, as there are not enough people to warrant such pretensions. If there is a duplicate name, then simple descriptors are added, such as Thomas the grey, for an elderly Thomas, or, as my father was know, Thomas the Burned, after the injuries he suffered in a barn fire. I was the seventh child of twelve, and the second to youngest boy. My siblings names are Ethan, Timothy, Wesley, Willow, Malcolm, Jane, Zoe, Kaylee, Simon, River, and Robin. Ethan stands to inherit the farm when our parents pass, while Timothy has set himself up as a blacksmith the next village over. Most of the girls have been married off, with the exception of Zoe and Willow. Willow has decided to become a cleric of Pelor, and Zoe has taken to the woods, apparently she is quite the ranger.
Parenham is, as I said, a small place, not even 200 souls, all told. It wasn’t even big enough to have it’s own church. There was one preacher came around every so often, but most of the time my dear mother would lead the village in prayer on holy days and other ceremonies. If her pronouncements of marriage weren’t strictly legal and binding in the city, well, it was good enough for the rest of us. Yes, there were a few couples that asked the actual priest to give them real vows, but they took care to hide their children when he came by.
The family farm is a modest affair, mostly worked by my parents and brothers, and the husbands of my sisters, and, if harvest is particularly good, or winter is coming too soon, the sisters themselves lend a hand. We are fortunate to have good soil, to be honest it is some of the best in the region. My father says we have his great grandfather to thank for that, as he was given the first pick of lots when the Duke was settling the area. We have always remembered this fortune, and given part of our harvest to any in the village that needs it, if we can.
My early years were normal for a village youth: I had my share of small adventures, getting lost in the woods, falling in the river, falling in love Anya, with the woodcarver’s daughter; and my share of tragedies: the death of my favorite horse, the near death of my father, the loss of Anya the woodcarver’s daughter to the son of a traveling merchant. (I hear they have settled down quite near the city, and that they have had children, even a set of twins.)
The most important event of my life happened in my fourteenth year. It was Harvestide, and the village should have been busy bringing the crops, but everyone was too frightened. A great beast had been seen in the surrounded woods, and it had killed several livestock, and attacked a shepherd. We did not know what we were going to do, when Pelor similed upon us and sent Sir Brevor, a paladin, along with his man-at-arms Ronk (a half-orc!) and his troubadour Myrese (she, a human, was married to Ronk!).
Now I, as a simple farmers son, had never seen such a group at that trio. I followed them constantly, trying my best to stay concealed, but, as my father used to say, I have all the grace of pregnant heifer stuck in a mud hole. I was discovered by Myrese within hours. I was able to talk my way into staying with them, by promising to watch their horses and tend their camp while they hunted the beast. Within a day, they discovered that the beast was a worg, and that a small band of goblins were behind the attack on the village. They tracked the goblins to a small cave in the woods, and killed all within. Unfortunately, some of the goblins, and the worg itself, were not in the cave at the time. The next day, as Sir Brevor and his companions were out looking for them, a few of the goblins found the camp. I was gathering firewood when I heard the sound of the goblins going through the possessions, so, I dropped all I was carrying save a stout branch, and ran screaming towards the camp. I was in the midst of frightening the goblins away when they were suddenly cut down by arrows, fired by Myrese, who saw my act of bravery and told Sir Brevor of it.
After determining that the rest of the gobins and the worg had moved on to a less dangerous hunting ground, Sir Brevor spoke to my parents, and asked them if he could offer me a position as a squire, if I was so interested. I was, and they consented, and so, I began my training.
For six years I traveled with Sir Brevor, Ronk, and Myrese, absorbing their collected wisdom. Sir Brevor taught me about the history of the church of Pelor, and the tenets of his order. Ronk taught me how to swing a sword, and other weapons, and taught met that the most important thing to bring to a fight was my intelligence. Myrese taught me the ways of polite society, and she tried, valiantly but in vain, to teach me to shoot a bow, or throw a knife. After my training, Sir Brevor brought me to the Grand Solarium in Silversheath. There, at the largest church dedicated to Pelor in the land, I sat my vigil, and in the morning I took my vows. I was given a new sword by Ronk, a new shield by Sir Brevor, and from Myrese I received a kiss on the cheek (by far the most precious of the gifts).
I parted from Sir Brevor then, and for the last two years I have wandered from village to village, seeking to help those in need. At times I perform holy rites, other times I tend to the ill. Sometimes I do nothing but aid in bringing in the harvest. Occasionally I am needed to slay a monster.
That is not to say I operate alone. At least, not all the time. If the situation warrants, I will join with other adventurers.