𝐈 𝐆𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅

BASTIAN SÂNGERIU
Medium Humanoid, Chaotic Neutral

CLASS: Cleric (Death Domain) | Warlock (Blood Mage)
RACE: Human (Bhaalspawn)
BACKGROUND: Haunted One

Bastian was manifested into existence under a blood moon in the temple of Bhaal, hidden beneath the city of Cadou, his being crafted from Bhaal's dead flesh and tainted blood. From his very first breath, the secret cultists of the Lord of Murder worshipped him as Bhaal's Chosen. They carved the rites of Bhaal into his flesh, branding him as a living vessel for the god's will.

However, unbeknownst to the Bhaalists, their cult had been infiltrated by a cleric of the Church of Kelemvor who, horrified, stole the child away from the clandestine sect. Though the cleric should have slain the child instead of saving him, he could not bring himself to carry out such cruelty upon a child.

Raised outside of the Cult of Bhaal by the cleric and his wife, for a time, it seemed that nurture could absolve nature. The cleric believed this child of Bhaal could one day bring down the cult and restore the natural order of life and death in a land where such things already meant so little. But Bastian's mind fractured early, a result of being a human created directly by Bhaal from his own divine blood. The soul of a man was overshadowed by the mind of a murderer. His first memory was of blood — his mother's throat slit by his trembling hand, followed by his father, before turning his blade on the unfortunates who came running at the sound of screams. He doesn't remember why. That's the horror: sometimes the Dark Urge takes over, and when it recedes, he's left staring at bodies, soaked in crimson, guilt eating at him like rot.

Such vileness eventually led the boy to be located by his dread butler, a diminutive fiendish creature created by Bhaal to serve his scion, summoned by the murder most foul. Bastian was returned to the Cult of Bhaal to live out his life as its leader. But something in Bastian still fought against the foulness within him, leading to his eventual escape after an encounter with the Church of Kelemvor. Not before spilling their blood along with the Bhaalists.

Even so, the Dark Urge is ever-present — a whisper in his ear, a tug at his fingers when they curl around a blade. Barovia itself seems to amplify it, the mists thick with echoes of death and dread. But Bastian fights. He binds his hands in prayer to Bhaal, not as worship, but as a curse — a desperate plea for control. His power as a Death Domain Cleric comes not from reverence but from sheer survival; Bhaal feeds him power as long as the Urge isn’t fully denied.

Yet, he's failed before. Innocents slaughtered, friends turned into corpses by his own blades. The memories are hazy, but the guilt is sharp. Bastian now wanders Barovia, hoping that its other cursed souls might help him find the strength to resist. But even among the damned, he's watched warily — after all, what happens when he slips again?