Ashton Sterling is a son of privilege; or really was a son of privilege until about a year ago. Ashton was born the eldest son of Celinda Sterling and Braxton Sterling, a minor noble in the city of Riverside and the hero of the Battle of the Bridge of Horses. During this battle, his father rallied his company of Riverside halberdiers, a unit drawn largely from the burly commoners responsible for unloading the river boats from Castlebar that use the Slag River to transport ore and metal goods to Lionsmane. Braxton led the Riversiders in defending the west side of the Bridge against the enemy’s calvary charge temporarily turning the tide in the East Front of the Kings' War by breaking the back of the Marches' Marchers, an elite cavalry unit. Ashton grew up in a life of plenty, never wanting for anything. A naturally gifted athlete, he was expected to follow his father’s example as an officer in the a troop of halberdiers in king’s army until a suitable marriage was arranged for him. While he was neither cruel or callous toward those of lower station than him, the servants were there to serve and he thought little of them or their lives beyond that. All of that changed when his family’s estate was attacked and ransacked by a group of Shonturian Troops in a midnight surprise attack. It had been revenge for the Battle of Bridge of Horses. Both his parents and younger sister and brother were put to the sword along with all the other servants in the household. Bleeding from several wounds, Ashton would have suffered the same fate if a long-time family servant, his father's steward Alafaire, hadn’t hid him under some hay in the stable. Barely alive, Ashton crawled his way to the burnt remains of the family chapel, a shrine to Remantil. On the partially-broken altar, Ashton begged the god Remantil to give him the strength to mete out justice on those responsible. In response to his oath, his wounds were healed save for the scar that now runs from above his right eye down through his cheek. Ashton believes the scar to be the manifestation of his pledge and an eternal reminder of his loyalty to Remantil, and his authority to serve the god on the material plane.

 
Ashton’s short term goal is to find those responsible for his family’s murder and bring them to justice as well as try to recover his father’s halberd which was stolen by the Shonturians after he was killed. His search must start back at his family home in Riverside as he fled before being able to locate any information about the leaders of the nighttime raid that claimed the lives of the rest of his family. After gathering information around the Lionsmane front for some months, Ashton heard that a group of cavalry soldiers had headed west away from the Lionsmane siege to rendesvous in Capsdale with reinforcements. His long term goal is to recover his family’s land and title and bring some measure of justice to the innocents harmed in the turmoil that has engulfed the land.
 

 
As for roleplaying, Ashton’s experiences have made him usually pretty serious particularly when it comes to things like helping the oppressed or downtrodden. Growing up he was an outgoing and friendly child but now is fairly quiet and introspective. He usually passes any free time playing chess which was a favorite game of his mother who, even though not gifted with her intellect, did manage to pick up a few tricks from her.
 
The acrid smell of smoke bit at Ashton’s eyes as he staggers across the burning ruins of his family’s estate passing one body after another, all their sightless eyes staring at him accusingly. On and on he wanders until finally, he collapses to his hands and knees, unable to go on anymore. He looks up and finds himself staring at his father’s lifeless body, his ashen grey face staring back at Ashton; the corpse’s lips move and softly utter just one word. “Failure.”
Ashton jerked awake with a start, staring at his surroundings. After a moment he flopped back down on his bedroll and stared at the ceiling. “Well, and another fine morning to you as well, Sir Vault,” he muttered. What day was this? Did it even matter anymore? He rubbed his face and ran his fingers thru his blond mane of hair.
 
He laid there for a few moments breathing in the sounds around him. Another day in this subterranean world with no indication when or even if they would ever get out of here. Everyone’s nerves were becoming increasingly frayed. He had to break up a fight between two of Thornvine’s citizens yesterday; what started as a mild disagreement between two men arguing over how one was encroaching on the other’s sleeping area quickly devolved into a fistfight. On the bright side at least he was able to use his newfound gifts to heal a few scrapes and bruises. I’m sure that’s what Remantil intended when he granted me his favor, Ashton mused. Here he was supposed to be the god’s avenging hand and he was stuck in what amounted to a basement in some town he’d never been to doing nothing. His father was an honest to the gods hero, the hero of the Battle of the Bridge of Horses, and what accomplishment could Ashton point to? Well, I did kill those mice that got into the flour last week, he thought. He was sure the bards would trip over themselves to write that story; Ashton Sterling, Slayer of the Basement Mice, Healer of Small Cuts and Bruises.
 
He shook off his self-recrimination, got up and donned his scale mail, all the while silently wondering what the point of it even was. It was not like there would to be anything to fight down here today, just like there hadn’t been every other day prior. Finally, he grasped his halberd from where it sat propped against the wall and set off in search of something to eat.
 
Later, he sat down on a crate opposite of Father Brenan with a barrel between to serve as a table. “Good day to you, Father,” he said as he started setting up his dragonchess board just like they had so many other days down here.
 
“And a good day to you, my son,” Father Brenan replied in his usual friendly tone.
 
As they commenced playing, Ashton fell into a contemplative silence thinking of playing the game with his mother. She always said dragonchess was not just a game about your strategy or your opponent’s strategy but an astute player could glean some insight into their opponent’s personality; a “brief glimpse of some small part of their soul” she always mused. If that were the case, then what could he learn from the Father here? Ashton had played him enough to have a good sense of his overall play style and what he saw confused him. He had expected Father Brenan’s style of play to be much more direct and open just like the Father was, but it was instead anything but. One of the Father’s favorite ploys was to make a series of small, seemingly random moves with his lesser pieces, sacrificing some here or there but rarely any major mistakes, certainly nothing fatal. All the while using these seemingly innocuous moves to mask his true attack but what did say about the man? That Father Brenan, the kindly older man who had been nothing but friendly toward him, who helped him fill in his own admittedly lackluster knowledge of Remantil and his mother, Shinhalla, was really what? Some master of deception, some trickster?
 
“Are you sure you don’t want me to try to heal that scar for you, son?” Father Brenan finally broke into Ashton’s revelry.
 
“Hmmm?” Ashton asked then noticed he had been absently rubbing at the long scar that ran from the right side of his forehead down thru his right cheek. He looked at the traitorous hand in disgust and looked away. “No thank you, Father. I don’t think you could make this scar disappear even if I let you try,” he finally said.
 
“And you say Remantil healed all your other wounds save for that one on the night…well, the night you lost your family?” Father Brenan asked. “But why? Remantil is not a spiteful deity; just for certain but not mean spirited.”
 
Ashton rubbed at his scar thoughtfully for a moment considering what to say. That Remantil knew me for what I was once; an arrogant, privileged, pompous fool who never knew how good he had it and then when it really mattered could do nothing to stop his parents, his little brother and sister and almost all of their family’s servants from being cut down at the hands of Shonturian soldiers. That this scar is a painful reminder not to forsake the oath I made to him and backslide into being the horse’s arse I used to be, he thought. Instead he simply said, “It is meant to be a reminder of my oath.”
 
The looked at him questioningly a moment longer and then simply nodded, turning his attention back to the game. Play progressed in companionable silence for some time until it concluded with Ashton winning, but barely. Securing a promise for another match tomorrow, he set off back to his bedroll, absently musing as he walked. At least he thought he won the game. All his reminiscing about the past had distracted him, and he made a critical error right near the end; in two moves the Father could have had checkmate and there was nothing Ashton could have done to stop him. He could even swear for just a moment there Father Brenan saw the error he made; instead the Father moved a piece of his own creating his own mistake that cost him the game instead. Was that right? Had Father Brenan thrown the game and to what end? Ashton shook his head and chuckled ruefully to himself. Being stuck down here is getting to you, Ash, you’re starting to become a little paranoid, he thought to himself.
 
He stooped to pick up the bottle of firewine he kept in his pack and set off in search of Harrigan and Rupert. Harrigan especially was a friendly enough sort and always good for story or two while sitting around the warmth of the fire. And the gods knew, from his nightmare earlier to his conversation with Father Brenan, he was in need of a couple longs pulls from the bottle.