Becoming

For the past year, my blood had pulsed with the wild cadence of destiny, but that night—when we clashed with the Glabrezu and the Yochlol—it reached a fevered crescendo.
 
I could feel the ancient, draconic magic stirring deep within me—a latent power behind reptilian eyes that shone like luminous beacons. My skin, the silver ethereal hue of an angel, has gradually become adorned with golden scales and metallic freckles that glimmer in dim light. Mystra’s divine spark coursing through my veins, heralding a promise of greater things to come.
 
Thinking back, I remembered little of my mother—the illegitimate son of an elven noble—and even less of the fragile beginnings of my existence. Yet, I was never seen as a burden among my elven family; instead, I was treated like a cherished guest in a realm of privilege.
 
My father’s wife kept her distance, as if haunted by an unspoken dread, while I was lavished with the finest tutors and the most potent tools. I excelled beyond expectation, a living testament to a heritage both mysterious and magnificent.
 
At the tender age of three, my father returned with me from a decade-long war—a conflict whispered to have seen our warriors fight alongside majestic gold dragons, creatures so celestial their presence alone ignited awe. In that homecoming, my destiny was subtly written, my path enshrouded by legends and whispered promises of unknown lineage.
 
Years of rigorous training and tutelage molded me into a force to be reckoned with. Yet, when I finally chose to forge my own path, there was no protest, no desperate clinging to the past. Their investment in me was relinquished with an unsettling ease, leaving me to wonder if my true heritage was the reason behind their indifferent farewell.
 
Now as my arcane abilities blossom, I begin to suspect that I was neither fully theirs nor entirely my own— but a being caught between worlds, a world of elves and dragons echoing with the light of the Upper Planes yet separate from my kin. It seems clear, I must seek out my mother to learn what my father could not tell me.
 
Tonight, a Chasme demon—a vile, fly-like fiend—struck me with a venomous proboscis that plunged deep into my abdomen, injecting a corrupt, necrotic toxin. My body rebelled with a primal fury, every nerve aflame as I staggered back. Amid the chaos, the keening of a Vrock echoed through the battleground. In that moment of agony and transformation, I felt my very essence shifting—growing, evolving, transcending.
 
In my studies at the Golden Fate, I learned that Aasimar are mortals who carry a spark of the celestial realms within their souls.
 
Whether their lineage traces back to angelic ancestors or through the infusion of divine power, these rare beings wield light, healing, and a wrath as radiant as the heavens themselves.
 
They often bear subtle hints of their exalted origins—metallic freckles, eyes that shimmer with inner light, halos that flicker into view, or skin tinted like the celestial hues of silver, like mine. These markers were subtle—once mere whispers of identity, have now become unmistakable.
 
Signs become more pronounced as an Aasimar learns to unleash their full celestial nature.
 
In a mere twelve excruciating seconds—each feeling like an eternity amid the chaos—a brilliant halo began to form around me, and my hair blanched to a dazzling white as I reclaimed my focus. While my comrades swiftly dispatched the remaining fiends, their synchronized assault paved the way for me to confront the wounded Vrock. Fueled by a surge of divine wrath, I surged forward, my weapon finding its mark with unerring precision, piercing the demon’s heart before I cleaved its head in a final, resolute act. In that electrifying moment, I surrendered to the metamorphosis—a rebirth bathed in Mystra’s radiant light, revealing in my own nature, forever transformed by the celestial resonance of my souls link to the divine planes.