Tayasha
Tiefling - Cursed Oathbreaker, Warden, Believer
Backstory
Tayasha once walked along the path of light, a fate estranged from her people, a road most Tieflings deigned to travel.
Born of infernal blood, she was never meant to serve the gods, let alone be touched by one. But Virmias, the Light of Judgments, saw fit to raise her as an example, that even those marred by origin could be sanctified through obedience and unwavering faith. Tayasha served as a quiet blade in his name, spreading order, purity, and discipline across the borderlands in the name of peace.
For years, she believed, believed that she was doing good in the world, and believed that her people could be something more than supposed devil spawn.
Her turning came in the northern forests, in a village too poor to offer tithes and too proud to kneel. The missionaries had come first, preaching the authority of Virmias. When the villagers turned them away, the purifiers came next, and Tayasha was ordered to stand witness.
They burned it to the roots, until nothing but dirt, stone, and ash were left. The people were burned among pikes, and pyres, their screams would forever be etched into her memory.
She tried to intervene, cried out, fought her own kin, but they bound her in holy chains and forced her to watch. When it was done, when the ash choked her lungs and the air reeked of innocence, she heard no voice of comfort. No sign from her god who had seen to lift her into his good graces. Just silence.
She severed her oath the next day.
That night, she dreamed of a flame that did not burn and a mouth that did not speak. When she awoke, her body ached with something new. Her prayers, once sanctified, had turned into curses, words that clung to the bones of her enemies and unraveled their souls. Her armor darkened and twisted, and her symbol cracked and fractured. She was no longer a Warden of Light, she was no longer a child of Virmias.
Whatever took root set her out on a new path and for what reason, she still doesn't know till this day.
Since then, Tayasha has wandered, keeping her distance from temples and paladins, yet unable to shake the ache of belief. She still keeps tucked the half broken emblem of Virmias beneath her cloak, not out of loyalty, but in memory of what she once thought was possible.
She wandered for a long time, no destination in sight, and no direction. The only thing that she knew was that she was running from the light that had turned on her, and from the voices that called her traitor, heretic, and curse-born. She followed the sound of waves, her sword dragging behind her in the dirt. The rain was heavy that day.
But through the mist and fog, she found it, a ship. Grounded half on shore, half in sea, as if daring the land to reclaim it. Lanterns hung from the beams like lazy stars. Smoke wafted from it, someone was cooking, and on the deck, a monkey with goggles threw a fish at a swearing bear.
She stared.
A voice behind her said, “Quite a day for a walk, need a place to keep dry?” She turned to see a half-orc with a storm behind his eyes. He didn’t ask her name, he just pointed to the gangplank and said, "Come aboard, dinners almost ready." Tayasha looked once more at the sea, then back at the ship. She didn’t speak, she just walked forward, and the rain stopped.
Life on the Emberwake
Tayasha does not laugh often, but when she does, it is quiet and almost painful, like something remembered rather than felt. Her place aboard the Emberwake is one of silence and steel. She keeps watch during the night shifts when others sleep, standing near the prow where the seawind tangles her hair and carries the scent of salt.
She sharpens blades that are not hers. Repairs buckles no one asks her to fix. Brews bitter black tea laced with herbs that numb pain more than they warm the tongue. And when battle comes, she is the first to move under the cover of darkness. Her curses fall like oil over fire, and woe to the fool who thinks her stillness means mercy.
Despite her distance, the crew trusts her, not because she is warm, but because she is constant. She never flees, never falters, and when someone is wounded, she kneels beside them with hands that tremble only slightly, muttering protection in a dead language that no god claims anymore.
The children aboard, Lorelai, Grahm, even Rogier, have softened her edges. She would never say she cares, but if any of them were harmed, she would burn the stars themselves to see it undone.
There’s a cot in the lower quarters she calls hers, but she sleeps little. Her real sanctuary is the small, locked chest she keeps beneath it, inside, a broken holy symbol scorched beyond recognition, a single feather charred black, and a page torn from a prayer book with a flower dried between the lines. Every now and then, she touches them, just to make sure they’re still there.
She does not know if the gods can still do good, or if they even want to, but on still nights she sits atop the stern and listens, hoping that something might answer her.
“They said I was chosen. They said I was holy. But the first time I said no, they burned a village to prove me wrong.” —In a rare moment of vulnerability to Ryona
“I don’t belong anywhere. Not to the heavens that cursed me. Not to the devils who envy me. But here... here, I can belong to someone.” —to Arden, after nearly sacrificing herself for the crew
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