You've probably seen him already. Lord knows, the boy gets around. Maybe you've seen him jogging through the Marketplace of a morning, half-grown Husky loping along at his heels. Maybe you've seen him walking his beat in the Dockside and the WestEnd, in the low places of the city, with a silver badge on his chest and a watchful, wary glint in his eyes. Maybe you've seen him slinging drinks in the Red Dragon, watching the crazy antics of the Inn with a polite smile and an amused sense of good humor. He might have been the swordsman who leaped to the rescue when the bandits fell on you in the wood, the gunman in the corner when you stopped at the saloon for a drink, the pilot of that 'freighter' with too many guns on it as you were pulling into the starport.
They're all Paladin. In the words of one frustrated private investigator, he's "an engima, wrapped in a mystery, coated in diamond with all sorts of nasty sharp spiky bits sticking out of it." He wears his melancholy like a cloak, keeping others at bay, but he's always ready with a helping hand or a piece of advice, a sympathetic ear and a quick smile. He's always alone, even in a crowd of friends. He's always the strong one, unless you know where to look. He knows his feet are only clay, but you'll never hear him admit it - just like you'll never hear him complain as he shoulders one more burden, carries one more load. He's haunted by the faces of everyone he's failed to save - and everyone he's had to kill. The stains on his hands may never come out. The stains on his soul are deeper still.
He's just one more crazy, messed-up person in this City, trying to find his own piece of mind. He's not trying to be a savior; he knows everyone has to save themselves. But he keeps on keeping on, doing what he can, trying to bring a little light to fight the tides of darkness that swirl around him. He's been a soldier and a healer, a builder and a destroyer, captained sailing ships and piloted space superiority fighters; he's a musician, a warrior, a bartender, a gunslinger, a damn fine short order cook and a better hand with a blade. His backpack eats people who mess with it - when you can even see the damn thing. His long black coat is his armour against an unfriendly world - both metaphorically and literally. He's been more places than they have names for, and he always tries to leave them a little better than he found them.
They call him the last knight. They call him a lot of things.
The only thing that's ever been constant... is that he is always, whatever he does, wherever he is, Paladin. Wanderer, dreamer, lost soul in a realm of damned souls - hero in spite of himself, blood soaked and honor bound, determined always to do what is right.
They're all Paladin. In the words of one frustrated private investigator, he's "an engima, wrapped in a mystery, coated in diamond with all sorts of nasty sharp spiky bits sticking out of it." He wears his melancholy like a cloak, keeping others at bay, but he's always ready with a helping hand or a piece of advice, a sympathetic ear and a quick smile. He's always alone, even in a crowd of friends. He's always the strong one, unless you know where to look. He knows his feet are only clay, but you'll never hear him admit it - just like you'll never hear him complain as he shoulders one more burden, carries one more load. He's haunted by the faces of everyone he's failed to save - and everyone he's had to kill. The stains on his hands may never come out. The stains on his soul are deeper still.
He's just one more crazy, messed-up person in this City, trying to find his own piece of mind. He's not trying to be a savior; he knows everyone has to save themselves. But he keeps on keeping on, doing what he can, trying to bring a little light to fight the tides of darkness that swirl around him. He's been a soldier and a healer, a builder and a destroyer, captained sailing ships and piloted space superiority fighters; he's a musician, a warrior, a bartender, a gunslinger, a damn fine short order cook and a better hand with a blade. His backpack eats people who mess with it - when you can even see the damn thing. His long black coat is his armour against an unfriendly world - both metaphorically and literally. He's been more places than they have names for, and he always tries to leave them a little better than he found them.
They call him the last knight. They call him a lot of things.
The only thing that's ever been constant... is that he is always, whatever he does, wherever he is, Paladin. Wanderer, dreamer, lost soul in a realm of damned souls - hero in spite of himself, blood soaked and honor bound, determined always to do what is right.