Blackheart

Bartholomew Blackheart is a nihilistic half-elf trapped within the grim land of Morcam and haunted by a past that he feels he can't escape. He met up with the party in Steephall when Cerist appeared, and when the symbol of Ioun branded itself in his chest he awoke as a cleric, following the Matron of Ravens which he had previously found faith in, despite the absence of the Divine. Death, as they say, is everywhere.

As the party was undercover in Foramere, Blackheart met an unfortunate end as the party was ambushed by Grimheart and his men. Their holy symbol - a silver pendant necklace in the shape of a bird claw - and their feather-adorned bracer were recovered by Rhone, who took up the mantle as a cleric of the Raven Queen, albeit to a much lesser degree.

Backstory
The following passages were taken from Blackheart's journal. They appear to be the only two surviving entries, and conveniently are also the most recent.

The Raven and the Dying of the Light
"Do not go gentle into that Good Night...""Rage, rage against the dying of the light."I forget which bard put that gem into words. Maybe I just made it up. Nevertheless it matters not. My father used to tell stories of his youth, a time before the war when magic and wonder were commonplace. I don't ever recall believing him. By the time I was born, the light was already dead. Magic was a lost, unteachable art, and even the Gods refused to answer the call of those devoted to them. I was born into a world of darkness.

The only thing I have left from that hellish time was a trinket, a simple silver necklace from my mother in the shape of a bird’s talon. She was an elf, unlike my father. I never met her though. She was taken before I could even crawl. Looking back I can see how much that must have broken my father. She was in so many of his stories, and I’m sure they were as much to comfort me as they were to remember her.

He tried to provide for us. I’m sure he did. But it's difficult when everything you do gets claimed by another. When the rewards you deserve are stripped from you, leaving you to starve. After a while, he just… stopped trying. He went out to the fields one day and never came back. I went out to look for him but it was too late. His body was cold, and being picked apart by ravens. He looked… peaceful. I didn't even cry. I think I had forgotten how. All I could do was clutch my mother’s pendant and stare, empty.

That's when I first heard her. The voice of a Queen.

Perhaps I truly am mad.

I wandered the empty streets a hollow husk of a kid as the war dragged on, lacking the will to evoke change. I didn't mourn my father’s passing. Rather, I almost envied him for moving on from this torment. But it was his time and mine would come soon enough. Everyone lives. Everyone dies. Such is the natural order. A few times thereafter the thugs ruling our town tried to beat me. I had nothing to give, so they tried taking my life. I took theirs instead. It's a strange, exhilarating feeling that I have longed to replicate time and time again throughout my travels. In the moment of truth, I look into the eyes of my foe and see Her. Here, at the brink of death, I feel closer to Her than ever. And for the first time in a long time, I feel alive. I don't want to die, but it is an eventuality I’ve accepted.

20 some odd long, hard years later and I find myself here. Wandering a war-torn land with nothing to my name. I… do have a name, right? Bar… Bartholomew? It's been so dreadfully long since I've used it. It's been so long since anyone has asked for it. I look around and see nothing but death, with nothing new sprouting to take its place. It would seem the War has filled my Mistress with greed. The natural order is at stake and even if it means going against my Mistress, I will not stop until it, until She, is restored.

Life is a precious thing. I do not mourn its passing but rather cherish its presence. All things must come to an end eventually. But for now, I am the silent disciple of Death itself. And it is my duty to rage. Rage against the dying of the light.

Taking Flight
I should be dead. Some days I still think I am. I can still remember the goblin, impaled on a pitchfork in a side alley. I can still remember the shock and terror on the other one’s face as it turned and ran. That was the first time I had taken life, and for many reasons it should have been my last. It was a lucky strike, nothing more.

Have you ever wondered what the world would look like, if only you were gone? After my father’s passing, I could have sworn I saw it. Nothing changes. Everyone, on their own, is too inconsequential to the world’s continued existence. You could die one day and nobody would tell the difference. Another of many would come to take your place. The cycle, this rut the world has found itself in, will not be solved by the death of a few. I was naive in thinking it would be enough.

I wouldn’t say I’ve killed many, but I have killed. It really isn’t enjoyable. There was no meaning behind it, just mindless, primal action springing from a time of need. I had no purpose in doing so, it just happened. It seemed natural in a way. There was no feeling behind it, much like the rest of my existence had become. I am dead, but not. Back then, before those first few goblins, I still had a glimmer of hope. Until very recently, it was gone.

But now, everything has changed. My lady exists - the guardian of life as the Goddess of death. I, along with a chosen few, have been granted power beyond imagination. I was given purpose. I had hope again.

And I am terrified of what I might need it for.