Solent

Inquisitor Solent Kassh’taen, Divine Hammer

Cleric of the Immortals, Inquisitor of the High Temple, Warden of the Veiled Flame, Bearer of Murrula’s Covenant, Sand-Sworn Arbiter of the Kassh’taen Line.

Solent Kassh’taen
Status	Active
Race	S'Kra Mur
Gender	Male
Guild	Cleric
Instance	Prime

I am Solent Kassh’taen. My family name is older than memory in the desert—an old Velakan line once known for wardens, judges, and those who kept the peace among the shifting clans. The Kassh’taen were never powerful, never wealthy, never honored with pageantry or high office. Our significance is quieter. Generation after generation, we served as the ones who stood between quarrels, who read the law when tempers flared, who kept oaths when others found convenience in breaking them. We are not known for warmth, but for constancy. And constancy, in the desert, is worth more than gold.

I did not inherit skill or destiny from them—only expectation. The Kassh’taen do not run from burden. When there is work no one else will shoulder, one of us inevitably steps forward. It is not pride. It is simply what we are.

Some call me Divine Hammer, though I claim no divinity of my own—only discipline. My life was formed in the harsh quiet of Velaka, where every truth is carved by wind and hardship. There I learned early that faith is not comfort. Faith is endurance. It is doing what must be done long after warmth, company, and ease have abandoned you.

The temple elders saw in me a temperament suited for the quiet work—rituals, vigils, judgment. I did not seek fellowship. I did not crave the noise of clutchmates or the warmth of shared laughter. I preferred stone floors, steady chants, and the exacting rhythm of prayer. When the Clerical Guild accepted me, they did so because I never tired, never wavered, and rarely spoke unless I had weighed my words.

In my training I learned many spells, some useful, some ornamental. But Murrula’s Flames… that was different. The first time I invoked it in earnest, a warmth spread through my bones—steady, embracing, absolute. A spectral bird unfolded around me, wings of fire curling in a protective shroud. It did not roar like divine fury. It did not command or judge. It promised. Quietly. Wordlessly. It promised that if my faith held firm, even death would not claim me.

That moment marked me—not as chosen, but as responsible. The spell is a covenant: if I give everything, if I stand until I fall, I will be lifted once more to finish the work. No cleric should rely on miracles, but Murrula’s Flames is not miracle. It is mercy earned through devotion. It offers not immortality, but redemption in the instant when one’s purpose outweighs one’s breath.

I have died once beneath its wings. In a crypt far from home, where a corrupted priest twisted into a mockery of living flesh tried to drag me into Urrem’tier’s arms, I stood my ground until I could stand no more. When the blow fell and darkness rushed in, the warmth did not abandon me. The bird’s fire wrapped around my spirit and carried me back, giving me one last chance to finish what I had started.

I finished it.

Since that day, I have not feared death. But I do not take it lightly. Murrula’s promise is not a gift—it is a burden. It means I cannot turn away from the work. It means retreat is a luxury I have forfeited. If I fall, I rise. If I rise, I must continue.

So I walk the Inquisitorial path: alone, steady, and unyielding. It is not affection that drives me, nor glory, nor righteousness. It is duty—one that suits a Kassh’taen more than any other. Someone must confront the corrupted, the broken, the lost. Someone must walk into places where the dead whisper and faith has curdled. Someone must judge when judgment is all that remains.

I am Solent Kassh’taen.

I do not ask for trust. I do not ask for friendship.

I ask only for room to work.

And when the flames come for me again—whether they lift me back to my feet or carry me beyond—I will accept their judgment with the same solemnity my family has carried for centuries.