Isevar's dream was to distinguish himself in the Kharzul army and rise above the lowly status he was born with. Although his mother believed in the faith, he was never much of a believer himself. He put his trust in what he could see. In his youth, he was ambitious—so much so that it drove him to develop a thirst for blood and the glory that came with it. He was a merciless soldier. He obeyed his commanders without second thoughts. He slaughtered so many in their name. They became just bodies to him—bodies on which he could step to climb higher and achieve his many ambitions.
Looking back, Isevar can't recognize this version of himself, yet it is still very much alive, buried deep. He was climbing towards nothing. He believed empty promises that drove him to lose his humanity, in the name of children in fancy uniforms and grand, self-imposed titles.
He was a good soldier, and he did rise in the ranks. He was commander of his own squad. He finally had men under him. On a mission, he was told by his higher-ups to send some of them to their deaths. He was denied an explanation.
After the battle, he found those men—their lifeless bodies starting to rot. He realized they were just bait to force the enemy forces into the open. Guilt filled his heart, and he pushed it away, as he had done many times before. Among the corpses, he found one still breathing. He couldn't have been older than sixteen. This must have been among his first assignments. Isevar fell to his knees and touched the boy's wounds. There was no hope for him.
Isevar froze. His guilt resurfaced and became a sudden desperation to save this child. He did what he could, yet he was no medic. He then started to pray and continued to do so until the life flowed out of the youth's body. Isevar looked at the boy and closed his eyes. He spoke one more prayer. This one was answered. A faint glow emanated from his body and flowed into the child, whose wounds started to repair themselves.
The child awoke and looked at his saviour. Disgust appeared on his face. He stood up and looked at Isevar, then took his pocket knife and attacked him. Yet Isevar was faster and put the boy down—this time for good.
Tears started flowing down Isevar's face. He mourned the loss of this boy. "Why would he squander away his second chance at life like that?" he thought. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since I am the one who sent him to his death."
Isevar remained in that place of death, mourning all those who fell by his blade.
He resigned from his station.
His journey to learn more about the unknown God who answered his call drove him to the Sapphire Coast Freeholds. He is established in the city of Virellion as a healer who doesn't deny anyone his help, free of charge. Criminals and nobles alike go to him for aid. He lives off donations. He is looking to master his newly gained abilities. His long-term goal is to fight the systems he deems responsible for all the senseless violence and pointless deaths he saw and took part in. He grants others the chance at redemption, yet doesn't believe he is worthy of it himself—not after all that he has done. Still, he is quick to forgive others of their sins, seeing them as people. He knows how easy it is to fall.
His body, molded by war, is a stark contrast to his gentle demeanor. He always keeps his helmet on when blessing someone. He isn't sure why, but it feels wrong to show his face while doing something so sacred. He is uncomfortable when receiving thanks, and especially when given mercy from others.