Elias Rosewater was a benevolent employer if there ever was one. A not-only-fair, but generous wage for its all of his many employees, extensive maternity and paternity leave, paid holidays and vacations – If this world were one of healthcare and stock options, Elisa’ textile plant would have certainly afforded his workers that, as well. The factory was profitable, humane – and while Elias did not manage to squeeze every dime out of the place, he did, however, profit significantly and ensured a positive quality of life for his surrounding Vel Anir community. Quite rare for a world of conquests, Mr. Rosewater’s generosity and fairness drew the attention of positive spirits – specifically that of a radiant celestial of compassion. Elias and she would fall madly in love – and while it was ultimately not to be that she would linger in the material sphere, the tryst, if nothing else, begot Elias a son – Milo.

Growing up, Milo wanted for nothing. He was that child that would give his toys away, as if even before his brain had developed to hear his calling, he intuitively always felt its pull. Elias delighted in the virtue of his son, seeking to encourage its development with opportunity and reward – To send Milo for an education that Elias had not been able to experience; offers of luxurious travel or mentorships with acquaintances for any career he might desire. All of which, Milo declined, passing them along to someone else who might never have been granted the same otherwise. Elias grew distressed with his inability to do anything for his boy, even going so far as to outright give him the business, no strings attached, trusting him wholly to run it correctly. This, again, Milo declined. He had no use for this iteration of the world, and now an adult, he would seek to find his own truth. When the day came that Milo sought to go off on his own, his father collapsed at his feet, sobbing: “I’m sorry for what you think of my life– I wish I could make it that you did not detest me so.”

Milo, dumbfounded, responded, “How could you ever possibly think that?”

These were the last words Milo ever said to his father.

He was on his own path now, and if ever on the road to enlightenment and you see the Buddha walking toward you – Kill him.

With little in the way of goals and even less interest in material schemes, it was not long before Milo became a vagrant. Begging, foraging, and panhandling did not come naturally to Milo, and it was only a matter of time before desperation saw him eating something rotten and terrible.

Keeled over in the streets, shitting and vomiting all over himself and everywhere else, he begged for mercy where no one could give it. Dehydrating, ill, the hallucinations came on fast, and his brain struggled to make sense of what was surely him dying. Desperately, he prayed to any god that would listen – and in his deterioration, he eventually found peace. In his head, an inner voice shook him:

I am not the god of your fathers. I am the hidden stone that breaks all hearts.

He found himself on his knees, covered in his own sick, his praying hands tented as if clasping a stone, which he rocked into his sternum. It all made sense, in the delirium. He would devote himself to compassion. He would offer the mercy he desperately pleaded for to those who would saw none. As “Saul” became “Paul,” “Rosewater” became “Vox.”

Living on the streets, Milo could be found sunbathing and regular bathing on the steps of capital buildings, prattling on about the philosophy of the Stone That Breaks All Hearts and the cynics and a corruption in society so lousy he could not bother to get involved in it, nevermind lament its slow demise, and waiting to ultimately be confronted by legal officials bent on instructing him just what he could and could not do with his life on their land. A challenging sort, he would provoke them to cite their claims in law, which they often could not. This landed him in jail more than a few times, but not without learning. A non-traditional education, but an education nonetheless. He would learn a great deal about the law. He would become really good at it. Had he been a human, he likely would not have found the more piteous denizens on the streets of Vel Anir so desperate to believe in him. However, though his features were slight, Milo was an Aasimar, an angel; and with that came a hope that came with a responsibility to those who believed in Goodness and Order despite how little it had actually done for them. He did deeds for the communities. He acted as a public defender, protecting the less-fortunate and more-detested from being unjustly ground under the gears of law. The abundance of Half-Elves, Drow, Kobolds, Orcs, and others who would find themselves in this position lead him to learn Elvish, and, eventually, Undercommon. A cynic, an acolyte, and a lawyer -- a paladin was a natural trajectory. And so, Ser Vox was admitted into the Brotherhood-in-rags -- A circle of personalities within the region of a similar alignment and belief persuasion. While the Brotherhood does not necessarily pride itself on its secrecy per se...It does understand that some of its humanitarian and extraction efforts need to be a bit more clandestine.

His modest fame as a local knight has earned him the honorific of “Ser Vox” to those who would call him anything at all.