Sun Dauragon was born under a blood moon in the shadowed fringes of the Eternal Spires, where the celestial blood of aasimar mingled with the infernal curse of tieflings in his veins—a rare and volatile heritage that marked him as both blessed and damned from his first breath. At twenty-five winters, he cuts a striking figure: tall and lean, with skin like polished obsidian etched in bioluminescent tattoos that pulse with an otherworldly azure glow, tracing ancient runes across his bare arms and climbing the curve of small, curved horns that sprout from his forehead. His eyes, one golden like a seraph's gaze and the other crimson as hellfire, flicker with a detached amusement, framed by wild, midnight-black hair tied back in a haphazard warrior's knot. He dresses in the practical garb of a wanderer—loose, earth-toned monk's robes reinforced with leather straps and hidden blades, scarred boots caked in the dust of a hundred battlefields, and a simple iron amulet that bears no deity's symbol, only a cracked hourglass.

Rambunctious in the heat of combat, Sun fights like a storm unleashed, his fists and feet a blur of monk's precision fused with a fighter's brutal ferocity, laughing wildly as he topples foes twice his size. Yet away from the fray, he drifts through life with an aloof apathy, his responses clipped and distant, as if the world's clamor barely registers. This veil of indifference hides a deeper turmoil: an incessant barrage of déjà vu that plagues him, whispers of lives unlived or futures glimpsed, making every moment feel like an echo of something irretrievably lost. He acknowledges the gods—all of them, from the stern arbiters of law to the capricious tricksters of chaos—but serves none, viewing divinity as a tapestry of indifferent weavers who spin fates without care for the threads they tangle.

As a mercenary, Sun chases the thrill of coin and combat across fractured kingdoms, but beneath it lies a gnawing hunger for meaning, a desire to unravel the visions that haunt him and claim a purpose beyond the blade. The déjà vu bars him, a maddening fog that blurs past and present, turning allies into strangers and battles into reruns of forgotten nightmares. He counters it by plunging deeper into the mercenary life, seeking out ancient ruins and forbidden lore, bargaining with scholars and spirits alike for clues to his hybrid curse. This reckless pursuit yields fragments—glimpses of a celestial war that birthed him, debts unpaid from bloodlines at odds—lending his strikes an uncanny foresight that turns the tide in skirmishes where others falter. Yet victory is fleeting; each revelation drags him toward a precipice, where the gods' ignored whispers grow to roars, threatening to consume him in a cataclysm of divine reckoning. His conflicts rage internal and external: the pull of infernal rage against celestial restraint, the isolation of his apathy clashing with the camaraderie of sellswords, and the ever-present sense that his life is a loop he alone must break, lest it snare him eternally in repetition's cruel embrace.