A broad-shouldered aasimar with weathered olive skin, close-cropped dark hair, and pale gold eyes that seem brighter when angered. A faint silver birthmark runs from the left temple to the jaw. Their armor is well maintained but plainly repaired, bearing a small family crest beneath several older layers of polish. They carry themselves like someone trained for ceremony who has spent more time in muddy roads than marble halls.

Courteous, observant, and stubbornly useful. Miklos dislikes grand speeches unless they are followed by immediate work. They are comfortable in a noble hall but more relaxed beside a cooking fire, where people tend to speak plainly. They try to hide uncertainty behind impeccable manners and often apologize to furniture after bumping into it.

Miklos Varga was born into a minor noble family whose lands bordered an old trade road. The Varga name opened doors, but it did not fill empty barns or mend broken bridges. Miklos spent childhood learning court manners, family history, and the careful use of a signet ring. They also watched tenant farmers bury children after a hard winter, and slowly came to distrust the distance that wealth placed between a person and the consequences of their decisions. When a roadside shrine was attacked by raiders, Miklos joined the village watch instead of waiting for the family guard to respond. The defense was clumsy, frightened, and nearly disastrous, but Miklos held the shrine steps until help arrived. In the aftermath, an elderly priest taught them that devotion was not a speech given from a balcony. It was a promise made where suffering was closest. Miklos left home with a plain sword, borrowed armor, and reluctant permission from their family. They now travel as a newly sworn paladin, determined to make the Varga name mean protection rather than privilege, while secretly fearing that noble habits run deeper than good intentions.