A handsome young nobleman dressed head to toe in black, with tasteful silver skull embroidery at cuffs and collar. He has a rakish smile, attentive dark eyes, and the cultivated ease of a man who knows how to charm a room and a bedside both. His vestments are neat rather than grim, his holy symbol worn openly like fine jewelry instead of a threat. He looks like a flirt at first glance, then like a mourner, then like the sort of priest who will sit by your bed until dawn and make death feel less lonely.

Courtly, irreverent, and unexpectedly compassionate. Alaric treats mortality as a sacred fact rather than a terror, and he carries himself with the polished confidence of a minor noble who has learned to weaponize charm. He is happiest when he can make someone laugh in a sickroom, soothe a grieving widow, or scandalize a rigid priest by being both devout and delightfully difficult.

Alaric was the younger son of a small house that valued lineage, service, and the polished surface of reputation. His elder brother inherited the knightly training, the family arms, and the certainty of becoming the man in the spotlight. Alaric, meanwhile, was born pretty, bright, and just fragile enough to frighten everyone. A childhood fever nearly carried him off, and the first healer to answer the summons was a calm death cleric who spoke of mortality as though it were a candle to be tended rather than an abyss to fear. The boy survived, and the family honored the bargain that followed, dedicating him to the death god his savior served.