Bhazuth started life in the jagged valleys of Arcas, born into the prosperous yet submissive Mithlen family. Merchants by trade, the Mithlens lived with various other dwarven families in a small, unknown valley. His childhood was dull, the joy of playing in the fields day after day did not bring him pleasure, nor did the eventual ubiquitous journey to and from Kal’Varoth that he endured as he progressed into adulting years. At night, he trained with sword and bow, while during the day he fell victim to the oppressive actions against a family that did not befit him.
As the family grew lazy, Bhazuth grew restless. Night came and went, and with it various psychological terrors –dreams and thoughts that spoke to him of riches – of power. He dreamt of older times, of Thorik Grandaxe and of battles between powerful dwarven lords. When he woke, he returned to the nightmare he had long suffered – being a pawn in someone else’s game, a merchant to be robbed or a citizen to be taxed. As far as he was concerned, his family were scum, and he wanted no part in it.
So he saved, taking mere fragments of the yearly intake, barely enough to harvest. With anguish and ambition, Bhazuth waited.
After 5 years of saving, the night had come. Bhazuth awoke in the night, slipping downstairs to find his freshly-forged axe, bought with years of servitude. And so he stole into the stables, slipping the edge of the axehead into all but one of the heavy merchant steeds his family owned. With a single move, he bolted the manor door and flung his now-lit torch onto its roof before mounting the mule.
Out of the shadows came his father, a frail relic of a dwarf, returning perhaps from a midnight stroll. Terror in his eyes, he pleaded for Bhazuth’s help with the fire.
Bhazuth split his father from nape to neck, throwing his body to the pigs.
And so Bhazuth set off, an axe, a steed, and no family bare ashes to his name. The Dwarven lords of old would return.
Bhazuth keeps his hood low, speaking in murmurs and looking at the floor. His family’s murder has been written off as a bandit attack, as common, but the merchant trade left Bhazuth open to many new people, and somebody may recognise him. “Take this” Bhazuth drops a few measly silver pieces into the man’s palm, “I’m going to need some ale, a hog, and a few good fighting men”.
Recommended Comments