Rowder was born in Kal’Varoth as the son of a blacksmith. His mother had perished shortly after his birth. His father swore an oath to look after his son as best he could, and teach him the ways of the forge. Rowder would work in the forge every day and he grew to love the work he did. He especially loves making axes. Several years passed in this fashion, until his father died in The Three Month War. Rowder, at this time old enough to provide for himself, traveled the Northern Mountains.
He never really took to the worship of gods, and it makes him skittish around the topic of The Brothmordakin.
He did not stay at any one place for long, and even became estranged to his own tongue. He sometimes went months without meeting anyone. He lived from the wilderness all mountain dwarfs know so well, and often offered his services as a blacksmith.
He eventually came back to Kal’Varoth to attempt to build a smithy for himself.
I stare suspiciously at the man for a few seconds, until he himself starts looking uncomfortable. I berate myself mentally, thinking, “Agh, he’s just a commoner, curious about new people, there can’t be any harm to answering him”. “Ello my good sir.” I say in a gruff voice. “No, I don’t care for any of that be’aviour,I’m simply here to make a living for myself.” He stares uncertainly at me for a split second, then smiles and walks away. I myself start walking away, wondering what lies before me.
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