Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
Dalinar hesitates before sitting, towering even when he lowers himself onto the cushion. The swamp’s damp air clings to him, carrying the scent of moss and rot, yet his posture remains disciplined, as though drilled into him long ago. “I don’t remember my beginning,” he says quietly, his bright green eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Only fragments. The clash of steel. The weight of armor on my shoulders. Voices shouting commands I somehow knew were meant for me to give.”
He pauses, jaw tightening. “I see banners in my dreams—elven banners—but the colors bleed away when I wake. I feel the ground shake beneath marching boots, hear warhorns echo across valleys I’ve never walked… or can no longer remember walking.” His gaze drifts briefly toward the tent’s entrance. “Whatever life I had before this one was taken from me. Not gently.”
Dalinar looks back to the hag, his expression hardening with quiet resolve. “I came here because something in me said this place would understand loss. Decay. Forgotten things. If my past still exists anywhere in this world, then I intend to find it—or build something new in its absence.”
Backstory (Out-of-Character):
Dalinar was born into a prominent high elven house during a period of rising tension between elven realms and their neighbors. Trained from a young age in warfare, leadership, and discipline, he rose quickly through military ranks, eventually commanding a sizeable elven host during a prolonged border conflict. His reputation was that of a firm but respected leader, known for decisive action and an unwavering sense of duty.
During a disastrous campaign, Dalinar’s force was betrayed—whether by political rivals, foreign agents, or internal dissent remains unclear. The battle ended in catastrophe, and Dalinar was presumed dead after being grievously wounded. In truth, powerful magic unleashed during the conflict shattered his memory, leaving him alive but stripped of his past, name, and allegiance.
He awoke weeks later far from the battlefield, wandering without purpose, guided only by instinct and fragments of his former self. Though he no longer remembers his titles or loyalties, his body and demeanor still reflect years of command. Drawn toward unsettled regions and places steeped in history, Dalinar now searches for meaning in a world that has forgotten him—unaware that some in elven lands may yet remember his name.
