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Beginnings

A hollow rattle echoed as knuckle bones danced across the stone floor. The young duergar watched from the shadows as his mother performed a shamanic ritual to an unknown god. Scrying in bones, sacrificing small animals. These minor charms were sought out by villagers so superstitious that Dogran suspected half the effect was imaginary. Still, as mundane as his mother was, she insisted he was not suited to follow her god. It was all very strange, and infuriating. Dogran had always known he was destined for more. His parents lived the most ordinary lives in a painfully boring village. His father was a warrior of adequate skill who occasionally rented his sword arm to fend off various foes, including surface-dwellers and drow incursions. His mother was a simple village witch. The pair of them seemed content with simply sitting around all day unless bothered by the neighbors, who were themselves equally boring. He half-heartedly attempted to learn fighting from his father, although whether by fault of the teacher or student, the lessons did not stick. As for his mother, the only training she ever provided him was to teach him reading and writing. Because of it, Dogran became the most educated duergar child in his hometown. Duergars are not a naturally peaceful lot, and idle children can be quite cruel. At school, Dogran was targeted for his unnaturally refined speech and writing. The pranks began with name-calling and threats, then bodily harm in the form of pinches, secret stabbing's with pins, beatings and bruises. Rather than becoming fearful, however, Dogran found himself relishing being the target of the hunt. He was a quick study, with a precocious aptitude for forecasting the behavior of his less intelligent peers. The more the other children came after him, the more understanding of them he accrued. He bided his time, evading attacks, gathering his own allies and carefully planning his revenge. One night, the two worst bullies found themselves both burned rather badly, both literally and figuratively: one was sent screaming to the infirmary shoved into a furnace. Neither ever admitted who had inflicted the damage upon them. After that, Dogran was no longer a pariah, but admired, and followed. Still, one with ambition can find only so much entertainment in a village of dullards. By the time Dogran became leader of the children's gang, he had already lost interest in it. His mind drifted, as always, to greater things. And so, he gathered his few belongings and set out, intent on making a name for himself.

Dreams

Dogran lived the solitary traveler's life for some time, relishing in his newfound freedom. Anonymity lent him power, for those he encountered always underestimated the young unassuming duergar, allowing him to take advantage of their weaknesses and manipulate them. Thus, despite having brought very little in his pack, he lived quite well on the road. The only disruption he experienced was at night. Sleep came with difficulty to Dogran. At first, he felt uneasy by the expansive open skies overhead and lush greenery and wildlife of the forests through which he traveled. Then, when he got used to that, he began to experience strange dreams. He would wake, heart pounding in his mouth, sweat pouring from every pore, gasping for breath to find nothing but the tranquil night around him. The adrenaline racing through his veins and the prickling of his skin suggested his body was afraid - but he did not feel terror, only a strange sense of immense, dark power lingering within him. The feeling was heady and intoxicating, leaving him with a permanent hunger for more. Soon thereafter he made his way to the city of Seringale, traveled to the other cities and learned of the Knights and the Legion. The permanence of the chaos between the warring cabals filled him with intense satisfaction and seemed only to fan the flames of the dark power within him. He was drawn towards shamanism and to fulfill its potential, browsed the pantheon of Serin gods to find one that suited his desires. Thorgoth, Lord of Trickery and Shadow, the Usurper of Legion and Conqueror of Serin. Yes, this one would do. Each time, as he stood before the altar and burnt the brand of Thorgoth into his skin, again when he felt the cloak of Legion drape upon his shoulders, and again when the mantle of Forsaken was placed upon him, Dogran grinned to himself. Yes, this would do nicely. With these tools, his gain in power would be swift. The night that he pledged himself to Thorgoth, Dogran was finally able to remember his dream. He stood in utter darkness, alone, not a sound or a light to tempt his senses. Then, suddenly, his body was engulfed by a dark flame - at least so he imagined, for the searing of it like fire licking across his skin - though he saw still nothing. It began from his legs and quickly rose to encase him entirely. The feeling, that familiar terror, was of his physical body screaming to get away from the pain. Yet his mind was perfectly at ease, fully focused, and clear. This - whatever it was that encased him - was true power, unlike any a mortal could imagine. And he had been chosen to take it.

His pasty pale-gray bald head seems dull and lifeless. Deep set eyes rest beneath a wide forehead with no eyebrows visible giving him an almost skeletal look. A hooked nose, which has clearly been broken many times followed by only slightly darker thin lips. Stylized twisted runes are etched in his visible skin covering his arms in their entirety. Finally, this figure while a little thinner than most of his brethren, accented only by the fact that his arms seem overly long for his frame, while his legs are short and stubby.

Dogran the Sinister Minister

Beginnings

Dreams