Deep in the catacombs of the Dwarven mines, a child was reared, not of
their people. A foundling from the woods to the south. He was starved,
nearly dead when was stumbled upon by his soon to be parents, who had been
on their way to a meeting far to the East. At first, the two that traveled
from the mines did not know what to do, perhaps they should let it die in
the woods? They were in a hurry.
Their penchant for seeking advantage won them over. They brought the child
with them to their meeting, seeking counsel from the others who would be
there. It was decided, the boy could be of use: Darkhan was a god of many
things, but waste was not one of them. They would raise the child as their
own, teach him to understand the Dwarven ways, even as they worked to
subvert it from the inside. The two Duergar had their answer then.
Dwirath returned with them, and in the ways of the Dwarves he was
instructed, all the while he was taught the darker ways of his parents. He
was instructed in how to kill without being noticed and how to spy upon the
Chieftain and his counsels. Where he shined, however, was in the torture of
those his parents needed information from. He could work a victim well past
where they should have died, keeping them alive until they finally begged
for the release of death, willing to give or tell anything.
It was one such evening, deep within their hidden home in the mines, Dwirath
was plying his craft upon a human his parents had seen leaving a meeting
with the chieftain. She did not seem important, so she would not be missed.
Dwirath did not know why, but it felt different. Try as he might, through
her screams of pain and torment, not only did she not give them the
information they sought, but she begged for him to be forgiven his sins.
Dwirath was berated for his failures, beaten, and left in the cell where the
prisoners body hung limp in her restraints. Dwirath stared at the woman,
her head hung down, blood falling down his face from where he had been
beaten himself. Something tickled his ears, until finally it was audible;
Forgive him, Lord, he knows not what he does. She repeated it over and
over. In all his time, Dwirath had not seen such a display. Even as he
crept closer, intent upon discovering what she would say next, she lifted
her head, smiled weakly and closed her eyes serenely. Dwirath thought that
was it, she had died, for a split second. Then, a laugh rung forth from
where she hung. In an instant, her wounds had healed, and her manacles fell
in shock. Then the door burst in and his parents were thrown ahead of two
dwarven guards. Both were executed on the spot, but the woman he had
tortured? She stood in the way of the dwarven chieftain. Away. Dwirath
could do nothing but stare He stays with me. Lord Aberdour has uses for him
yet. She turned, and her eyes of blue met Dwiraths green. He asked, Why
let me live? She crouched next to where he sat, Because someday, you will
sacrifice much, to save the lives of a few. Aberdour has need of you, so
you must earn your atonement.
Description:
A tall man stands in front of you, his broad shoulders thrown back, head
held high. Thick black hair is pulled back behind his head in a warriors
knot, with gray shots streaking back from his temple. His expression is
neutral, but is marred by a small frown, which seems a constant companion.
Along with the gray at his temples, there are deep wrinkles which give
either an indication of age, or perhaps a large amount of stress. Despite
either, his posture is that of a warrior and his stride is that of a
horseman, bowlegged, but sure footed. His dark green eyes constantly move
as he walks, eyeing everything and everyone. As he moves on, his hands
never far from his weapons, there is a feeling of softness that leaves with
him, that is totally at odds with everything else about him.
