Buxtehude

My story begins in the western Malakine Hills, a place of towering peaks, sulfurous springs and rich mineral deposits. The lore suggests that the Sorethumbes, one clan of several who migrated northward from Zhensh but stopped short of the forbidding Icewalls, discovered a nugget of pure mithril resting on a sand bar in an icy creek, and established a camp on the spot. When exactly this came to pass is unclear, at least to me, but by the time my mum dropped me into a pile of straw in 468 T.A., the tunnels into the mountain were as long as the shadows cast by Khore's Finger as the sun touches the Taslamaran horizon.

My pap was the chief of the clan, and I his eighth child of fourteen, which meant that I toiled reduced hours in the mine when I was wee, and also that I'd never hold much sway in the affairs of the clan. My pap must have seen some spark in me, something more than that of steel on granite, for he determined that I would make a fine candidate to send to the surface to seek my fortune in the name of the clan. So, on my fourtieth birthday, my beard reaching finally below my belly, I tied my twin braids, dropped a loaf of miner's tack in a sack andset off to the southwest. My pap had made allegiances to the kingdom of Taslamar, and the writ he gave me afforded easy admittance to the Salle in the City of Exile. There I trained with sword and with axe until I was ready to seek my fortune in the realms.

As I began to see more of the world, my place in it became much less certain. While my path in the mines of my youth could scarcely have been more clearly defined, my path as a mercenary on the surface was somewhat more murky, and I began to seek a higher calling. Impressed with the skill of a whirling dervish the name of Khalin, I sought out his wife Arkania, a cleric with an unmatched talent for healing both body and soul. It soon became apparent that my temper was a bit too short and my reliance on my axe a bit too deeply ingrained to shake, and so my search did not end in the embrace of Kshama.

It was Fresk Whitefeather who opened my eyes to my true calling as a champion of the free exchange of Knowledge. He set me about books, and I found I had a knack for it. His preaching won my soul, and thus became I a supplicant to Lord Zarathustra. When my mentor Rinyon Goen, the Lightningblade, fell from grace, I chose to adopt the role of Protector of Knowledge, and committed myself to opposing Tyranny and Oppression in all its forms. For here fester these evils, there cannot prosper Civilization, and where there is no Civilization, there cannot prosper Knowledge.

My skill with an axe and my commitment to my principles brought me into favor with the crusaders known as the Hammer of Light. In the early days, we battled the dogs of Zynor. We fought, and we died, but in the end were victorious. As the Hammer rebuilt, a new generation of zealots gained the Queen's favor. I have since sunk my axe into many foes, some worthy, some not, but all embracing shadow, and bleeding the same color. I have fought with vigor and with the strength of my righteousness, and I have, in every action, attempted to carry myself as a shining beacon, casting light into the darkness, exposing those would remain unexposed. I have ever attempted to achieve the just end, with axe and with word, to bring glory to Zarathustra and to my Queen.

In reflection, I have not followed the path conceived for me by my pap these 71 years past. But in dedicating myself to causes greater even than the mining of mithril, I hope I have brought glory and good reputation to Clan Sorethumbe in my own way.