Drogar

Background
Drogar hatched in early spring, alongside 2 brothers and a sister. He quickly received the nickname “Shieldsleeper”, for he oft spent the evenings napping in the upturned bowl of his father’s shield. Drogar and his clutchmates were fawned over throughout their youth, for their pure golden heritage was a rare and valuable addition to the ranks of the clan.

Due to their pure bloodline, they were fawned over by the clan elders, receiving extra attention in regards to their education and combat training. While this added attention had a positive impact towards their learning, it came with the caveat of a lack of discipline. Anytime Drogar stepped a foot out of line, the worst he’d get is a half-hearted word or two. This led to the young dragonborn to grow up with little care for how his actions impacted others; if he had fun, that was all that mattered.

It was during his 12th year that Drogar took a trip deep into the forest with his best friend Tazrash. They came across a deep, still body of water.

“Jackpot!” They had exclaimed, quickly stripping out of their tunics and shorts.

Tossing the clothing aside, the young whelps dove headfirst into the mysterious lake. Soon after surfacing, Drogar quickly began to panic as he felt the water grab hold of him, pulling him deep into its depths. Struggle as he might, it was as if the water was composed of a million tiny hands, clutching every inch of his body. As the last shafts of light began to disappear from view, Drogar used the last of the air in his lungs to fuel a heavy breath of dragonfire- setting the surrounding water aboil and wresting control of his body enough to struggle back to the bank. He coughed up what felt like buckets of water, but… far worse than the pain in his lungs; Tazrash never resurfaced.

Drogar was never the same after that day. He grieved the loss of his friend deeply, and the feeling of the water pulling him helplessly deeper… was unforgettable.

Four years later, Drogar was out on a boar hunt with a group of 3 other dragonborn. Wine and spirits were brought along, as their addition added an element of challenging fun to every hunt. However, one of the three, Nesgar, in his drunkenness decided it would be quite funny to grab water-terrified Drogar and jump into the river.

Drogar went into a frantic panic, flailing and kicking as the group of dragonborn howled with laughter. That is- until one of Drogars flailing claws raked across Nesgar’s neck. It wasn’t until he was at the shore that Drogar realized what he had done. The river ran red with Nesgar’s blood as his lifeless corpse floated leisurely down the stream.

Drogar knew the penalty for such a crime in his clan. Fear and panic coursing through his mind, Drogar ran. Drogar ran, and ran, and ran, and never turned back. He never said goodbye to his parents, his siblings, nor his teachers… He only could assume that his hunting party returned to tell of his betrayal, and that his whole clan would call for his immediate execution were he ever dare to return.

Drogar made his way to the capitol, swiftly selling his hunting gear and jewelry in exchange for armor and rations. With no true purpose to aspire to, he made a name for himself as a skilled sell-sword, moving from tavern to tavern and serving the highest bidder.

Perhaps one day he might find a shield large enough to suit his frame, so that he might lay inside and reminiscence of the days before everything fell apart.