Dakar's Story
And So It Began
Dakar lived on a small farm outside of Green Haven in Arecha with his mother and father, Bolina Glittereye and Daga Braveaxe. As a young dwarf he worked the farm with his mother but longed to fight beside his father in the local militia. Bolina would have nothing of it but Daga secretly trained Dakar.
Training under Daga was difficult as no quarter was ever given. Many times Dakar would sneak home, battered and bloodied, his jaw firmly set to mask the pain. He claimed to his mother that he'd been fighting with local children. Although Bolina saw right through his "excuses", she kept her silence and did not embarrass him, instead giving Daga a stern look and then a little smile seeing her young son becoming strong and resolute.
The day of his naming soon came, signifying his transition from childhood to adolescence. His father and mother agreed that he should be Dakar Gruffjaw, befitting his stern visage. He was pleased although a bit ashamed that he had tried to deceive his mother so many times.
That evening, without a hint of warning, the village was overrun by Wakana warpspawn. Daga and the militia fought bravely, killing half of the invading force, but fell in the end. Dakar had been ordered to protect his mother and the farm but he and Bolina were soon overwhelmed. The Wakana forced him to watch as they violated and killed his mother, images that burned into his memory as a firebrand into flesh. He and other young ones from the village were taken captive and marched back to the swamp encampment of the Wakana.
After a few months of torturous labor and humiliation, he was sold to nomadic slavers, eventually ending up in the service of the town militia in Pine Grove, a trade village in northeastern Arecha. He was relieved to be freed of the beasts and slavers. After four years under the watchful eye of Garrin Strongfist, the village Warden, he earned his freedom. His skills as a Nightfighter were now complete and he was ready to avenge his family on the Wakana who had destroyed them. Fate would, however, step in and change his course forever.
Nearing Trajen's Folly in the late afternoon of the second day of his quest, he was engulfed by a swift moving Dragon Storm. Wildly colored hail and lightning struck all around him and forced him to shelter in a deep ravine. He scrambled for cover from the menacing tempest to no avail. The warp attacked every fiber of his being, infusing a sickness deep within his abdomen. He lurched forward, retching his guts out, so ill was the feeling.
As quickly as it came, the storm subsided but the nausea continued to build; wave upon wave crashed through him as a stone through paper. Another pain joined the battle; his insides were trying to become his outsides; veins in his temples throbbed to the drumming anguish. He opened his clenched eyelids to confirm the evidence of what he felt.
As he did so, he brought his arms from their death grip on his stomach and saw what he could not comprehend: gray, craggy limbs sporting clawed hands. Panicking, he dove for the stream at the base of the ravine, feverishly trying to wash away these stone-like appendages. At that moment a reflection greeted him that was even more disturbing: the face of a gargoyle. Sensory overload finally overcame his consciousness.
Waking with a hangover was usually the result of a night of heavy lifting, one or two mugs at a time. He was accustomed on such occasions to seeing his clothing in varied states of disarray, but torn completely to shreds was something new and different. He was none too sure that he hadn't been attacked by some wild, gray beast and left for dead. He rose slowly surveying his personal damage and the status of his belongings.
His mind was filled with confusing scenes of the night before. Careful examination of his clothes revealed that they had been burst from the inside -- stranger still. Confronted by so many incongruities, he had no choice but to rely on the wisdom of his mother. He remembered her repeated admonishments subsequent to varying adolescent but harmless conundrums. She said that once you've thrown out what is not possible, that which remains, no matter how unbelievable it may seem, must be the truth.
His examinations had revealed that there were no signs of struggle. No injuries were evident other than the gnawing emptiness that was his gut and the vomit strewn about him. He could not have been attacked but the images of the gargoyle were vivid -- and rippled! He had seen the gargoyle's reflection in the stream. The reflection must have been his!
So, it was true after all. He had seen others in the village change into monsters when storms had threatened. Those that were not killed immediately were dragged from the village by shifter hunters and turned over to local lords for God knows what. But, if he had become what he dared not believe, a gargoyle, then all of what he'd been taught could not be true either. Other than the malice deep within his heart he still harbored for the Wakana, he was not evil -- at least he didn't think he was. Okay, then. He was a shapeshifter and he was not a monster. The improbable became real -- all too real.
Now what? He couldn't just go about his business. What if he shifted in the presence of other people? Wouldn't they think as he once had, that all shifters are monsters and try to kill him?
He sat in that ravine and searched for a rational path. From somewhere in the recesses of his memory a thought emerged and clicked. He had heard widely discounted rumors from traveling merchants about havens for shapeshifters that did exist. Could there be a place where others like him were accepted and protected? There was only one way to find out. Reluctantly putting aside his vendetta, he began his search for that slim possibility.
Over the next few months his search took him to many places in Arecha and beyond. One evening while camping around a small fire and cooking his recent catch, a stranger approached. Dakar instinctively reached for his weapon but the intruder just chuckled. His manner was easy, almost nonchalant. As he calmly took a seat on the opposite side of the fire, he said "I'm a gargoyle, too. Want some company?"
A stunned Dakar sat in silence and absorbed the tale presented to him; one of shifters and necromancers, dragons and mortals, life and death, good and evil, od and warp. The story began and ended with the same name -- Valaria. Her prophecies and wisdom reminded him of his mother and he felt her presence and his father's as well. Minutes turned to hours, silence to questions. Then, quiet reflection.
Later that evening it was Gruffjaw's turn to talk. Firmly, resolutely, he intoned, "We believe in the blood, born of ancient dragons, purified by vision, sanctified by rending, exalted by storms . . ."