Rynt, the Dragonborn Barbarian

A noble, wizened old alchemist known as Khelavaster was my father, least I ever knew of one. He resided in the thriving port city of Ancardia, where I would eventually make my home. As port cities are wont to be, Ancardia was host to a great many traveling caravans and seafaring merchants; a bustling metropolis teeming with trade. Khelavaster, as wizened old alchemists are wont to do, held a fondness for magical trinkets and arcane oddities. While walking the docks on a cold autumn morning, he happened upon a trader who shared his affinity for curious baubles. The rickety old trader's booth was a whirring circus of mysterious tomes, divining tools and arcane curios. But what caught my father's eye was the large stone-textured egg with the pulsating and glowing bluish vein markings. Nobody in the kingdom had seen a dragon in centuries (or at least no one you'd believe), but their eggs were known to hold potent magical properties for nigh an eternity, even if the hatchling inside was not viable. A defunct dragon egg would be a fine specimen for his collection, he thought, and what knowledge it would yield! Price be damned, he paid the eager trader and hurried his prize back to his library.

I hatched in that library, much to his surprise. Even more to his surprise was my humanoid figure. I was clearly no dragon, but who ever heard of a Dragonborn with wings and a tail? Between his childlike wonder and nervous apprehension, Khelavaster found himself at an impasse- the keeping of dangerous creatures within the city walls was strictly forbidden, and if anyone found out what was lurking in his library, he'd surely spend the rest of his days in a dungeon cell. Unable to resist the opportunity for groundbreaking arcane and historical research, he kept me in the library- fed and watered me as he pored tirelessly over The Lineage of Dragons, vol. IV, day and night.

How he jumped when I first spoke! I learned the common tongue alarmingly quickly, based on the few words he uttered to me (and himself) while he studied. This presented a whole new dimension to his research, and he set about educating me at once. I learned to read and write, and to fluently speak Common and the native Draconic tongue of my kin. I took some interest in history, and learned basic arithmetic, though I hated it. There was a great deal of time to read in that library in the tower, and not much else to do when you'd be killed on sight any other place in the city.

I grew to be unruly rather quickly- much faster than any ordinary Dragonborn youth. My appetite became more ravenous while my demeanor became more violent. I was overtaken by an innate hunger for bloodshed that could not be sated by all the books on warfare in Khelavaster's library. Furious outbursts became more frequent as I yearned to be released from the prison that had been my home for so long. Unable to concoct a satisfactory solution, my father tried desperately to calm the frightened servants that had kept his secret for so many years. It was only a matter of time.

They came in the night. I was awoken by the sound of stomping plate boots and my father's desperate pleas echoing up the staircase moments before the locked door was broken down by five of the city guard. It had to come to this eventually; I tried to hide my satisfaction from my father as I leaped to my feet and retrieved the hefty, rune-covered greatspear from the mantle display. He had told me it was a relic from the War of Brownstone Vale nearly a millennium ago. After all those years, it still felt warm in my hand. I charged the shocked guards as the first one breached the doorway- he was impaled on the door before he had a chance to beg for his life. A rain of blades fell upon me, and I could hear my poor father sobbing from behind the steel-clad soldiers. Retrieving the spear from my first mark, I backed away and belched forth a mighty fireball that engulfed the remaining four guards... and the eastern wing of the library. Not before exchanging a mournful, knowing glance with the kind old alchemist, I crashed through the tower's stained-glass window and spread my wings for the first time. My virgin wings were weak, and could barely sustain my massive body, but they were enough to carry me over the city wall. The last things I heard were the shouting of the guards' reinforcements, the faint crackling of burning books, and my father's heartbroken, pleading sobs from the shattered window... “Rynt! Rynt!”

I was thirteen then. For three years now I have traveled; honing my skills, finding worthy opponents and killing them. I make my living doing odd jobs for clients who don't run screaming at the sight of me. I was taught to be honorable by an honorable man, and refuse any job I feel is not such. I will never strike down an unarmed foe, and do not believe in taking prisoners. While I am opposed to the forces of evil for having a tendency towards disgraceful and reprehensible acts, I have little patience for the wanton do-goodery of the opposite extreme. It is naïve and weak. I am an admirer rather than a follower of Kord- our ideals coincide, but blind devotion is foolish.

I hope to one day return to Ancardia to help my father, who I assume is rotting in a cell. No man should be confined to a prison as I was.