Drogar

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.