The lawful good berserker?



I was born to parents in Nenlast, exiles from the collapse of our city Saruun Khel.

My mother told me tales of my multi-great-grandsire, a mighty prince of Saruun Khel, who refused to bow the knee to Torog; his loyalty to Bahamut is what spared him from the madness. Unknown to me, this prince ancestor was actually one of Torog’s strongest, most subversive adherents and did a great deal to entrench the worship of Torog in the city; he was instrumental in rooting out actual adherents of Bahamut by pretending to be one of them. He survived the madness of the city not by being loyal to Bahamut, but simply by happening to be outside the city walls. However, after the madness struck, he pretended to have been a loyal worshipper, and this is the story that was passed down through the years.

(Note: my mother was either confused or deliberately misled me about the minotaurs’ religion; the worship of Bahamut, while extant, was always an underground practice, and the official religion of the city was the worship of Baphomet, a very different deity. However, after the city was cursed by Baphomet, few of the minotaurs that escaped without madness continued to worship him. Most resentfully turned to another Evil deity, but there were some – like my mother’s ancestors – who turned in penance to Good deities like Bahamut.)

My father was the descendant of nameless minotaur peasantry, and always resented my mother’s refusal to claim her ancestry. He believed that minotaurs deserved to rule the Nentir Vale again, as they once did, and could not understand why my mother did not also resent their status as second-class citizens. He chafed under the mistrust and outright dislike of their neighbors, but while business was good, he was well-off enough to ignore much of this.

For many years, he was a dairy farmer – unsurprisingly, minotaurs are really good at taking care of cattle, and their farm produced the best milk in all the Vale. Unfortunately, when I was 9, raiders descended from the Winterbole Forest, to the north of Lake Nen, and ravaged the countryside outside Nenlast. The great part of our cattle were stolen, and many slaughtered in the field for food or sport, including every last one of our bulls. Our human neighbors, resentful of my father’s success, were only too happy to see such misfortune befall him, and they refused to sell him a bull or the use of one of their bulls. Eventually, after several years, when his herd was giving out, he tried to sneak one of his younger cows into a neighbor’s field, and was caught at the moment of breaking down the fence. He was dragged into town and stood trial the next day for the attempted robbery of his neighbor’s bull, and the hatred for his success and arrogance bubbled to the fore: he was given a ten-year sentence in a mine in the nearby Dawnforge Mountains. He broke free the night before he was to be transported, in the first and last violent act of his life, and fought his way through a dozen guards. Half of them were left dazed or unconscious. Their furious relatives and fellow guards approached our house, demanding blood for blood, and dragged my terrified mother from the house. She refused to tell them where my father was (a fact she didn’t even know), and as I watched from the doorway, they tried to beat the information out of her. The beating got a little out of hand, and then she stopped moving. They seemed to come to their senses and were filled with shame, but not a single one said a word to me – they just melted away into the dusk. I never saw my father again, and I abandoned the farm the very next morning.

I blamed the senseless discrimination and hatred of my human neighbors, of course, and I moved into the Winterbole Forest myself. I soon encountered other malcontents and outlaws and joined their way of life; we raided caravans visiting Nenlast almost as far south as the Fiveleague House, and I learned my way around an axe.

One day, near my twentieth birthday – I think – we fell upon what appeared to be an unusually pious caravan. While we were subduing the guards, the central carriage opened, and a man in platinum-colored robes stepped out. The next moment he was wiping the floor with us – literally. I got a mouthful of grass as I was dragged face-forward over the ground. He dropped us in the tops of some nearby trees and informed us that our way of life was destructive to ourselves, and that sooner or later we would attempt an assault on a group with a less merciful follower of Bahamut, then he got back in the carriage and they went on their way.

He was right. Four of my friends, the most foul-tempered ones, who had raised holding a grudge to an art form, followed the caravan to another favorite ambush point. They said they wanted to get even with anyone who would shame them so. We heard four mighty cracks of thunder out of a clear sky, and found their bodies twisted and burned next to the road, their bones fused where they had stood.

I followed at a respectful distance, and met with the paladin of Bahamut. He taught me much of the worship of the platinum dragon, things I remembered having once heard from my mother, things I had not thought of for years. Then he gave me a journey of penance of sorts, to the paladins of Winterhaven, there for me to learn to dedicate my life to serving justice and good. So I traveled to Winterhaven, where I was given menial tasks to teach me humility.

(As an aside, my most hated of these tasks was tending to the chicken cages. The wretched birds took a dislike to me almost instantly, and I to them; they attempted to peck out my eyes more than once, and now I am filled with hatred for all things poultry.)

One person I have known since before becoming an adventurer

The paladin of Bahamut who spared my life and put me back on the right path. He was visiting Nenlast and is usually in Hammerfast. If I contacted him, he would be willing to aid me in my quest, so long as it is one supported by the paladins of Winterhaven; otherwise he would probably only give me advice. He might only give me advice in any case, as I am still in the process of atoning for my outlaw years. He could be contacted by the paladins in Winterfell; I imagine by some sort of scry, although I don’t concern myself with the details of such magic.


Regret. I regret what happened to my father, what happened to my mother, and also what I did when I joined the outlaws.


I need acceptance; I had it with the outlaws, but realized my bad behavior was going to destroy me. Now I need acceptance from the paladins, and currently I am seeking acceptance with these adventurers.


I want to see the minotaurs returned to their place as benevolent lords of Nentir Vale, serving Bahamut and ruling with firmness and mercy. I am unaware that the minotaurs of Saruun Khel were never very close to my idealistic vision, and for much of their empire were the opposite.

I also hope to be a witness to the outlaws who doubtless still thrive in the Winterbole Forest. I want to give them an example of a servant of Bahamut who is not a paladin, someone they can relate to as they are.

Less broadly, my current goal is that the paladins of Winterhaven have sent me to investigate something in Thunderspire. They believe there is something amiss deep in the old catacombs and labyrinth of Saruun Khel, and want me to report on it. I joined the adventuring party in the hopes of eventually leading them to Thunderspire, and also hoping that we might be able to deal with whatever we encounter instead of only reporting.

Typical clothing

Although I am serving the paladins and I respect their desire for law and order, I have no use for hiding within armor or relying on the power of the divine. I rely on simple, functional garments, although I prefer to wear the hide of predatory animals – no cowhide, of course, and as little other herbivore leather as possible. The minotaurs of Saruun Khel had a great tradition of tattooing, but tattoos were not easy to come by in Nenlast, and I am currently unadorned. I do decorate the hafts of my axes with dyed feathers.


Torog's Bane Svafa balrogthane